"When will the angels let him come home?"
"Och, laddie, the angels cannae send him home.” Sigimor stroked the child's thick black curls. “There is nay coming back from Heaven, I fear, but your father is watching o'er ye and listening. He will always be watching and listening to see how ye grow up into a fine, strong mon and take care of his people and his lands."
"And kick Cousin Harold out on his arse ‘cause he stoleded Drumwich and sent Papa to the angels."
Sigimor almost grinned at the shocked look that briefly crossed Jolene's face. “Aye, laddie, ‘tis exactly what we shall do."
Jolene stared blindly into the distance, away from Sigimor and Reynard, fighting back the tears that swamped her eyes and formed a hard knot in her throat. Reynard understood more than she had realized. He had obviously overheard a few less than genteel remarks as well. Even more moving was the gentle way Sigimor explained Peter's loss to the small child. He was a big, strong man with no fine courtly manners who often said the most outrageous things, yet he was kind and gentle with the little boy, willing to help in the care of him, and astoundingly patient with him.
In fact, all the men riding with her were very good to Reynard. Although none of the men at Drumwich had actually been mean or abusive to Reynard, only Peter and the two men murdered with him had actually taken any time with the boy. She ruefully admitted that Peter and his friends had not revealed the great patience or understanding these men did. Why, they were almost motherly, she mused, and nearly grinned, knowing they would probably fall from their saddles in horror if she ever said such a thing.
It was how Sigimor acted with Reynard that caused her the most astonishment, however. This was a man who compared the ideal English lady to a hound, yet he spoke to a child of angels. What worried her was how that made her feel. It strengthened all the inconvenient feelings she had for him, softening her toward him when she wanted to harden her heart. The man stroked Reynard's curls and spoke of angels, for sweet Mary's sake. How could she harden herself against that?
"There is a village a few hours ride from here,” said Sigimor as he rode closer to her. “There is a clean inn there. We will stop there for the night."
Shaking free of her meandering thoughts, Jolene frowned slightly. “Will stopping at an inn not mark our path too clearly?"
"Aye, if Harold follows us to that village, but I believe it doesnae matter much. Now that I realize he can and will discover where Dubheidland is, I see no reason why we cannae indulge ourselves with a wee bit of comfort when ‘tis so close at hand.” He glanced up at the sky. “Aye, especially as there is a storm brewing."
Jolene looked up at the cloudless sky, but decided not to question him about his prediction. “A clean bed and, mayhap, a hot bath?"
"Aye. Tempted?"
"Mightily. Howbeit, I would not wish my comfort to bring Harold to our door and put Reynard in danger."
"As I said, lass, Harold will soon be at our door nay matter how clever we are. If he is determined to find us, he will. And, wheesht, where did ye come by the idea that I was thinking ofyourcomfort?"
She glared at his back as he rode away, taking the lead next to Liam. The man was going to drive her utterly mad. One moment she was feeling all soft and warm toward him; the next she wished she was a big, hulking brute so that she could pound him into the mud.
The Twa Corbies Inn was indeed a clean one, and rather pretty despite its odd name. A very tempting smell was wafting through the inn from the kitchens and Jolene felt her stomach clench with anticipation. The only thing wrong that she could see was that everyone was staring at her with a mixture of horror and amazement. It might have been better if she had remained silent and let Sigimor request a bath for her.
"By the saints, ‘tis an Englishwoman,” muttered the innkeeper before he scowled at Sigimor. “What are ye thinking to bring a bloody Sassenach into my inn? And where did ye come by her, eh?"
Sigimor crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at the much shorter, much rounder innkeeper. Jolene could almost feel sorry for the innkeeper, but he was being excessively rude. Glancing at the other four big, strong men with her, she did wonder how Master Dunbar could remain so obstinate. The strength of those frowns should have turned Dunbar into a quivering puddle of obsequiousness. Master Dunbar had obviously not noticed how thin the ice was that he was treading on. Although the others in the inn were still looking at her with a distinct lack of welcome, they at least had the sense to remain quiet. Jolene felt a little hurt by this reaction to her mere presence and hoped Sigimor would not take too long in putting Master Dunbar into a more accommodating mood.
"Aye, she is English,” drawled Sigimor. “A wee, too thin, puling Sassenach lass."
Then again, Jolene mused, maybe she would just kick him.
"I hadnae realized so many braw laddies would be set to quivering with fear by her presence.” Sigimor shrugged. “Howbeit, since she has set all your bowels to clenching—"
"Of course she hasnae,” snapped Master Dunbar, speaking loudly so as to be heard over the angry grumbling of his patrons. “A wee thing like her be no threat to a mon. Be she yours then?"
"Aye.” Sigimor was torn between the urge to grin at the cross look Jolene wore and to slap some courtesy into the innkeeper. Unfortunately, satisfying though such actions would be, neither would get him the soft bed and hot bath he wanted.
"Couldnae ye find a nice Scottish lass? Ye look a braw lad."
"I am, but I was bound by a blood debt. Her brother saved my life."
"He asked a high price."
"Aye, he did.” Sigimor kept a subtle watch on Jolene as he continued, “Tisnae all bad. The English train their lasses weel. They train them to be sweet of tongue and disposition, kind to all, skilled at loom and needle, firm and alert in the management of a household, frugal, obedient, and a faithful companion to her lord, giving him peace and comfort in his home."
"Saints! Do the fools think they are training hounds?"
"One does wonder."
Jolene gave into the urge to kick Sigimor in the shin and ignored his exaggerated grimace. It only added to her annoyance to catch everyone in the inn grinning at her. She hoped it was because she had shown some spirit, but had the lowering feeling it was because a perfect English lady had just been compared to a hound—again.
