Near the door, Mirabelle felt her face color. She knew exactly what kind of desires the innkeeper meant. The sudden snickering of her father’s guardsmen proved she’d guessed rightly.
Men didn’t come to the Red Lion strictly for ale and victuals, a warm fire, and a roof over their heads on cold, wet nights.
They sought certain other comforts as well.
If her father noticed the sidelong glances and elbow nudges of his men, he said nothing. Mirabelle doubted such a thought even crossed his mind. Little else did when he expounded on his books or his lifelong interest in healing.
“You could earn extra coin with the crotal lichen on your roof slates.” Munro followed the innkeeper across the room, clearly pleased to have a receptive audience. “Such lichens are good for more than making dye.”
“Say you?” William Wyldes set down his ale jug, all ears.
“Och, aye.” Munro rocked back on his heels, his chest swelling. “Have some of your kitchen lads scrape the lichen off the slates, then dry it and pound it into a fine powder.
“That”—his chest puffed even more—“you sell to weary travelers. If they place the powder inside their shoes, it’ll protect their feet on long journeys, sparing them aches and blisters.”
“Is that so?” The innkeeper’s brows lifted.
“True as I’m standing here.” Munro beamed.
Any other time, Mirabelle would’ve smiled as well. She loved her father dearly and enjoyed seeing him happy, his scholarly ways appreciated. Just now, though, she was certain she’d also seen Sorley the Hawk guised as a leprous beggar when they’d arrived at the inn.
Yet the man spoke like a Hebridean Islesman, and she hadn’t caught a good look at his face. Dungal, the other man had called him. Mirabelle hadn’t believed a word.
She had noted that the man, indeed both men, bore a hard, almost dangerous edge that no penniless wretch could possess. Even when the first man slumped in his saddle, she’d sensed the strength of him beneath his soiled and stinking mantle. It was the same bold, predaceous air that so attracted her to Sorley in his bedchamber.
The cloak also couldn’t hide the beggar’s powerful shoulders, or his large frame, which she just knew would be well-muscled and magnificent, pure masculine perfection, when freed from the ratty cloak.
All that she’d noticed, her awareness of him unerring.
His beggar’s hood had dipped too low for her to see his eyes clearly. If she had, she was certain they’d have been dark as peat, his gaze intense enough to make her heart beat faster. Her pulse raced now, just thinking of how Sorley looked at her, making her feel as if he wanted to devour her.
And wouldn’t she enjoy such a feasting?
“Dear saints,” she gasped when sweet, liquid warmth started pooling low in her belly, delicious tingles prickling the secret place between her thighs.
Was this desire?
The fierce bedding-lust she’d heard the kitchen wenches and serving lasses whisper about at Knocking? Pleasurable as the sensations were, she believed that was so. Only one man roused her thus.
Sorley the Hawk.
“Lady?”
Mirabelle turned to find a comely young woman smiling at her. Dark-haired and with warm brown eyes, she wore a simple gown of deep green, its laced bodice and the low-cut white blouse beneath flattering her shapeliness. An apron tied around her waist revealed her position while her friendly air put Mirabelle at ease.
She also struck her as vaguely familiar.
“Have we met?” Mirabelle returned her smile. “Have you been at Stirling of late? In the castle? I’m sure I’ve seen you there.”
“You are observant, my lady.” The girl’s eyes sparkled, her smile deepening to reveal a dimple in her cheek. “I’m a laundress at the castle. And”—she gestured at the long room behind them—“I help out here as well. The Red Lion does a good trade.”
“I’d thought the inn would be busier.” Mirabelle glanced to where her father’s retinue crowded four of the tables. No other guests were about, and she swiftly wished she hadn’t looked at the guards, because rather than tending their trenchers of roasted meat and quaffing ale, or even listening to her father enthuse about the inn’s roof lichen and moss, the men were eyeing the dark-haired maid with undisguised appreciation, seeming unable to take their gazes off her. Their thoughts were easy to guess, the nature of their speculation making Mirabelle take a deep breath and smooth her hands on her skirts.
Nowise discomfited, the serving lass aimed a dazzling smile at the guards. When she looked again to Mirabelle, she shrugged lightly.
“Men will be men, aye?” She winked, her high spirits lifting Mirabelle’s own. “I am Maili,” she declared, bobbing a curtsy. “And you truly are observant. The inn is quiet this morn. When William”—she glanced at the innkeeper—“learned your party would be riding in, he put out word for our regular patrons to stay away. We ken many nobles prefer privacy when they visit.”
“My father wouldn’t have minded a crowd.” Mirabelle knew that was true. “He loves nothing more than speaking about books, healers, and healing.”
“Aye, well.” Maili flashed another smile. “If you’d prefer, we’ve a smaller, more comfortable room through there.” She indicated an open archway not far from where they stood. “There’s a light repast already set out for you and a small fire on the grate, if you’ll come with me?”
She started forward, looking over her shoulder as she approached the archway. “You’ll be alone there, and quite safe. No one will bother you.”
“I wasn’t worried.” Mirabelle followed her into the other room.
Even more noticeably well-scrubbed than the long room, this one had the same low ceiling and age-blackened rafters, but there the similarity ended. A faint hint of ale and peat hung in the air, the peaty scent coming from a small, handsomely tiled hearth set against the far wall. White linens covered the tables and gleaming pewter plates lined a shelf that circled all four walls. Candles burned in wall sconces, their flickering light casting shadows across the tables and polished flagstone floor. A small basket of heather graced a corner table, as did a tempting selection of roasted sliced capon, several sorts of cheese, and a loaf of fresh-baked bread.
Mirabelle noted a dish of creamy fresh butter and a small pot of preserved gooseberries. Seeing the fare, she felt a stab of guilt as the girl led her across the room, clearly a private parlor.
Hadn’t she resented this place when, during their early morning encounter on Stirling’s battlements, Sorley mentioned his intent to come here?
Worse, she’d envied the women she was sure he’d meant to visit. She’d thought of them as harlots, brazen and amoral, catering to men only for the coin such performances would bring them.
Maili’s warmth shamed her.
The girl had a glow of kindliness she’d seldom noticed on court ladies.
“You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.” Mirabelle touched the girl’s arm when she pulled out a chair, gesturing she should sit. “But I do appreciate it. I hadn’t realized how hungry I am. And”—she smiled, gratefully dropping into the chair—“I am tired.”
She was.
She hadn’t slept well. Her night rest was repeatedly disrupted by images of Sorley. How he’d looked naked in his bed before he’d wakened. Equally distracting, she hadn’t been able to stop imagining all the deliciously wicked things he’d surely do to her if he agreed to help her. How much she’d enjoy his skillful attentions.
Mirabelle frowned and reached for the wine Maili set before her.
“Are you feeling faint, my lady?” Maili looked at her, her own brow pleating. “Would you prefer to rest in one of the rooms abovestairs? The beds are freshly made and—”
“I am fine, truly.” Mirabelle took a sip of the morning wine, glad it was watered.
Unfortunately, it was excellent wine, weakened or not. Sweet and potent, it went straight to her head, loosening her tongue, emboldening her.
&nb
sp; “I wouldn’t keep you from your duties.” She didn’t want to trouble the girl. But she also hoped Maili might solve a riddle or two that continued to pester her. So she rushed on, before manners prevented her from being so plainspoken. “You had other visitors before we arrived. Pilgrims or beggars, two men. I saw them leave when we—”
“Beggars?” The girl blinked. “The only men who stopped in earlier were—”
“Loons who didnae bring me half as many peat bricks as they’d promised, eh?” William Wyldes loomed in the archway, his hands planted on his aproned hips. “No one else was here this morn. To be sure, no’ bluidy beggars. Suchlike ne’er come to the Red Lion.” He winked. “They ken I’ll put ’em to work. Isn’t that so, Maili?” He flicked a glance at the girl and then disappeared into the dimness of the long room before she could answer.
“William spoke true.” Maili didn’t look at her, intent on smoothing the linen on the next table. “The only two men who were here before you were farm lads bringing a cartload of peat.”
Mirabelle set down her wine cup. “We passed two beggars as we turned into the inn’s rear yard.”
“You heard William.” Maili didn’t meet her eyes. “There weren’t any such men here.”
“I spoke with one of them.”
Maili moved to another table, her wrinkle-straightening hands more busy than ever. She also kept her face averted. “Perhaps they were wayfarers? All sorts of travelers use the crossroads.”
“The men were leaving the stableyard, riding two ancient horses.” Mirabelle watched the girl closely. “They didn’t look like any beggars I’ve ever seen. They were big, well-built men, burly and muscled.”
“Many such men visit the Red Lion.” Maili gestured toward the door arch, the smoky long room now filled with the rumble of deep, male voices. “Our patrons are farmers and their sons, smithies and thatchers, men from the town, and sailing men from the wharves along the river. Sometimes we see well-born parties like your father and his guardsmen.
“Everyone hereabouts knew not to look in this morn.” She bobbed a curtsy. “If you’ve no further wishes, I’ll leave you. There’s a bell”—she lifted her chin toward a small ringer fastened to the wall near Mirabelle’s table—“if you need me.”
“I’m fine, although…” Mirabelle ran a finger around the edge of her wine cup, deliberately stalling to keep the girl with her.
She knew something Mirabelle didn’t.
And the more she tried to hide it, the more Mirabelle wanted to know what it was.
So she willed herself to appear relaxed, spooned a dollop of gooseberry preserves on a thick slice of warm, crusty bread. She also decided on a different approach. “You said you work at the castle…” Mirabelle spread the preserves evenly. The Stirling connection was her best opening. “Do you know Sorley the Hawk?”
“Everyone knows him.” Maili’s face softened, her eyes turning dreamy in a way that pinched Mirabelle’s heart. “Sorley and I go way back. We grew up together, mostly causing mischief in the castle kitchens.”
“Oh.” Mirabelle put down her spoon. “I didn’t realize—”
“Och, I’m not someone’s by-blow, my lady.” The girl gave Mirabelle a smile. “Not that I’d be hanging my head if I was.” She winked. “Truth is, most such bairns are born of love, or at the least, powerful desire. That’s a very fine way to have been made if you ask me. I cannae say the same for many nobles.”
“I do agree.” Mirabelle did.
“That I knew, my lady. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have met my eyes when I brought you in here, much less spoken to me. Some of the worthies at court don’t see me at all, or they act as if I’m air.
“Sorley faced worse, not having a father in a place where blood and station matter over all else. Many were unkind…” She let the words trail away and smoothed the apron tied around her waist. “My mother worked in the castle kitchens and looked after him. Until she succumbed to a fever.” She glanced aside, her gaze on the peats glowing softly on the grate. “My father passed when I was two summers and so I became an orphan, dependent on those with a heart, much like Sorley and other castle bastards.”
“I am sorry for your losses.” Mirabelle was. She liked Maili, admiring her goodness and her strength. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to speak her mind. There was so much she wanted to know. “Sorley’s fortunes appear to have bettered. The court ladies speak highly of him.”
“They would, wouldn’t they? He’s a bonnie man. He has the devil’s own good looks, charm, and…” A wash of pink stole across Maili’s cheekbones. “He’s most popular at Stirling, aye.
“You’ve noticed him, too, my lady.” She spoke bluntly, then reached down to pet a large gray tabby cat that’d slipped into the room and now leaned against her skirts. Straightening, she smiled. “Most women do.”
Mirabelle took a sip of wine, considering. “Yet that wasn’t always so. You said he was treated poorly at court?” She hoped he’d forgotten the night of her uncle’s celebratory feast, the Highland reel they’d danced and that had ended so cruelly. But what choice had she other than to walk away with her chaperone? The fierce guard, one of her father’s most brutish warriors, who’d accompanied the woman, would’ve ripped Sorley’s head off his neck had she stayed at his side.
Wishing she’d had the courage to have done so, she set down her wine cup. “Popular as Sorley is now, something must’ve changed.”
“To be sure!” Maili’s smile flashed again. “He saved King Robert’s life. After that, he became a royal favorite. His reputation soared and almost overnight, those who’d shunned him sought his friendship. Such is the way among nobles.”
As soon as the words left her lips, her smile vanished and she pressed a hand to her breast. “My pardon. I didn’t mean to say—”
“I’m not offended.” Mirabelle rushed to reassure her. “The royal court is much different from Highland halls. There are some men who could well be Lowland worthies, but they are few and not looked upon kindly. Our chieftains do swagger a bit and hold great power, but they are also a friend and protector to every clansman. All have the right to approach the chief at any time, knowing they’ll be welcomed, their concerns taken seriously. Indeed, they think of themselves as his cousin, no matter how tenuous the bond. Our lairds call them such, so why shouldn’t they?
“In clan society, all men are important and appreciated. The blood ties and”—Mirabelle’s heart squeezed—“the love of our land bind us powerfully.”
“I should like to have been of your Highlands, my lady.”
“It is a privilege we cherish, calling our hills home.”
Maili again reached down to pet the cat, who was now batting at her hem. “I should leave you. You’ve only had a bite of gooseberry bread.”
“It is good.” Mirabelle glanced at the crusty loaf, scarcely seeing it. Her mind raced, her heart thumping at her daring. “If you have a moment, I’d love to hear how Sorley saved the King’s life.”
“Oh, it’s a grand tale!” The girl beamed. “Perhaps even romantic enough to be sung in your Highland halls. It happened when Sorley was six-and-ten summers, during a royal procession to Holyrood Abbey in Edinburgh. The King and his party were riding in style, for the King loves Edinburgh and looked forward to returning there. In a joyous mood, no one paid any heed to the thick mists darkening the day. Great swirls of it blew across the heather, veiling outcrops and large swathes of whin and broom. Sorley—”
“He was in the royal entourage?” Mirabelle lifted a brow, doubtful.
“Aye, well…” Maili glanced at the door arch, lowering her voice. “He wasn’t with the King’s party. Some of the squires had been taunting him more than usual, claiming they’d win glory at an archery tournament to be held at Holyrood. Local archers were encouraged to enter the competition. Sorley followed the group, hoping to—”
“He wished to compete?” Mirabelle guessed, her heart squeezing for the bold lad she knew he’d been.
>
No boy should be jeered at by others. She understood his need to prove himself.
“Sorley excelled at anything he did.” Maili went to stand before the fire, the gray tabby cat trailing after her. “He wasn’t allowed to train with the squires, so he hid in the shadows and watched them. Later, when the castle slept, he’d sneak to a dark corner of the training ground and practice, mimicking what he’d seen. He quickly mastered sword work, but it was with a bow that he shone the brightest.” Maili smiled, clearly reminiscing. “Not even the most seasoned castle archers shot better. His friends, the other lads in the kitchens and stableyards, swore he could split a hair at a hundred yards. That wasn’t just boys’ bluster, he truly was good.”
“He proved it at the tournament?” Mirabelle was sure that was so.
“That he did, my lady. He took all prizes in his age group.”
Mirabelle looked at her. The girl’s face glowed and her eyes held admiration. Was it possible her affection for Sorley went deeper than the innocent relationship she’d described? If so, it was no concern of hers. So why did the possibility pinch her so fiercely?
Trying to ignore the sensation, she took a small piece of cheese.
“Will you not join me?” She offered the tray to the girl, pleased when she accepted a bit of green cheese and an oatcake.
Watching her, Mirabelle remembered something Maili had left out of her tale. It was her own fault for distracting the girl. And she felt a need to learn as much about Sorley the Hawk as possible. If he accepted the proposal she’d made him, they’d share great intimacies.
If she knew more about him, she’d be able to better relax when the time came.
She might be willing to lose her innocence, but the act was still a bit daunting, much as she was attracted to Sorley.
She also remained certain he was the man she’d encountered in the inn’s rear yard. Likewise she was sure the innkeeper had looked into the private parlor to warn Maili against revealing Sorley’s disguise.
To Love a Highlander Page 8
