“Looks to be full,” Isobel whispered, drawing even closer as she peered through the room lit only by the dying embers in the hearth and a lone lantern flickering on the mantel.
“We shall see.” He maneuvered around bodies, tables, and chairs to the closed door at the end of the bar. The word Owner was painted across it. He rapped on the door, listened for any sound of movement beyond the portal, then knocked again with a bit more force.
“Aye, I’m coming,” a weary voice growled from within. Latches clicked and rattled, then the door swung open. The owner of the tired voice, gray hair tangled and wearing nothing but a dingy léine that covered his round body to just below the knees, squinted up at Alasdair. “Aye?”
“Rooms. A pair of them.” Alasdair cast a glance back at those sleeping around the tables and added, “If ye have them.”
The old man hitched out a jaw-cracking yawn as he scratched his arse. “I dinna have but one room left.” He gave Isobel a rude up and down ogle, then winked at Alasdair. “Looks like ye’ll have to share a room wif yer lady here, eh?” He made a lascivious clicking sound and wheezed out a rumbling chortle. “Room’s got two beds in it, though. She still might refuse ye.”
In one swift motion, Alasdair drew his sgian dhu and tucked it’s point up under the innkeeper’s double chin. “Insult my wife again, and yer barmaids will have to mop yer blood before they serve yer guests their breakfast.”
The man gasped, his skin taking on a nervous, eerie sheen in the dim light of the room. He held up both hands as he stammered and sputtered, “Begging yer pardon, sir. Only spoke in jest. Meant no harm to ye or yer lady.”
“We shall take the room.” Alasdair kept the dagger in place, nicking the tip tighter into the fold of the man’s fleshy jowls. “I’ve a wagon. Four horses. My two men will take their ease down here.” Alasdair leaned in close. “Their humor and skill with weapons match my own. Do ye understand?”
“Aye.” MacPherson bobbed his head and pointed a shaking finger toward the door. “Lagger.” He paused and swallowed hard, stretching his neck away from the pricking point of the dagger. “Me boy, Lagger. He be over at the stable. He’ll settle yer horses and wagon. I’ll fetch the key and take ye to yer room, aye?”
“Fetch the key and tell me which room. I’ll find it m’self.” Alasdair withdrew the dagger and glared at the man.
The blade finally away from his throat, MacPherson skittered back behind the bar and scooped up the lone key hanging from a wall of hooks. He shoved it across the bar to Alasdair and nodded toward the set of stairs in the corner. “End of the hall. Last room on the right. Like I said. Two beds if yer men dinna wish to sleep down here.”
“I’ll let them choose for themselves.” Alasdair scooped up the key and nodded. “I thank ye.”
“T-think nothing of it,” the innkeeper stuttered as he raked a shaking hand through his wild tufts of hair. Inch by inch, he backed farther behind the bar, putting more distance between himself and Alasdair.
“Come, wife.” By the saints, how he loved the sound of that. He led Isobel back through the maze of chairs and sleeping bodies. Once outside, he waved Ian and Sutherland over. “One room with two beds. I’ll nay be leaving Isobel unguarded, so I’ll stay with her, Connor, and Yeva.”
“Oh, ye will, will ye?”
Alasdair braced himself for the battle he had hoped wouldn’t come. Isobel had never worn weariness well. “Aye. I will.” He refused to let her out of his sight until he knew her to be safe, and if she didn’t like it, she could just go whistle in the wind. “Connor and yerself in one bed. Yeva in the other. I’ll find my rest propped in a chair against the door.”
His argument struck her mute, and for that, he was glad. It was late, and truth be told, he had never worn weariness all that well himself.
Isobel bowed her head and rubbed her eyes. With a sigh, she shrugged. “Whatever ye think best, Alasdair.”
Praise God above, she’d chosen not to argue. Every moment they stood in the street fussing, was time that could be better spent resting. He held out his arms as Ian straddled the supplies, scooped up Connor, then handed over the limp, sleeping lad.
Alasdair settled the boy against his chest, then turned to catch Isobel’s wide-eyed stare. A satisfied warmth filled him. It was plain to see that the sight of him holding her son as if the boy was his own touched Isobel’s heart. Good. She needed to realize this was how it would be from now on. She, Connor, and Yeva were his family and under his protection.
“I walk myself,” Yeva warned, hands slapping and pushing at Ian and Sutherland. “You help me get to the ground. That is all!”
“Aye, m’lady,” Sutherland assured with a laugh as he and Ian stood on either side of her and waited for her to stop batting them away.
Yeva gave them both a stern look, then cocked her elbows for them to take. Ever so gently, they lifted the tiny woman and lowered her to the ground, steadying her until she was able to force her stiffened joints to move.
Isobel hurried to Yeva’s side, wrapped an arm around the old woman’s waist, and supported her. “Come, Auntie, we’ve a bed waiting.”
“We’ll see to the horses,” Ian assured as he jumped from the wagon. “We’ll bed down with the wagon until ye’re ready to leave.” He glanced back at the load of supplies. “I dinna depend overly much on the honesty of my fellow man whilst in a crowded city.”
Alasdair agreed. “Aye. Lagger MacPherson tends the stable. I was nay impressed by his father’s manners. I doubt the son’s are any better.” He glanced down at Connor’s peaceful expression and smiled. “We’ll sleep a few hours and then be on our way. I dinna wish to tarry long.”
He trailed along behind Isobel and her aunt, following them into the inn, up the stairs, and down the hall to the room. Isobel fished the key out of his jacket pocket, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.
“I light the lantern. Keeps evil at bay.” Yeva trundled over to the small table between the two beds. She fiddled with the tinderbox for a brief moment, then the soft glow of the candle inside the dingy glass lantern filled the room.
Alasdair remembered Isobel’s aunt had always had an uncanny ability to coax a quick flame. The old woman turned, scrubbing her arms. “Cold in here.” She climbed into the bed and held out her arms. “Give my boy to me. I need his warmth.”
Alasdair glanced over at Isobel, standing beside the other bed, hugging herself against the chill of the room.
“Aye.” She gave a quick nod. “Settle him in with her. She needs his warmth more than I.”
Alasdair tucked the lad under the blanket with Yeva. The boy immediately rolled and curled up against her. The smiling old crone pulled the blanket higher about them and closed her eyes.
When Alasdair turned, he found Isobel staring at him with an odd expression. Eyes wide, mouth in a tensed line, even in the candlelight, Isobel had gone a bit pale. Her appearance alarmed him. “Are ye unwell, love?”
“There’s nay a chair,” she whispered.
“What?”
She made a sweeping look around the small room. “There’s nay a chair for ye.”
Her meaning dawned on him, and her panicked state at the obvious alternative caused him no small amount of dismay. Did she truly find the thought of sharing a bed with him that repulsive? Surely, she didn’t think him so low as to attempt to take advantage of her in the presence of her son and aunt? Her reactions on past occasions came back to him, actions triggered by abuse and humiliation. Who knew what had been done to her? Her trust would be hard-won.
Alasdair shucked off his jacket, rolled it up, and stretched out on the floor in front of the door. Folding his arms over his chest, he rested his head on the jacket and gave Isobel his most reassuring smile. “Lie down, my love. Seek yer rest. We willna be here long.”
“I canna seek my rest while ye sleep on that hard, filthy floor.” She looked back at the empty bed. “It’s not right.”
She had to make a choice. He wouldn’t mak
e it for her “What do ye suggest?”
“Ye know damn well what I suggest, ye stubborn arse!” She pointed at the bed. “If ye’re determined to make me say it, then say it I will. I’ll share the bed with ye—just this once!”
Alasdair clenched his teeth to keep from laughing aloud. She wore the colors of her fiery side well. Always had. It was one of the many things he loved about her.
“Stop arguing and sleep!” Yeva commanded from the other bed.
Alasdair stood up from the floor, dusted himself off, and shook out his jacket. He held out a hand toward the empty bed against the wall. “After ye, m’lady.”
She stared at the bed and shook her head. “Nay. Ye sleep next to the wall. I need to be able to get to Connor should he need me.”
Alasdair knew that was nay the reason, but he wouldn’t shame her by calling her on her lie. She feared being cornered. A heavy sigh escaped him. His poor, sweet love. Someday, she’d trust him. “I understand yer need to tend to the lad, but I can better protect ye by sleeping on the outside.”
“Ye dinna think we’re safe here in the room?” She cast a worried glance at the door.
“I dinna wish to let down my guard until we reach Tor Ruadh, love.” He eased a step closer. “My cargo is too precious to risk.”
She wet her lips and gave him a long look. “If Connor calls out, ye’ll move aside, quick as a minute, aye?”
“I swear it.” He hoped she’d overcome her doubts soon, so they might at least get a few hours’ sleep.
Her arisaid wrapped tight about her, she climbed under the covers and scooted back against the wall. She held up the blanket and looked up at him. The sight of her waiting for him to join her in the bed nearly undid him. After giving her a strained smile, he turned away to hide the tenting of his kilt as he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed. His poor, long-suffering cock couldn’t take much more. He laid on his side, his back to Isobel.
“Are ye not chilled? Do ye not want any of the blanket?”
“Nay, love. I dinna need it. I’ve my kilt to keep me warm.” And the perpetual burn of wanting the woman beside him.
“Rest ye well then.” Isobel settled in, her sweet scent a source of torture.
“Aye, love. Rest well, too.” Alasdair pinned his gaze on the shadows cast by the flickering flame of the candle. He could tell by Isobel’s breathing that slumber escaped her as well.
“Alasdair.” Her whisper made his heart pound.
“Aye?”
“Ye are a good man.”
Whilst her words warmed his soul, it was not exactly what he had hoped to hear. He risked rolling on to his back, hoping she would think the rise in his kilt just a bunching of the plaid. She faced him. Her eyes glistened in the shadows, blacker than the finest obsidian. “I am not a good man, Isobel. I am a man who loves ye.”
“Why?” she asked in a breathy voice filled with such hopelessness, it twisted his heart. “After all these years and all that has happened, why?”
He mulled over the question, choosing his reply with care. “When I lost ye, I lost a part of myself. Call it what ye will. A part of my soul. A part of my heart. All I know for certain is a part of me was gone.” He studied the precious curve of her high cheekbones, the dimple in her chin, and the fullness of her sweet lips. “But with ye here at my side, my soul has regained hope for the future.”
She brushed the back of her fingers across the stubble on his cheek. “Ye know we can never be together—”
He pressed a finger to her lips and silenced her. “Nay. We can be, and we shall be. When will ye stop coming up with reasons to deny me? To deny us? Have faith in me, love. The only way we shall cease to be is if ye tell me ye no longer love me.” He slid his fingers along her jawline, cradling her face. “Would ye ever say such a thing to me? Truly? Are ye tellin’ me ye love me no more?” He held his breath, praying she’d gift him with the words he longed to hear, praying she’d found the courage to give their future together a chance.
A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye. “Ye know verra well, I have always loved ye, Alasdair.” A quivering smile teased across her mouth. “I always will. ’Til the day I cease to draw breath.”
Moving ever so slowly, he brushed a chaste kiss across her lips. He longed for a more impassioned kiss but didn’t want to frighten her. “Find yer rest in the curve of my arm, love. Let me feel the beat of yer heart while I dream.”
Without a word, she snuggled up against him and rested her head on his shoulder.
“I still say ye’re a good man,” she whispered. Her warm breath tickling against his throat stoked his need for her even more. “Why are ye holding yer breath? Does my hair smell of smoke?”
“Nay.” He pecked a kiss to the top of her head and hugged her closer. Staring up at the cracked ceiling, he willed himself to remain strong. “I felt the threat of a sneeze. I didna wish to wake the others.” God forgive him for the lie. Loving Isobel was a delicate matter, a fragile thing that required gentle tending to help her overcome her past and embrace the joy and passion of the future.
She nestled her head deeper into the crook of his shoulder. He returned to watching the dance of the shadows on the ceiling from the candlelight. Aye. This was true contentment—holding his dear one in his arms. He wouldn’t sleep, couldn’t even if he wanted to. Missing a moment of closeness with her was worth staying awake all night.
Chapter Nine
“Dinna disturb yer mother.”
Alasdair’s deep rumbling vibrated against her cheek, pulling her from the depths of the most peaceful slumber she’d experienced in a long while. She struggled not to smile and kept her eyes closed.
“But I need ta take a piss, and Auntie is nay awake,” Connor said in a loud whisper.
“The chamber pot is there under yer bed. I see it from here.”
Isobel held her breath, determined to feign sleep to witness Alasdair’s reasoning skills with a five-year-old who was more than likely tired of being the only one awake. Her son knew well enough how to tend to his own needs. He’d slept his fill, was ready to be up, and didn’t wish to be up alone.
“I saw a spider. I dinna want to reach for it.”
She could stand it no longer. She lifted her head and gave her son a look he knew all too well.
The boy’s eyes widened at her unspoken message. He turned and scampered across the room, pulled the chamber pot out from under the bed, and commenced to using it.
Pushing herself to a sitting position, she turned to Alasdair. “Children can smell indecision and fear.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” he asked as he lowered his feet to the floor, stretching as he rolled his shoulders.
“It means dinna argue with a child. It is a waste of breath.” She stood and shook out her skirts. She could use time with the chamber pot herself. “Would ye mind taking Connor downstairs whilst I rouse Auntie, and we tend to our needs?” With the size of the room, the only possibility for privacy was for the males to leave.
“Aye,” Alasdair said. He pinpointed the lad with a stern look. “Connor and I shall fetch Ian and Sutherland to join us for breakfast. We shall also have a long discussion about listening to yer elders, not telling tales, and the virtues of behaving like a young man rather than a wee arse.”
Connor looked up from buttoning the front of his trews. He brightened with a wide grin. “I am ready to eat. Reckon they have jam?”
Alasdair turned and gave Isobel a look of disbelief. “He didna hear a word I said.”
“Aye.” She smiled. “He’s a male. The lot of ye oft appear deaf at times.”
Alasdair scrubbed a hand across his face. “Aye. Well then.” With a loud snort, he latched hold of Connor’s shoulder and steered the lad toward the door. As he herded the boy out into the hall, he cast a look back at her. “Dinna tarry long, aye?”
“Aye.” It was all she could do to keep from laughing aloud. The poor man had no idea how deceptive Connor could be, but she�
��d show him some sympathy for all his efforts. She wouldn’t leave him at the mercy of her son overlong.
She bolted the door and hurried over to the chamber pot. As she finished, she gave a gentle shake of the bed frame beside her. “Auntie. Time to rise.”
“I am awake.”
There was nothing in the room but the two beds, a tiny table between them, a lantern, and the chamber pot. She wished there was fresh water for washing. It could always be worse, she reminded herself. Aye. That it could. She and Connor could still be Temsworth’s prisoners.
She moved to the side of the bed and helped Auntie to her feet. “Did ye sleep well?”
Fluttering Isobel’s hands away, Auntie made her way to the chamber pot. “Yes. Once you and your man stopped talking.”
Isobel’s face flushed hot from the scolding. “Forgive me, Auntie. I’m sorry we disturbed ye.” Even though she feared the answer, she had to ask the question burning in her heart. “Did ye…were ye able to…”
“I hear everything.” Auntie snatched hold of Isobel’s hand and pinned her with a sharp-eyed glare. “God will forgive you, Isobel. Almighty knows how you have suffered. Knows how you fight to protect yer son.” She tilted her head. Silvery white wisps of hair peeped out from under the folds of the brightly colored kerchief she always wore to secure her long braid out of the way. “Be with Alasdair Cameron. Be his wife in all ways except taking his name. Leave the demon bastard you married alone. Do not beg a release from him. You cannot reason with a madman. Pain is the only reward for poking a bear.”
Auntie’s words brought the threat of tears. Tears of relief. Tears of joy. Tears of worry. “I fear Alasdair will never agree to such.” She squeezed her aunt’s hand. “He is a proud man, and I fear his pride will be his undoing.”
The Judge (Highland Heroes Book 3) Page 11