by Jessi Gage
After a minute, gnarled hands pushed two trenchers across the bar at them. Each held a loaf of bread and a beheaded ferret. These were followed by two tankards and a big iron key. “Room twelve,” the gravelly voice said. “How old’s the pup?”
“Nineteen,” Riggs answered without missing a beat. “You got horses in the stables? The quicker we can get to Haletown the better.”
“My cousin, Len, has two mares he could rent you. They’re not shod, but they’ll get you where you need to go. You’ll find him in the trade center.”
A pause where Riggs might have nodded his understanding. “You got a tray so we can take our dinner to our room? And how often do messengers come through?”
Those knobby fingers fidgeted on the bar. “Who’s the mother?”
“Hilda,” Riggs said promptly, as if he’d anticipated the question. “A tray before morning would be nice.”
The barkeep grunted and went away. While he was gone, Riggs passed her his axe so he could have both his hands free.
She slipped it under her cloak, careful not to expose her hands for more than a second.
Riggs nodded his approval, and she ducked her head again when she heard the barkeep coming back.
A wooden tray clattered onto the bar beside their food. The barkeep hollered, “Bilkes! This man’s got a job for you.”
The murmuring behind them stopped. A bench scraped against the floorboards, as though one of the men had risen from the table.
“You need a delivery?” A big man with a tenor lilt came up beside her and set his tankard on the bar. Must be Bilkes. He spoke to Riggs over her head. She felt his gaze on her and resisted the impulse to look up.
Riggs said, “I’ve got a message to get to Chroina.”
The man sipped his ale. “I wasn’t planning on heading back that way ’til day after tomorrow. How fast were you thinking?”
“Tomorrow night. No later.”
Bilkes whistled. “That’ll cost you. Who you want it to go to?”
“Neil at the armory.”
“The war chieftain?” Bilkes asked, surprised. “That’ll cost you even more, and I’ll be needing your guarantee the ornery brute won’t slit my throat when I find him.”
“Give him my name, and he won’t. Riggs the trapper.”
She wondered how he knew Marann’s war chieftain. She’d remember to ask when they were safe in their room.
“Seven crowns,” Bilkes said.
Riggs’s loose fist opened and closed on the bar. “I can’t afford seven. I can do five and a half. I’ll bring you the message after my son and I have had our dinner.”
“Wouldn’t be worth my time for less than six and a half.” By the nearness of his voice, she could tell Bilkes was staring at the top of her hooded head. He inhaled long and deep.
Angry. Be angry. Think about wolf-men and their bloody noses.
“Never mind. I’ll go to Chroina myself after Haletown.”
“Now, now,” said the messenger. “Maybe I could do it for six even. Have your dinner. I’ll be here to take the message in an hour.” He started to move away. His knuckles brushed her arm.
She tensed but didn’t permit herself to shy from the touch.
Riggs snagged Bilkes’s elbow. Had he seen the touch? Had he noticed Bilkes sniffing her? Were they about to be exposed? She braced herself for Riggs’s reaction.
“Can you get me paper and a quill?” he asked.
“Not very prepared, for a man needing to send a message, are you? That’ll cost you another quarter crown.”
Riggs growled low in his throat. “Six and a tenth, and not a kernel more. And for that price, I want wax to seal it too.”
Bilkes huffed a short laugh. “All right. What’s your room? I’ll find what you need and leave it outside your door.”
Riggs told him their room number and herded her up the stairs.
Their cramped room smelled musty with disuse until the aromas of warm bread, fragrant ale and lantern oil filled the space. She laid Riggs’s axe on the patchy furs covering the bed and stared at the tray of food he set on an uneven table. The bread looked good, but the blood oozing from the ferrets’ necks chased her appetite away.
“You take both loaves,” Riggs said. “I’ll eat the meat.” He took a long drink from his tankard. A fine sheen of sweat coated his cheeks. He looked like he’d just run a gauntlet.
Thank the saints she’d found some dandelion leaves and mayweed to nibble on this afternoon. It appeared wolf-men didn’t eat vegetation of any sort. Just meat and bread. Letting down her hood, she rescued the loaf from the trencher with less blood pooled on it. When she held the bread at an angle, blood dripped off the bottom. She picked away the soggy parts then perched on the edge of the bed to eat. The furs were stiff and matted and smelled of crumbling leather and moth-eaten bedding. They were nothing like the soft furs Riggs had all over his cabin and on the bed in his cave. Wrinkling her nose at the shoddy craftsmanship, she tore into her bread.
Riggs turned the chair at the desk to face the bed. He sat down and ran both hands through his hair, ignoring the ferrets.
“No one suspects, do they?” she asked around a mouthful.
“I don’t think so. The messenger sniffed you, but didn’t seem overly curious. You don’t smell female. Maybe he wondered why you smelled so much like me, but if you’re my son, you would, wouldn’t you?”
She shrugged. “Mayhap he wondered why you want to send a message to the war chieftain.” She ate more bread and washed it down with some ale. “Why do you?”
His gaze darted to the door. He raked his hands through his hair again until his curls stood on end. “Neil is my uncle. If anything happens to me before we reach Chroina, I need someone I trust to know about you.”
She paused in her chewing. Riggs carried a heavy burden. He carried it alone.
She swallowed her last bite and shook her head. “No,” she said gently. “Doona send a message. Anything you write, the messenger can read.”
“He won’t. I’ll seal it. It’s a crime for a third party to break a seal.”
She snorted. “Aye, you’ll seal it. With wax and a seal he brings you. Who’s to say he won’t have a duplicate in his pocket so he can replace it?”
Riggs pulled somat from his pocket and held it out to her.
She took it. A ring. It was made of heavy brass and sized for a man with large hands. Across the top was a seal portraying a scythe beside a sheaf of wheat and a sickle moon surrounded by several stars.
“When I came of age, my mother gave it to me. Said she wished she could have been more of a mother to me, but she was proud of the job my sire did. This and another just like it belonged to her sire. He gave this one to her on his deathbed, and he gave the other to his son, my uncle Neil. I use this to seal all me letters. If the messenger tampers with it or replaces it, my uncle will cut him down before he’s finished handing the thing over.”
The metal was warm from being in Riggs’s pocket. She treasured the feel of it in her palm and stroked her fingers over the seal. ’Twas an honor to hold such a personal item of his. Reluctantly, she handed it back.
“It’s lovely. Truly. But it still won’t ensure your letter is secure. There’s nothing to stop the messenger from simply reading the letter and destroying it.”
Riggs looked at her uncertainly. “A dishonest messenger doesn’t remain a messenger very long. Most are honest. I use them often without issue.”
She harrumphed. “You told me the villages are descending more and more into lawlessness. Mayhap he’s been honest up until now. But you’ve told him you ken the war chieftain and because you want the message to get to him quickly, he’ll ken it’s important. What if he thinks to take credit for whatever news ye have to share then learns you have custody of a woman?” She spread her palms.
“Shite. You’re right.” He ran his hands through his hair again.
“I’m no’ saying doona write to your uncle. I just think you should be
careful what you say. You must assume other eyes will read it. And you shouldna rely on the message reaching its destination.”
Riggs leaned forward and settled his head into his hands. He rubbed his temples with the pads of his fingers and cast her a sheepish glance. “How did you get to be so wise? You think so many steps ahead.”
She laughed without mirth. “I’m no’ wise. I’m a devious woman who has done much evil. No’ hard to predict wickedness in others when one’s own heart is wicked.” Memories of the ill she’d done to her laird and clan, to Darcy, assaulted her. I might have murdered a wee ane like the Larnians Riggs so despises.
He frowned at her. “I don’t believe that.”
She didn’t have the energy to argue. She said only, “’Tis true. I’ve done many vile things.” Just as well that he planned to give her to his king. With her head for plotting, she’d fit in well with a royal court. Bitterness twisted in her stomach. She’d been a silly lass to think she might merit a decent man like Riggs after the things she’d done.
He got up from his chair and knelt in front of her. He put his hands on her knees. His thumbs gently stroked, sending tingles racing over her skin. She ought to push them off. She didn’t deserve his comfort. But selfish hag that she was, she absorbed every detail of the moment so she could cherish it later, when Riggs was gone and she was naked in the arms of a stranger. The warm weight of his hands, his woodsy scent, his charmingly tousled hair, the earnest regard in his gaze.
“I’ve seen wickedness,” he said. “I’ve looked it in the eye, and I’ve fought it. I know it well enough to recognize it, and I promise there’s no wickedness in you.”
She shook her head. He was wrong.
“There isn’t,” he insisted. “I would know it if so. If you were wicked, I wouldn’t lo—”
A knock came at the door, making them both start.
He whispered a curse. Her own heart echoed it. Whatever he’d been about to say, the loss of those words rattled around in her chest like dried peas in a bowl.
“The messenger,” Riggs said. He picked up his axe from the bed and cracked the door. After a moment, he opened it, squatted to pick up somat off the floor and closed the door again. “My paper and quill.” He shook his head. Humor quirked his mouth, but he wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. “Useless now. I have much to tell my uncle, but nothing I’d risk having another lay eyes on.” He was back to running his hand through his hair. He began pacing, restless.
“Eat your meal,” she told him. “Then see about the horses.” Activity would soothe him. She could use some activity too, but she kent better than to leave this room.
He nodded and sat down to eat the ferrets. When he finished, he took up the quill and began writing on the paper.
“I thought you decided no’ to chance a message.”
“I’m not going to mention you,” he said without looking at her. “But I need to write something after hiring the messenger. It’ll look strange if I don’t bring him something to deliver. I’ll be careful what I say.”
Och, he was right. If he didn’t bring down a message, it might raise suspicions.
He scratched out a few lines then paused in thought and wrote some more.
“How often do you write?” she asked. She rarely had need of writing and was slow at it when she did. She usually reserved the skill for copying perfume recipes or methods of harvesting and preparing herbs.
“I send a letter to my mother every season, and receive one in return.” He glanced at her with a proud smile before returning to the letter. “And I correspond with my uncle occasionally. When my sire was alive, he made me write out an entire volume about trapping and tanning for the king’s archives. Had me write the damn thing so many times until it was just so.” His huff of humor belied the grumbling words.
Riggs was decent, capable, and literate. He could fight when necessary and fight well. Better that she warm the bed of a man who would never love her than attempt to earn the affections of a man as fine as this one. She sighed as she watched his powerful arm move with practiced quill strokes.
After filling half the page, he folded the letter and set the pot of green wax the messenger had left atop the oil lamp to melt it.
“What did you write?”
He half turned in the chair to face her. “Just that I tracked a marbled boar into Larna and overheard some things that might concern the king. And that I would come for a visit after bringing my son to Haletown to see a doctor.” He smiled crookedly. “I made up some nonsense about how his legs pain him and with winter coming, we hope to find some better medicine.”
“Good. That’s clever. He’ll ken ye have no son, so he’ll understand you’re traveling with someone. But if the messenger reads it, he willna think anything of it, especially since he’s seen how I walk.”
He poured a spot of hot wax and pressed his da’s ring into it. Holding it there, he said, “And if we don’t make it to Chroina, Neil will know I intended to come, and that I had news too important to put in a letter. At least I hope he’ll realize it. He might think I had too much Firebrand and was half out of my mind when I wrote it.”
“We’ll make it,” she said.
He turned a soft, weary gaze on her as he stood to leave. That look said so many things. I hope you’re right. I appreciate your faith. I wish I could keep you for myself. She might have imagined that last.
“I’ll be right back.” He stepped out, and she heard the key in the lock as he left to find the messenger.
Taking advantage of her momentary privacy, she found a dented pan under the bed that she supposed was meant to be a chamber pot and quickly relieved herself. She went to the window to dump it but thought twice about opening the shutters. She might be seen. But it wouldn’t do to spend the night in a cramped room with a full chamber pot, especially with Riggs’s sharp sense of smell.
Ah, the cloak. She shrugged into it and pulled the hood around her head. Thus hidden, she opened the shutters. Their room overlooked the road they’d walked in on. The large black horse still stood across from the pub. While she threw the contents of the pan down to the gutters, the front door opened.
Angry men’s voices rose to her ears, preceding a jumble of bodies pouring out of the pub and down the steps. At the center of the brawling knot of men was a tall head of curly black hair. The messenger? She couldn’t see his face.
The man threw a punch, knocking another of the men to the ground. He whipped his head around and searched the side of the building until he spotted her in the window. Brown eyes flecked with molten gold blazed up at her.
Riggs!
Her heart turned into a pounding drum as four of the men from the pub made a circle around him and drew their axes. Och, had Riggs taken his axe with him when he’d left? She couldn’t remember. She turned to scan the room, relieved when she didn’t see the weapon.
She started to turn back to the brawl, but heard the faint clicking of a key fitting into the lock. The lock tumbled. The door opened.
A pair of men shouldered into the room. One was jowly and gray with age, and he gaped at her as if he’d seen a ghost. The other had to be the messenger, Bilkes. He had sharp features, like an eagle, and darting green eyes. “Poor little lamb,” he said in his tenor lilt. “I’ve got some medicine to take your mind off your legs.” He cupped his cock and bollocks through his trews with one hand and pitched Riggs’s crumpled missive onto the bed with the other.
The gray-haired man slapped the back of Bilkes’s head. “Show the lady some respect.” She recognized the voice of the barkeep. He squinted at her and licked his lips. She got the distinctive impression he saw currency when he looked at her.
Beneath her cloak, she inched her hand toward her hunting knife.
“Thought you were mad, when you said you smelled a female downstairs.” The barkeep nudged Bilkes with his elbow. “Guess your nose is better than mine.” He thumbed the bulbous appendage in question.
“Told you,” Bilkes said w
ith a smirk. “Hard to mistake the scent of a woman. Even harder to mistake the scent of a human, no matter that a dumb trapper tried to cover it with his own.”
She gasped. Bilkes had been around humans. That had to mean somat, but what? She couldn’t think. Her mind was numb with terror.
“Quickly,” the barkeep said. “Get her away before the others finish with the trapper. I’ll meet you at Ferndell in the morning and we can discuss what to do with her.”
She found the knife and curled her hand around the hilt. Her heart hammered at the thought of men outside trying to “finish” Riggs.
The messenger advanced on her.
She took a breath and let loose the biggest, loudest scream she could muster.
Chapter 13
Just as Anya had hoped, both men clapped their hands over their sensitive wolf-man ears.
“By Danu! Make her stop!” Bilkes shouted.
The barkeep lumbered around the bed toward her, sneering to show bulky, yellow teeth. He fluttered his hands around his head as though he could swat away her screams. She kept it up, even though she felt like a crazed banshee.
She drew her knife and dodged the barkeep as he reached for her. Her legs gave out and she fell onto the bed. Bilkes scooped her up. Curse it!
She screamed some more, aiming her voice right at the side of his head.
He bellowed and bent his neck to press his ear to his shoulder. “Shut it! Shut it!”
She didn’t “shut it.” She kept screaming while she wriggled free from his hold. On her way to landing in a heap on the floor, she stuck him in the stomach with the knife. He groaned and bent forward around the wound.
Saints above. She’d stabbed a man.
She didn’t give herself time to think on it. On hands and knees, she scurried out the door, cursing her legs for being so bloody worthless she couldn’t even flee from these bastards on foot.
At the end of the hall, she came to the stairs. How would she get down them? What was happening to Riggs? Could he hold his own against those men? She had to get to him.