Perched on a hill, they saw the lights of a small village in the distance. With little choice, they headed into the valley. Ian had hopes for an inn. His purse had been taken from him during his capture, but there were a few coins in his saddlebag. He prayed they would be enough to cover their costs for the night.
Once again fortune smiled on him as he saw the beaten sign of the tavern. Tying the horse out front, they stepped to the door. “Claire, I need you to not speak and to keep your clothing covered from sight with the blanket. I will obtain what we need; a dry chamber and a hot meal.” Hoping for an empty room, they entered.
Claire blinked in the light. It wasn’t bright, but after what seemed like of hours riding in the dark, it hurt her eyes a little. Shivering and wrapped in a wet blanket with her bag in hand, she took in her surroundings. The wooden building shook in the gusty winds. The massive fireplace against the far wall sputtered a bit from the storm. A fire! She started walking toward it only to be pulled back to Ian’s side. “Dinna leave my side, nay here, nay now.” Those words were a command and not a request.
Pulling the blanket closer, she realized it was very quiet. The men here were all staring at them, as were the few women. Claire took it in, observing. I’ve been in some dive bars, but this is so past that. This was just different. The men, filthy in rough looking pants and shirts, and the women in long, low-cut dresses were just as bad. They must be like waitresses showing a bit of cleavage for tips. This place is almost as bad as the clientele. The wood floor appeared as if it had never been swept, and the tables with benches were chunky at best. A curtain moved in the back and changed her focus.
An older man approached them. He looked as beaten down as the rest of them. He spoke to Ian. “Well, now, what do you want?” His voice was gruff as he took in the sight of them.
“A room and a meal for myself and my wife.” Ian held Claire firmly by the waist. The hard look of his face ensured she did not question the lie. “Are you the man I should be dealing with?”
“I am Thomas. ‘Tis my inn. And aye, there is one left,” he said, pointing up the stairs. “End of the hall, left side. How long will you be wanting it?”
“I need the room for the whole night. Is that something you can give me?” Ian asked while giving Claire a hard glance, which said not to ask the question.
“It will cost you, but I can manage. Quiet night with the storms, and I dinna expect to see many more men tonight,” Thomas answered.
Claire noticed they seemed to be haggling over cost and what would be provided. Apparently nothing came with the room; sheets and blankets were all part of the bargaining. She smiled, despite being freezing in wet clothes; Ian had asked for wine, refusing the ale. Finally, someone paid attention.
Ian shifted his grip to dig in his bags, frowning at the few coins in his hand, and he took in their surroundings. His eyes were not pleased with what they saw. She knew they were too exposed and out in the open. The men in this place were not to be trusted for a second.
“Thomas, would you take something in trade? My coin is lighter than expected.” The men simply stared at one another.
After a little hesitation, Thomas said, “Aye, that would do, provided it could be sold.” Claire recognized the challenge. The man wanted something of greater value than his services provided. On a night such as this, his room had greater value, and he knew it.
Ian dug in his bag, searching for anything. She touched his arm and placed her bracelet in his hands. Ian initially tried to push it back at her. She gave him a small smile and squeezed his hand. It was all the permission he needed.
Handing it to Thomas, Ian said, “I expect a bit of coin in return for this.” The man stared at his good fortune and handed Ian a few coins.
From the frown Ian gave, she knew it was not nearly enough change. Claire whispered to Ian, “Just take it. It’s fine. We need to be here and out of the weather. Right now I would trade just about anything to be warm.” Offering a reassuring smile was difficult. Even indoors, her teeth still chattered.
With water dripping from his hair, Ian looked her in the eye. “I need to see to the horse, and I want you to . . .”
Finishing the thought, Claire said, “I’m going with you.” They walked back out into the foul weather.
The room was easy to find. The stairs came up the middle of the second floor, and a torch hanging off the wall lit their way. A corridor led to the right and theirs to the left. The door at the end was open. Walking in, they found Thomas had lit a small fire and was placing linens on the bed. He said, “The meal and drink will be here shortly.” Then he was gone.
Claire took in the small, dirty room. It was dark, but she could smell the dirt; it was like the smell of filthy bodies, earth, old food, stale beer, and something else that had no name. A metal grate on the floor held the fire, and the walls let in the cold wind. The room held two stools and a beaten-up small table and one bed with a battered wooden frame, bound by ropes with a thin kind of mattress on top. The door was barely a door, more like wooden planks bound by more rope with plenty of gaps in between.
This place is disgusting. It’s like something out of a bad dream or a crazy movie. This place is simply scary. Yeah, that’s the word. I’m so far out of my comfort zone. Let’s face it. My comfort zone is on a permanent vacation. It left with rational thought and what should be, and they have taken hygiene along for the ride.
The only positive was that the room was dry.
Ian spoke as Claire cringed. “The bed is yours, Claire. One room is for the best. I believe it safer for us not to be separated, not here anyway. There is nay a lock on the door and ‘tis nay a fine place.”
That was one statement Claire did not need. Not a fine place? Really, not a fine place? That much was painfully obvious. The main room was missing a few people when they returned. The sounds coming from the other rooms gave them away. She asked, “Ian, is this place what I think it is?”
Please tell me it’s not. Please tell me my imagination is working overtime. I don’t want to be where I think I am. I want to be at home, I’d even settle for the home you spoke of, but not here.
Ian’s chuckle answered for him. “‘Tis nay a place one would bring his wife if that is what you mean.” Instead of further explanation, he handed over a cloth and motioned for Claire to dry her hair. “However, the room is somewhat warm and dry and all we could find. I would have preferred a different place as well. We will have to make the best of it. A night in this weather would nay have worked. It is too cold and too wet. We will eat, get some rest, and continue on the morrow, early, verra early.” With that for an answer, Ian started drying his own hair.
“Come, lass, by the fire. You are drenched, and I can hear your teeth.” Claire moved to join him by the warmth of the flames. He removed the wet blanket and tossed it into the corner. “Still you shiver. Remove your wet clothing, I will find you something dry.” With a quick reach into the saddlebags, Ian offered her a dry shirt and said, “It may nay be the cleanest but ‘tis dry.” Placing the shirt in Claire’s hands, he started to help her remove her sweater.
Gently pushing the overly helpful hands away, Claire said, “I can manage myself. Would you mind turning around?”
Okay, dry clothes are a good start. Warm and dry are good things. I can survive one night here, right? The disgusting will eventually wash off me. I hope they have soap at his home. Has someone invented soap yet? If they have, it hasn’t caught on here. But the shirt smells good. The shirt smells like Ian.
With a quick grin, Ian moved toward the bed and turned. He needed to remove his wet things also. He tried to focus on his own needs, removing his clothing, drying himself, and wrapping the course sheet around his waist, willing himself not to hear her wet clothing hitting the floor, not listening to the sounds of the drying sheet warming her body and certainly not mixing those i
mages with the sounds of passion, or what passed for passion here. Bunching the sheet in the front, he waited for permission to turn.
Claire finally spoke. “You can turn around now. All done.”
The sight that greeted him was a fine one. Her back was to him, and she faced the fire. The shirt covered her to the knees and the outline of her womanly form was visible due to the flames. Ian’s breath left him in a whoosh of air. When Claire turned to face him, her hair unbound, a drying cloth in hand, and more of her figure revealed to him, his body sucked the air back in with force.
“Are you all right?” Claire asked with a voice filled with concern.
“Fine, I am fine,” Ian lied through gritted teeth. “Just cold, Claire, just cold.” He moved slowly to join her, afraid the urge to pounce on the woman would win. Taking her hands, they felt warmer, but not warm enough. He rubbed hers within his own, keeping his full concentration on her hands, not looking to see what the lacing of the shirt on her body would reveal. He felt her flinch. That’s when he noticed her bruises. “Your hands, the backs are bruised. You should have told me you were injured.”
Claire answered, “They’re fine. I bruise easily. It’s from the hitting and the blocking and the fighting. It doesn’t matter. They’ll fade quickly.” Her eyes closed on her last words.
“Try not to think on it, lass. ‘Tis done. Whoever trained you would be pleased at your skill.” Ian wondered out loud, “Who trained you? Do all women of your place have such skill?” He knew he had found the right question as Claire’s smile returned.
“Michael trained me, I guess. He owns the place where I work. They do this there, teach people to defend themselves. Most do it for exercise and for fun, not for . . .” Her voice trailed off, not willing to say “for killing.” “Anyway, most don’t. But my Dad thought it was important. We used to do the classes together before he died.”
There had been little mention of Claire’s father in any detail yet. “Tell me how you gained such ability.” Ian’s goal was to keep her talking and get her mind off of the battle and death.
“I wanted to go to the mall with Brooke and no parents. My dad was a bit overprotective. We argued about what I could and couldn’t do alone. Somehow we ended up with me taking self-defense classes. When we went to sign up, Michael talked my dad into more, something for both of us. We started going twice a week together. It was nice, that time just me and Dad.”
Claire continued. “After Dad died, it was Michael who talked me into continuing. Said it would make my father proud. Said I should never quit and that I still needed to be strong. So I stayed. Then Mom took me and watched every class from instruction to sparring.” With a pause to blink back tears at the memory, Claire continued, “When I was sixteen, we ran into some financial problems.” She noted Ian’s blank stare. “Money problems, a lack of coin?” Ian’s nod prompted the continuation. “We just couldn’t keep making the payments. It was kind of expensive.”
Her tale continued with Michael not letting her quit. Offering her a job after school, at the front desk, answering phones, greeting people, and sometimes explaining the classes to potential customers. The best part was all the classes she could take were included at no cost with the job.
Claire explained the job didn’t pay great and it was only twenty hours per week. With both her mom and her working, they still couldn’t cover their expenses. They were practical and sold the big house, the one next door to Brooke’s family, and moved to a smaller place in a different neighborhood.
After high school, Claire stayed and started full time. Michael’s wife had just had a baby, and she didn’t want to do his paperwork anymore. She wanted to stay home with baby Jake. Claire took over the office work and loved the accounting part. The numbers just made sense to her. She found ways to cut costs and help Michael finance an expansion. Plus, her training continued. She also took college classes, one or two at a time, at the community college. There was a focus there, too—accounting. She had found her calling.
This was a story Ian could follow. “How far did your training go, Claire?”
“I have two stripes on my black belt.”
The pride was obvious in Claire’s voice. “And ‘tis a fine thing?” Ian asked, not sure of what such a ranking would mean.
“Yes, that is a fine thing. Not many go that far. I never would have on my own. Michael kept pushing and refused to let me stop.” Claire’s eyes smiled at him as she remembered.
“Your Da would be proud, I am sure of it.” Then Ian asked out of curiosity, “What was your father’s name?”
“Michael.” Claire offered an explanation, “My father was Michael, and the name of the man I worked for was also named Michael. It’s a very common name.” She took Ian’s nod as understanding for the similarities.
A knock at the door interrupted their quiet conversation. Ian rose in a flash to stand in front of Claire, blocking her from sight with his sword in hand. The lass was hardly dressed to be viewed by any, and he had sworn to protect her. With a harsh tone, he asked, “What?” in response to the knock.
The door opened with a push from Thomas’ shoulders, his hands full with the tray of food and drink. “The meal you paid for is ready.” He didn’t hesitate while heading for the table, as an armed man wrapped in a sheet apparently gave the owner little cause for concern. Setting the tray down on the waiting table, Thomas turned to leave as quickly as he had entered. Stopping at the door and without turning to face Ian, he said, “Be smart this night and stay in the chamber. I can nay be responsible if you leave your wife untended.”
Relaxing the stance of a warrior poised for battle, Ian replied, “I have no intention of doing so. However, I appreciate the warning.” Ian wondered at the implication as Thomas left with no further comment.
“Why would he say something like that?” Claire asked.
Turning to face the question, Ian jested, “Mayhap Thomas believes I would leave you untended while seeking out one of his women.” Seeing the shock cross her features, Ian continued, “Or mayhap the man has some decency. ‘Tis not a place fit for a fine woman like yourself.” He left out the worst thought, wondering if Thomas knew more than he revealed.
The smell of warm food changed Ian’s thoughts. He motioned for Claire to rise and move her stool to the table, letting out a laugh at the sound of her stomach rumbling. Ian said, “Aye, I am hungry as well.” The meal was some kind of stew, bread, and a piece of cheese, not much, but it would suffice. A clay pitcher that held the wine, with two somewhat grungy pottery cups, completed the offering.
Ian moved the other stool to sit at her side, keeping Claire on his right; he offered her the first bowl. Noticing her stare, he wiped the cups with his worn linen, poured some wine, and then offered her the first cup. Ian broke off some bread and, using his dagger, gave her half the cheese. He started on his meal, and the silence continued. With the meal finished, there was still no conversation. Concerned that the joke about paying for a woman had caused the silence, he said, “I am nay the type of man who would pay for companionship, Claire. ‘Twas meant to add humor.”
“What? Oh that? Of course not, why would you?” Claire didn’t care for her tone. The casual note she had intended had gotten lost. Looking at Ian from the corner of her eye, she doubted a man like him ever had to do anything less than smile at a woman. He was simply beautiful; he had big green eyes, dark lashes, thick midnight hair falling to his shoulders, and an incredible muscular build. She hated beards, but even his long stubble looked good. The previously broken nose had healed a little crooked. Imperfection leading to perfection. Broad shoulders, a muscular chest lightly covered with the same dark hair. That is no six pack. It has to be at least an eight or ten pack. How is that even possible? Ian probably had women offering themselves constantly, and who could blame them?
And I’m sitting here, in this place,
eating with him, wearing only his shirt while he wears a sheet.
She shuddered, hoping it was from the cold.
Noticing her discomfort, Ian walked to the bed and brought back the blanket that had been left for them and draped it over her shoulders. “Lass, move your stool closer to the fire. You must still have a chill.”
Stunned and willing herself into action, Claire stood up. “First, we need to get our things dry. Lying on the floor will not help.” She moved the tray off the table and set it in the corner. Turning the table on its side, the legs now served as a drying rack. Ian handed her his clothes, and hanging them, she started chuckling, feeling the wet leather of his pants. She now knew what was worse than a wet thong.
“My wet trews amuse you?” Ian asked.
“Not really, just getting tired.” No way am I was sharing that thought.
Ian added softly, “Forgive me. There should have been no need for you to provide for us this night. While my clan is nay wealthy, I will see your jewelry replaced.”
Smiling at the offer, Claire replied, “I meant what I said downstairs. There is very little I wouldn’t have traded for some warmth.”
The Draig's Woman Page 5
