Chapter Eight
Lucian knew he’d made an error in judgment the moment he entered the Spaniards Inn.
If he had any doubts – which he didn’t – the quiet that descended as soon as he’d stepped into the cozy and popular inn was proof enough. As were the stares every patron seemed to feel obliged to aim his way. Clearly, strangers didn’t often visit the establishment, unlikely as that seemed.
Or they’d somehow guessed he was Scottish and they weren’t fond of their northern neighbors.
He strode deeper into the inn’s crowded public room, not really caring.
No, that wasn’t quite true. He did wish he’d worn his kilt. Better yet, his grandfather’s rough-spun great plaid. And that he’d strapped on a claymore.
As things were, he was dressed no differently than any London gentleman, and perhaps that was the problem. He didn’t see anyone who even remotely resembled the gentry. The smoke haze drifting about the long, low-ceilinged taproom revealed only a motley assortment of good fellows, farmers and villagers. As well, a handful of ancients who didn’t seem to have noticed him, and a few flushed and harried-looking serving wenches dashing about with trays of delicious-smelling food and brimming tankards of ale.
Several large, shaggy dogs had claimed a place before the hearth fire on the far wall, their snores making the only sound – except the rushing wind that rattled the ancient windowpanes and seemed determined to make every timber creak like the brittle bones of a two-hundred year old woman.
No matter, the English wind hadn’t been raised that could touch a good Highland gale.
And being at home in a place where, more times than not, his only companions were rocks, heather, mist, and the sea, Lucian wasn’t overly troubled if the inn’s regulars didn’t like him.
He’d conduct his business and go, leaving them to their ale and meat pies.
So he strode on past the rough-planked tables to where a gaggle of men stood at the bar, his gaze locking on the big, burly innkeeper. The man had been polishing tankards, but at Lucian’s approach, he tossed aside the cloth and greeted him with a scowl.
“We know why you’re here,” he said, slapping his hands on the bar and leaning forward, aggressively. “And you can turn around and leave now. You’ll not be finding Bagley Crumb here.”
“Bagley Crumb?”Lucian blinked.
Alan Steckles’Frogbottomcame to mind and it was all he could do not to laugh.
But Scots were known to have more courtesy than most and so he tamped down the urge and met the innkeeper’s glare with no more than the lift of an enquiring brow.
“I am no’ here seeking such a soul,” he said, not wanting to risk speaking the name aloud a second time.
He also pretended not to see the red-faced, weatherworn man in patched clothes who was tip-toeing toward the stairs in a back corner of the taproom, clearing hoping to escape to a hiding place on the floor above.
Bagley Crumb, Lucian was sure.
“Bagley’s done up and left – hours ago!” called a small, bald-pated man from his corner seat by the fire. “He won’t be going home either. Knows better, he does! We heard your lord was sending you, a fine and dandy solicitor all the way from London-town to squeeze the last coins for rent from Bagley’s empty purse.”
“And could be Bagley’s cottage will burn before your lord can rent it to another poor sod,” someone else barked. “Poof!” The man held up his hand and snapped his fingers. “There goes your lord’s chance to milk the blood from another of us.”
Lucian shook his head, the reason for his cold reception now clear.
“See here, gentleman,” he said, glancing round at them all. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else.” He turned to the innkeeper, quickly plunking a handful of coins on the bar. “Ales for everyone,” he declared. “Meat pies and some of thon thick chicken soup and brown bread I just saw one of your serving maids carry past. Large portions, for anyone who might be hungry.”
The innkeeper’s face lightened. “You’re a Scot.”
“A Highlander,” Lucian corrected with a smile. “And I dinnae have a lord, but I am a laird. Lucian MacRae of Lyongate Hall in the far north of Scotland.”
“The far north of Scotland…”Everywhere, men repeated his words, heads bobbing and stares now turning curious.
“So why are you here?” The innkeeper poured him an ale and slid it toward him across the bar. “If not to harass poor Bagley, what’s your business? Just passing through?
“Will you be needing a room?” Congenial, he glanced at the corner stairs, now with no sign of Bagley Crumb slinking through the shadows. “If so, I’ve a one left, though I should tell you that the floor slants and this strong a wind will be blowing ash from the chimney. But there’s a clean bed and-”
Lucian raised a hand, cutting him off. “I expect to be back in London before dark,” he said, hoping he spoke true. “If that changes, I’ll look in again later.”
The innkeeper nodded. “A meal? As you’re feeding my patrons, you might as well tuck into something yourself.”
