Page 15 of Highland Treasure (Highland Brides 9)

Rory ground his teeth together as he handed over payment to the alewife for stabling their horses, being able to bed down in there with them and nine bowls of pottage along with nine mugs of ale. The amount she’d demanded was outrageous, enough to cover nine rooms as well as meals at an inn if any had been willing to take them. But there wasn’t much choice in the matter. The woman had them at a disadvantage and knew it.

Leaving the alewife chortling happily as she counted his coin, Rory made his way to the long table the others had settled at in front of the large fireplace. Elysande sat on one side with Tom, Simon, Conn and Inan, while Alick, Fearghas and Donnghail filled the other, leaving the spot across from Elysande open. Rory dropped into it with a sigh and glanced around at his companions.

Everyone looked tired, he noted, and their cheeks were windburned; at least the men’s were. Elysande still wore her coif and veil and he couldn’t tell if she was windburned too, but at a quick glance everyone seemed well enough, and that was something. The last part of the journey that day had been bad enough that he’d worried about frostbite setting in, or a horse losing its footing in the snow and taking a tumble with its rider, or— Well, the list of what could have gone wrong was endless, but they’d made it here relatively unscathed and he decided he’d take that as a win.

It was the only win of the day. He’d missed the weekly market so didn’t have the wolfsbane to make the potion he’d hoped would ease Elysande’s pain, and they hadn’t reached Scotland before nightfall as he’d planned, which meant—

“Another night in bloody England,” Conn growled suddenly, as if reading his thoughts.

Rory smiled faintly and shook his head. “It could be worse.”

“What could be worse than having to stay in England?” Inan asked morosely.

“Death,” he answered promptly, and they all laughed.

All except for Elysande and her soldiers, Rory noted, and realizing he was insulting their country, he cleared his throat before saying, “Do no’ mind us. ’Tis been a long day.”

“Nay. ’Tis fine,” she said quietly. “I do not blame you for disliking England if our countrymen all treat you as the alewife and her husband did.”

Tom scowled toward the door to the kitchens where the alewife was hopefully collecting their dinner. “The husband threw out insults like he thought you were too deaf or dumb to understand them, and the wife overcharged you shamefully for our pitiful lodging. Made me embarrassed to be English.”

Simon grunted in agreement, and Rory relaxed somewhat but said, “Aye, well, there are many in Scotland who are just as rude to the English.”

The moment the words were out of his mouth, he realized how true they were. Once they crossed the border, Elysande and her men might encounter the same rude treatment he and the others had experienced the last several weeks in England. The idea was a troubling one.

And apparently not only to himself, he thought when Conn shifted suddenly and said, “The last time I was here there was a draper’s shop a street over that carried the occasional lengths of plaid cloth. If he’s still there and open tomorrow we might see what he has and get some for our English friends here.”

Inan nodded. “’Twould make them less noticeable once we reach Scotland if they were dressed like us.”

“Oh, nay!” Tom said with horror. “I’m not running around with naked knees! ’Tis indecent.”

“Aye,” Simon agreed. “And in this weather we’d freeze our bollocks off in those skirts of yours. Sorry, m’lady,” he added as he apparently realized what he’d just said.

Rory couldn’t see Elysande’s expression, but was guessing she was blushing under her veil. She did emit a slightly choked sound as she waved away the apology. “’Tis fine.”

Clearing her throat then, she said, “But it may be a good idea for us to dress more like Scots. If de Buci did catch wind that we traveled this way, he will be looking for a group that includes an Englishwoman and two English soldiers. Dressing like Scots might help keep him and his men off our trail.”

Tom and Simon stared at her blankly for a minute and then looked at each other before Tom grimaced at his comrade and reluctantly pointed out, “She’s right about that.”

“Aye,” Simon agreed on a sigh, and then lowered his head and muttered, “There go our bollocks.”

Rory and the other men were still laughing at that when the alewife and her husband appeared with trenchers of pottage. They passed around the food and then moved off to fetch ale for them before disappearing back into the kitchen, leaving them alone. The moment they were gone everyone began to eat.

Pottage was a stew of boiled vegetables, grain and sometimes meat. But this one was lacking any meat as far as he could tell. It was also a bit thin, as if the alewife had watered it down to make it stretch for all of them, but it was hot and tasty enough, Rory supposed, and then glanced to Elysande when she gave up trying to eat with her veil on, and tossed it over her head.

Rory’s gaze automatically ran over her face, examining the bruising that covered all of one side, as if it had been slammed into a wall repeatedly. Much to his relief, it wasn’t as swollen as it had been when he’d first seen it. The bruising also wasn’t as dark, the almost black cast it had originally been was fading more to a reddish-purple color. It was healing. In a week or so it would be mostly gone, and it would be wholly gone by the time they reached Sinclair.

A soft curse drew his gaze to Alick to see that he was staring at Elysande’s face with dismay. He wasn’t the only one. Every man at the table was taking in what had been done to her—even her own soldiers who had already seen it—and every man there was wearing an expression of dismay mixed with disgust that anyone would abuse a woman so.

Rory glanced quickly back to Elysande, hoping she hadn’t noticed the attention focused on her. Though she was staring steadfastly down at her pottage, there was a tinge of pink in the cheek on the undamaged side of her face that told him she was very aware of it, and embarrassed.

Mouth tightening, Rory cleared his throat to get the attention of the others and then scowled at them in a silent order to stop their gawking. They got the message and immediately dropped their gazes down to their food. Satisfied, he glanced back to Elysande to find her looking at him with a somewhat wry smile.

“I do not mind their looking,” she said quietly. “I would stare too if I were them.”

“I assumed ye wore yer veil to avoid being stared at,” he said solemnly.

Elysande shook her head. “I wore the veil because I did not want any of you to feel sorry for me, or think I was weak.”

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