17
The beauty of the mountains had swiftly transformed into a miserable hell, with icy rain beating down so viciously that the riders had struggled to see even a few paces ahead of them. Meanwhile, the horses had battled through a quagmire of mud and coursing water, where the path had once been.
So, by the time the three riders finally made it down from the mountain trail, they were soaked to the skin and the hour had grown later than anticipated. The path through the mountains could be slow in good weather, but it was arduous and painstaking when the weather turned.
Heather shivered in Owen’s embrace, prompting him to hold her tighter to his body. He hoped some warmth still remained that she could take for herself, but his limbs were numb, and his own teeth were on the verge of chattering.
“It will nae be long,” he promised her, for Erinkillie lay less than an hour’s ride from the base of the mountains. The trouble was, the horses were already exhausted.
She turned her face up to look at him. “I am fine. I cannot feel the cold very much anymore.”
“Aye, that’s what concerns me,” he replied. In his experience as a healer, the moment someone began to feel warm when they should have been frozen to the bone was a dangerous period. It could fool a person into thinking they were fine when they were not.
Sawyer drew level with Owen and plucked a blanket from one of the leather saddlebags. “Here, M’Laird. Give this to M’Lady.”
To Owen’s surprise, the blanket was mostly dry. “Thank ye, Sawyer. Nae for the first time, I have to ask—what would I do without ye?”
“Ye’d suffer a lot more and ye’d get into plenty more scrapes,” Sawyer retorted with a smile, before turning worried eyes toward Heather. “I bet there’s some hearty stew to be had at that inn, M’Lady. Think of how nice it’ll be. Think of warm things.”
Heather tried to smile through chattering teeth. “Thank you kindly, Mr. Connelly. I shall do just that.”
With not a moment to waste, Owen bundled her into the soft, woolen blanket. Cocooned in his arms, he decided to riskpressing the horses. They were strong, formidable creatures of war with lengthy lineages: if they could not manage a swift ride to the end of the road, then no beast could.
Just over an hour-and-a-half later, eventually forced into a labored plod, the three weary, sodden riders finally arrived at the White Hart Inn. It stood like a beacon of greeting in the very center of a tiny village, with glowing lights spilling out onto the evening-shadowed streets. A refuge for tired and lost travelers.
“Can ye smell that?” Sawyer sniffed hard at the air.
“Smells like dinner,” Owen replied, bringing his horse to a halt.
Sliding down from the saddle, he reached up to receive Heather. She had ceased her violent shivering, but she looked rather pale: her lips on the edge of bloodless. Still, she was awake and alert, which gave him hope that she had not succumbed to the cold. With warming stew in her belly and a fireplace to sit by, she would soon be herself again.
“Remind me… never to… agree to ride… on a horse again,” she mumbled, falling into his waiting arms.
He chuckled. “I will, Lass, but ye’re goin’ to have to ride back the same way ye came.”
“Do not… remind me ofthat.” She mustered a smile, as he carried her into the blazing heat of the inn.
There were not many people within the low-ceilinged main room, but two men occupied the table closest to the fireplace. However, they took one look at Owen and his precious cargo, and hastily abandoned their spot for a table on the opposite side of the room.
“Och, if they hadnae moved, I would’ve kicked ‘em out for ye!” a brash voice heralded the arrival of the innkeeper’s wife, who was already wielding three bowls of stew in her large hands.
She set the bowls down in front of the weary travelers as they took their seats before disappearing again. She reappeared, shortly afterwards, with an entire loaf of bread in her clutches.
“Eat as much as ye like. There’s plenty more stew where that came from,” she said, perching on the only unoccupied chair. “Now, what brings ye here, eh? I daenae like to pry, but I daenae want any trouble. Ye ken?”
Owen wrapped the blanket tighter around Heather before replying. “We’re here to meet a friend. Has he arrived yet?”
“Ye’ll need to tell me more than that. Does this friend have a name?” The innkeeper’s wife smiled, but her eyes narrowed slightly.
“His name is Brandon Watson, and ye’ll ken him by his voice. He’s a Sassenach, but he’s an ally of ours.” Owen met the woman’s suspicious gaze. “If ye daenae recognize me; I’m Laird Dunn.”
The woman shot up from the chair, suddenly flustered. “Laird Dunn! Mercy, how could I have recognized ye when ye look like a drowned rat? Och, I’m sorry for askin’ ye such questions. I get all kinds of people comin’ through, so I have to be wary. Apologies, M’Laird. I didnae mean to offend.”
“Ye havenae,” Owen assured. “But have ye seen such a man?”
The woman shook her head. “Nay, M’Laird. There hasnae been a Sassenach in these parts for decades. There hasnae been another traveler tonight, either.”
“Very well, then we’ll take two bedchambers. It looks like we’ll be waitin’,” Owen instructed.
