“A lift?” The man glowered down at her, his bushy brows and even wilder beard crusted with snow. “Ye mean carry ye to Thurso?”
“Aye. If ye could, I would be most obliged, and once we reach my shop, I’ll be happy to pay ye well for yer troubles.” She didn’t want to insult the man, but surely it cost quite a lot to feed four such enormous horses and keep such a coach in fine working order. Especially in this weather.
“Driver! Why have we stopped?” A man clutching a plaid around his head peered around the partially opened carriage door.
“Got a young miss here,” the driver shouted over the blustering wind. “Lost in the snow. Begs for a ride into Thurso. Says she keeps a shop there.” The man coughed out a wheezing laugh as he dusted the snow off his tam. “Last I know of, there weren’t no shops to speak of in Thurso. St. Peter’s Kirk is there, but the town is just a port and a few pubs. Aye, it might ha’ grown some, but I think this poor lass is tetched with the cold.” He squinted at her. “Unless ye repair nets for the fishermen? I saw that new place last time I came through here. That yer shop?”
“I own Crowley’s Books and Things. In the middle of town. Been there for years.”
He stared at her as if she spoke a language he didn’t understand. Was he making fun of her? And how could he say the town was nothing but a port? Thurso was one of the most significant towns in Caithness, and the church he spoke of was nothing but a ruin.
Lorna sank deeper into her hood and clutched it under her chin, unsure what to do. Her toes throbbed with the cold, spurring her into action. To the devil with the man and his odd sense of humor.
“Sir!” she shouted through chattering teeth. “Please, might I have a ride? All I have on me is a tenner, but it’s yers if ye will just let me in out of this weather.”
Bloody hell. A tenner should be plenty. She had planned to pay him more for his troubles if he had been more helpful. But now she felt like telling him to kick rocks. If she wasn’t about to freeze to death, she would.
She shoved her hand through a slit in the folds of her skirt, fumbled to find the small cloth pouch hanging from the tie at her waist, and fished out the ten-pound note.
Steering clear of the horses and their snorts of freezing mist, she stretched and handed it up to the driver. “Here. See? A tenner to let me inside the carriage and take me into town.”
The man squinted down at the bit of paper, then plucked it from her hand. His head tilted first to one side, then the other, as he turned it back and forth, studying it. “What game is this ye’re playing at, lass?”
The male occupant inside the coach hopped out and shoved between them. He snatched the note from the driver and scowled down at it. “Bank of England?” He turned to her, his thin face so puckered and drawn that she backed up a step, afraid he was about to vomit. “Who are ye?” he demanded in a croaking voice that matched his pallor.
“Lorna Merriweather. Who are ye?” By this time she could have walked home. The only thing keeping her here was the fear of frostbite. If these two didn’t stop blethering like a pair of thoughtless fools, she might still risk losing a few toes.
The gentleman’s bloodshot eyes bulged as if about to pop out of his face. “I am Reginald Leckness, Laird of Clan Auchinleck.” He acted as though the name should mean something.
She decided to try one last tactic. With a polite nod and the best smile she could manage, she changed her tone to the one she used for calming difficult customers. “It is an honor to meet ye, sir, and I apologize for interrupting yer outing. But please, might ye grant me shelter till we get into town? Once we reach Hook’s Cafe, ye can let me out and I’ll be on my way and no more trouble to ye.”
The snowstorm and her strange fall from the cliff had disoriented her. The cafe couldn’t be that far. Dear old Maggie Hook would spot her enough credit for a piping-hot cup of tea. Once she warmed up for a little while, she could easily make it back to the shop.
“Let the woman inside, Reginald! I grow tired of sitting here, and my earl awaits.” The order came from within the carriage. The woman’s shrill voice brooked no argument.
The thin, sickly laird’s shoulders sagged. He yanked the door open wider and tipped his head toward the opening. “Ye heard my sister. Inside with ye.”
Lorna hurried around him and climbed onto the step. She perched there for a moment, uncertain which bench to take. Everything looked so—historically authentic. She wondered what era they were re-enacting.
A scowling, yet beautiful woman was buried in a mound of fur pelts and heavy wool plaids. She sat with her back against the front of the boxy carriage. The spot next to her was empty, but Lorna felt certain that belonged to the laird. Opposite the woman sat a shivering young boy staring down at his lap. Beside him was a tiny slip of a girl who appeared frightened, exhausted, or both.
“Are ye coming in or not?” the beauty snapped. Her feathery brows, a shade lighter than her dark auburn hair, slanted to a sterner angle.
That made Lorna’s choice easier. She bent and offered a smile to the wee lad. “May I sit beside ye?”
He jumped as though startled, then slid over to give her more room. “Aye, mistress,” he whispered with an obedient dip of his head.
Poor dear. He must be afraid of strangers. She settled in beside him, noticing that he and the timid lass had nothing but a single blanket to keep them both warm. That didn’t seem right when the laird and his sister were buried up to their eyeballs with furs and wool wraps. “Let’s snuggle in and share our warmth, aye? It’s cold enough to freeze the bark off a tree.”
He risked a shy glance up at her, sharing the tiniest hint of a smile.
“Come on,” she coaxed. “It’s all right. I promise.”
After hesitating a second longer, he huddled closer, as did the girl on his other side. Lorna shared her cloak with them as much as she could, then looked across and gave the woman and her brother a polite nod. “Thank ye both so much. I dinna ken what I would have done if ye had not come along.”
The laird acknowledged her gratitude with an explosive sneeze, then burrowed deeper into his mound of coverings. His sister shot him a disgusted glare, then riveted a predatory gaze on Lorna. “Ye are most welcome. Yer name, if ye please?”
“Oh…sorry.” Lorna debated whether or not to offer a handshake. Many folks no longer took part in that custom. It spread too many germs. She offered another nod. “Lorna Merriweather. And ye are?”
