The lass last night looked nothing like Gretna. He had seen the panic in her eyes, catching him by surprise, and the only thing Remy could think of was to startle her out of whatever was plaguing her. This was what he did well and it had worked for Gretna too, allowing him to also take a breath within her. He had been concerned, so much that Remy had felt a touch of fear thread through his body.
And he was never afraid of anything. He had faced death a thousand times over, but nothing had terrified him more than to see the look on Gretna’s face.
Remy didn’t know what that meant.
Soft footfalls caught his attention and the object of his thoughts appeared on the steps, looking well-rested. He thought he would have to wake her but then again, Remy also knew that Gretna was a stickler for order and schedules. “Good morn, lass.”
She made her way over to the table that he was sitting at, settling into the chair across from him. “Good morn tae ye, Remy.”
“Did ye sleep well?” While he had spent the night propped up on the wall to keep his face from touching the dirtied floor, he would have done it again to give the comfort she was used to.
A faint blush crossed her cheeks. “I did, thanks tae ye and yer men.”
Something tightened in Remy’s chest and he had to look away. “Are ye hungry, lass?”
“Of course, I am,” Gretna said primly. “I would like some toast and jam, with an apple cut just perfectly and bit of honey.”
Before Remy could remind her that they were in an inn and not at the keep, the innkeeper snorted from his perch. “Tis nothing ye will find around here girl. I have porridge.”
Gretna made a face. “Porridge? Truly? I canna eat that.”
Remy chuckled. “Ye will have tae, lass, or ye will starve.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, glowering at him. “Then I will starve.”
She was stubborn, Remy decided, impossibly stubborn and he wasn’t about to take her in that carriage without something on her stomach. “Tis porridge she will have,” he called out to the innkeeper. “And some cider.”
The innkeeper ambled away and Remy looked at Gretna. “Ye need tae eat.”
“I willna eat that slop!” she hissed, her voice low enough so the innkeeper couldn’t hear her. “Why canna we just find an orchard? I will get mah apple mahself.”
“Why won’t ye eat it?” he asked, curious. A good porridge was often enough to warm his insides and stick to his ribs on occasion. Porridge was also good for the long weeks on a battlefield, easily fixed in an iron pot over the fire and reminding his men what they were fighting for.
Gretna huffed a breath. “When I was in my tenth summer, Stephan decided that he would dump a handful of salt in all our morning porridge.” She looked at him. “Have ye ever tasted salt in porridge?”
Remy tried to hide his smile. “Nay, lass, but I gather tis wasna verra good.”
“It wasna,” she confirmed. “I couldna get away from the table fast enough and, well, mah portion ended up all over mah da.”
Remy’s shoulders shook and he let out a large chuckle, unable to hide it. The former laird had been a very formidable Scot, not someone that he had seen smile a lot so he imagined that it had been a tense moment at the breakfast table that morning.
Gretna’s cheeks pinkened and she cleared her throat. “I’m verra glad ye are finding humor in it. Stephan was forced tae muck stalls for a week afterward.”
“A fitting punishment.”
His companion crossed her arms over her chest. “Tis why I canna stand the sight of porridge any longer. I’ve tried tae eat it since that day, but all I can taste is the salt on mah tongue.”
Remy felt a mite sorry for her, realizing she wasn’t trying to be difficult at all. Pushing back his chair, he rose, leaving behind his mug. “I will be back. Remain here.”
She gave him a curious look but Remy was already moving to the kitchens, where the innkeeper was ladling the thick porridge into a bowl. “Wot is it, lad?” he asked, his eyes widening.
Remy noted the bread on the scarred countertop, likely still warm from the ovens. “I will take a loaf,” he said, reaching into his pouch tied to his hip and removing several coins. “And any apples ye have.”
The innkeeper pushed the bowl aside, grumbling, but the gleam of the silver was too much for him to complain and he thrust one of the wrapped loaves Remy’s way. “Ye canna fall for their charms, lad. They will destroy ye and leave ye broken.”
“The apples,” Remy said, clenching his teeth as he took the bread. Gretna wasn’t weaving any sort of charm over him. She had a true reason for not wanting the porridge and he didn’t have many tunics to go around for her to lose the contents of her stomach on. He was doing her a favor, a very small one, but it wasn’t going to be something he kept up.
When Remy emerged from the kitchen, he had the loaf tucked under his arm, two apples, and a steaming mug of cider. Gretna’s eyes widened as he set his items on the table, a look of pure pleasure crossing her face. “Where? I thought.”
