by Diana Cosby
Hooves upon the bare ground echoed in their wake as their horse was led to the stable.
Once out of earshot, Catarine sent Trálin a withering look. “Pregnant?” she whispered.
Against the flicker of flames as they approached the weathered building, he had the grace to blush. “With the guard picking up my burr, I needed a topic that would throw him off guard and nae encourage questions.”
“Off guard?” she asked exasperated. “There were many reasons you might have given him.”
“And one would be?”
“That I was headed for a convent,” she blustered out.
Frozen grass crunched beneath their feet. “Headed for a convent? And what reason could I give him of why I, a Scot, was in deep in the southeastern part of England?”
“To fetch me.”
His brow arched as if far from convinced. “And you think he would be believing that?”
“Why would he nae?” she asked as he led her beneath a sturdy oak. “’Tis a good a reason as you gave. Nay, ’tis better.”
A smile tugged at his mouth as he stopped and looked at her. “Do you think the man would be giving me a room with a lass who is about to swear her vows to God?”
Heat touched her cheeks. “He might have,” she replied without conviction. So caught up in her shock at his claiming she was his wife, her wits had abandoned her.
He stroked his thumb across her lips. “With your bonny looks, I doubt he would trust me in a room alone with you for the night.” Before she could reply, he wrapped his arms around her and drew her into a soft kiss.
A gust of wind kicked up, and bony branches scraped overhead. Catarine ignored the sound and sank into his kiss, wishing indeed they were wed. If so, this night, locked in their chamber, images of how he would touch her flickered through her mind, and her body grew hot.
He broke away, his breathing unsteady, and pushed back a loose lock of her hair behind her ear. “I have vowed to nae touch you again.”
“You have.” Her heart aching, she ran her fingers over his strong jaw rough with new growth, lingered on the firm line of his mouth.
“Lass, ’tis dangerous ground we tread.”
She gave a slow exhale. “I know, but I can nae help how you make me feel.”
On a groan, he leaned in, gave her another long kiss, and then broke free. “As if your answer makes anything blasted easier?” He took her hand. “Let us go inside before we both freeze to death.
“I am nae cold.”
He grunted, tugged her forward.
Satisfaction filled her as she walked by his side, then she grew somber. Before, being innocent of a man’s touch, she’d accepted the sensations he’d inspired with newfound awe, cherished each one, aware that they must last her a lifetime. Except now, understanding what he could make her feel, she found herself wondering what sensations their joining would bring. And what of him? Regardless of what he’d said that night in Loch Leven Castle, how could he have found pleasure merely watching or touching her? However wrong, she found herself convinced that if they spent the hours alone, ’twould take little to encourage him to make love to her in every way, regardless the cost.
Foolish thoughts indeed. Their time here was but a guise to eavesdrop on the English knight in league with her aunt.
The scrape of wood had her glancing up.
The hewn entry shoved open. In the spill of lantern light, a rough-looking man with unkempt hair straggling over his shoulders stepped out. Surprise widened his eyes as he glanced at her.
Trálin moved before her as Catarine’s hand curled around her hidden dagger.
With a grunt, the stranger stumbled toward the stable.
Thankful, Catarine released her blade.
Trálin turned. “Are you okay?”
“Naught happened except we surprised a man who drank a wee bit too much.”
“With the travelers within and their minds skewed by ale,” Trálin cautioned, “with your beauty, ’twill be more than one man eyeing you with dark thoughts.”
At the seriousness of his voice she sighed. “Trálin, well I know how to handle myself.”
“Mayhap, but while you are with me, I will protect you.”
His words moved her. Though her fey warriors kept her safe and were like brothers to her, Trálin’s vow was driven by caring, that of a man who desired and respected a woman. A man whom, if circumstance allowed, would become more.
He stepped to the door. “Normally, I would hold the door for you to enter first. As we do nae know what awaits us inside, I will go first.”
She nodded.
With a quick glance around them, her potent taste still on his mouth, Trálin opened the door to the inn, then stepped inside. The stench of unwashed bodies collided with rancid ale. The men gathered at the rough-hewn tables wore tattered garb. Several looked familiar, none for good reasons. Bedamned, this was the last place he would ever want Catarine. ’Twas nae fit for a pig, and he held doubts he’d bring the wee animal inside as well.
A shimmer of light glinted from the neck of a man seated near the back.
The man he’d followed earlier.
“What do you see?” Catarine whispered from behind.
“The man we seek. Do nae look at him or any of the others as we enter, but follow me,” he whispered. “I assure you, the crowd within is an untrustworthy lot. It may be different in your world, but here, for our safety, let me speak.”
She nodded. “I will.”
Near the back of the large smoke-filled chamber, two tables away from where the man he’d followed here, sat two battered chairs and an empty table that look as if it’d seen many a fight. Good. They could feign eating while they kept watch of the man and mayhap catch a glimpse of who he’d come to meet. Trálin took Catarine’s hand and led her inside.
A woman dressed in serviceable garb approached them, her eyes suspicious, her face weathered with age. She shot Catarine a dismissive glance, and her smile warmed as it settled on him.
“Would you be wanting to eat or,” the woman purred with a saucy wink, “do you desire other services to satisfy your appetite, my lord?”
He ignored her crude advance. Too many times he’d dealt with women like her, women who believed him a man of worth, a man whom they could glean coin or other items of wealth or status. Nor would he ask her how she knew he was nobility. With the slovenly lot within, ’twould nae be hard to discern he was at the very least, a man of authority.
“I am seeking a man named Godefray,” Lord Grey stated.
Disappointment flashed on her face, and she gestured to a red-haired man talking with another man at the other side of the room.
“My thanks.” Trálin pointed to the empty table near the back. “Once I am finished talking with him, we will be seated there. We paid the stable hand for a meal. Bring it there.”
The woman’s mouth tightened into a hard frown. “Very well, my lord.”
He ignored her dry tone. “Come.” Catarine’s hand tightened in his, but he caught the flash of anger in her eyes. Keeping her close to his side, he walked toward the man the woman had indicated. As they neared, the red-haired man continued talking to the man seated nearby, but by the way his shoulders tensed, he’d seen them.
“And that is the way it ended,” the red-haired man spat. “Serves ’em right for going against the king. Bloody dead as they should be.”
Although nae directed at him, Trálin heard the man’s underlying warning that he would nae tolerate any interference. If Catarine was nae with him, the man would learn that threats, however subtly cast, could end with his death. This time, the man was fortunate.
The red-haired man lifted his mug of ale, took a long drink, then set it on the table with a heavy thud. “You are Godefray?” Trálin asked.
The rough-looking man glanced toward him, then shifted to Catarine. His eyes darkened with desire.
The bastard. “This is my wife,” Trálin said in cold warning.
Godefray�
��s hard gaze met his. “And what would the two of you be wanting?”
“We paid the man at the stable for a room this night,” Trálin replied, his voice ice, “and a hot meal. He said when we came in, to ask for you.”
With a grunt, the red-haired man glanced toward the woman Trálin had spoken with moments before. “I saw you talked with Mildryth when you entered.”
“Aye,” Lord Grey replied. “To order our meal.”
“Once you finish your fare,” the red-haired man stated, “Mildryth will tell you which room above is yours.”
With a curt nod, Trálin led Catarine toward the empty table in the back.
Curious gazes eyed them as they passed, most resting on Catarine with undisguised interest.
Trálin glared at each man who dared eye Catarine until they looked away. Thank God. With the caliber of men crowded within this chamber, any show of weakness could invite a lethal confrontation.
A sticky substance squished beneath his boot as he stepped past a battered table. He glanced down. The meager torchlight aided him naught in deducting what smeared the aged wooden floor. With the dangerous lot that frequented this hovel, little telling what had spilled, ale, or blood. As if he expected different? For a secret meeting, ’twould be a fine setting.
At the table, Trálin shifted the chairs so the back of both his and Catarine’s were against the wall.
She raised her brow.
“To ensure no one can sneak up on us from behind.”
Her face paled a degree as she took a seat. “Wise. I pray the food will be more appealing than the inhabitants.”
“We will soon find out,” he replied as he settled in the chair beside her.
A while later, the woman the red-haired man had called Mildryth ambled toward their table. A loaf of bread sat on a trencher, and she carried two bowls of soup in the crook of her arm. Her lips pinched, she shoved the fare upon the rough wood with a clatter. Soup sloshed in the bowls, and several drops spilled over the edge. Shooting him a cool look, Mildryth whirled and strode off.
“How did she know you were a noble?” Catarine asked.
“A woman used to seeing scum, I doubt she has any problem deducting a man of higher stature.” He leaned closer. “My only concern is that if she so easily figured out that I am a noble, how many others have noted the same?”
She stiffened, gave a covert glance around.
Bedamned, he’d nae meant to worry her. As if being in this blasted place invited calm? “’Tis too late to worry about it now. Once we learn what we can from whomever the English knight is meeting,” he said in a low voice, “we will head to our chamber. Once we are out of sight, we will slip away.”
Part of him regretted that they could nae delay their departure. As if that was wise? With him wanting her with his every breath, knowing she wanted him as well, naught good would come from their being alone in a chamber this night.
Naught good? Understatement. With a few uninterrupted hours alone, with the feelings she inspired, she would nae leave an innocent.
Catarine took a taste of her bread soaked with broth on the trencher, and her face twisted with revulsion. She returned it. “’Tis awful.”
At her words, he pulled himself from his erotic thoughts. Trálin tore off a piece of bread, dipped it in the broth, and tasted. With a grimace, he swallowed. “Nor have we seen our chamber.” He covertly scanned the aged interior, noted the cobwebs thick upon the ceiling, and the caked dirt on the floor. “From what we have seen so far, I doubt our room would be noteworthy.” He cast a subtle glance to his side. “See that man sitting two tables away?” he whispered to Catarine as he made a show of dipping his bread in his soup.
“Aye,” she whispered, keeping her eyes on her food as she hesitantly picked up her chunk of bread.
“’Tis the man I followed here. This close, I am hoping we can catch at least a wee bit of his conversation with whomever he came to meet.”
She nodded as she tore off a small bit of bread, chewed, and swallowed it.
“After a few moments, look again. When you do, he is wearing a pendant, the same as the other English knights wore that you tossed over the castle wall.”
Catarine took a sip of her wine, winced with disgust, then reached for another piece of bread. As she picked up her goblet, she slid a glance toward the Englishman, then away. “He tries to pretend he is nae waiting for someone, but he keeps peering toward the entry.”
Tension rolled through Trálin. “Whoever he awaits must be arriving soon.”
“Is it just me,” she asked, “or is this the worst soup you have ever tasted in your life?”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “’Tis awful.”
“It should be on the floor.”
He gave a soft chuckle. “Mayhap it was.”
With a grimace, she shoved aside her bowl. “Though a jest,” she said as she wiped her mouth, “I am nae taking any chances.”
“I agree. It may be safer to finish only the bread.”
The rumble of voices filled the room, some low and secretive, others booming with their latest conquest. A man with unkempt hair scraggled around his shoulders leaned with menace toward another man.
At another table, a man grabbed a goblet of mead and upended the cup, sending the golden brew dripping from each corner of his mouth.
Trálin shifted to better protect Catarine. Braggarts, the lot of them. He would be pleased when they could depart this ill-gotten place.
With a yell of outrage, a man at a nearby table stood and drove his fist in the face of the man sitting across from him.
“Bloody hell,” Trálin hissed. He stood, shoved Catarine behind him as he withdrew his sword. “Stay.”
The man nearest them cursed, then dove over the table toward the aggressor.
The other man’s head snapped back with a loud crack as the fist connected.
The first man swung.
Both table and chair went over as they crashed to the floor. Curses spewed around them, some in outrage, others cheering the men on. Several shouted bets whether both men lived or died, or who would be the victor.
A glint flashed in the hand of the man on top.
“He has a knife!” Catarine gasped.
With a grunt, the man holding the blade slashed the other’s neck.
Wild eyed, the man sprawled on the floor screamed as blood spilled down his filthy garb. His face grew to a mottled purple. Then, his entire body began to shudder. A moment later, he stilled.
As the man’s lifeblood continued to seep out, a scraggly looking man nearby cursed, then handed over coin to his companion. Laughter echoed from across the chamber. Several occupants grunted with indifference and returned to their tables, talking and drinking their ale.
Amidst the flow of ribald conversation, two burly men lumbered over, hauled the body up, and dragged him toward the door.
Trálin glanced toward Catarine.
Shock widened her eyes as she watched.
Bedamned. He put his arm around her and turned her to face him. However strong she proclaimed herself, and though in battle—in self-defense—she’d claimed a life, what she’d seen this day should nae be witnessed by a woman.
A tremor rippled over her body. “’Tw-Twould seem this is a common occurrence.”
Lord Grey’s mouth tightened. “We will leave soon.”
Pale eyes met his, their determination clear. “We will, but only when we learn what we came to.”
His admiration for her grew. Many a woman would have retched at the grisly scene of moments before. And, it answered the question of what muck he had stepped in earlier, and what was the underlying stench in the room that neither food nor ale could nae smother. Bloody hell, the filth inhabiting this inn should all be hauled out and hanged.
One of the men holding the body shoved open the door. Together, they dragged the dead man out.
As the door started to close, a small, cloaked figure slipped inside and shut the door behind them with a
soft thud.
Trálin stilled. The person they awaited?
Without hesitation, the figure headed toward the man they’d followed.
A thought flashed through Trálin’s mind that he’d nae considered before. If this was one of the fey, would they recognize Catarine? God’s teeth, would they nae sense her magic? Worried he’d placed her in danger, to shield her, he brushed kisses across her cheek. “Lass,” he whispered, “if one of the fey, they will sense your magic, even if they dinna see you!”
Her body tensed.
“Do nae try and look,” he said, “focus on me.”
“Is the robed person headed toward the man we followed?” she asked as he brushed his mouth over hers.
“Aye.” With a slow, subtle move, Trálin eyed the slender figure who, without hesitation, walked past the grim characters filling the inn.
“Nae worry, I brought along my bejeweled belt hidden beneath my garb for such a purpose. As long as I touch the stones upon it,” she explained, “none of the fey will be able to sense me, but ’twill nae keep me hidden from their view. Each within the royal family is given such.”
Trálin recalled catching sight of the belt when they’d first met. After everything he’d learned, he should have suspected it held magic. “What is happening now?” she whispered, her mouth against his, her hand remaining under the table and against the stones on the bejeweled belt.
“’Tis odd, none of the men within are paying the stranger any attention. Nae even a glance. ’Tis as if the person wasna here.”
“Or they have a spell upon them so they canna be seen,” she whispered.
“That doesna make sense,” he replied against her soft mouth.
“Why?”
“How can I see them?”
She shivered. “Because you are linked with me.”
“Linked to you?” He drew back, watched her eyes. “You meant by kissing you?”
A blush touched her cheeks. “Nae, because to a degree, we have been intimate.”
Confusion shifted to concern. “If indeed ’tis an accomplice from the Otherworld, will they be able to detect our . . . link?”
Uneasy eyes held his. “I am nae sure.”