The past three days had been brutal. It was hotter and drier than early summer in the Highlands should be, and Logan’s nose and throat were so coated with dust he would have sworn he’d come through a sandstorm.
As if that weren’t enough to annoy a man, his horse had thrown a shoe several miles back. Fingal had been in a mood over it ever since, and when Fingal was in a mood he made sure Logan was aware of his displeasure. He’d been fretting and tossing his head since they left Bogbain, and Logan was ready to tear his hair out in frustration.
He was in a foul mood, and the mass of sweaty, smelly bodies crowding the inn’s entryway didn’t improve his temper. Where the devil had all these people come from? It was well past the dinner hour. Shouldn’t these weary travelers have found their beds by now?
He leapt down from the saddle with a sigh, led his horse to the stables, then went off in search of Fergus McLaren, the inn’s proprietor. Fergus had been a loyal friend of Logan’s father, and he’d known Logan since he was too small to see out the bow windows.
Logan found him just outside the front door to the inn. He was scolding the ostlers for the delay in clearing the confusion of carriages and horses crowding the yard. His grizzled gray eyebrows rose when he saw Logan approaching. “That you, Logan? Good Lord, lad, ye look like ye been dragged through a knothole.”
“Feel like it, too.”
“Been in York again, have ye?”
“Aye.” It was the second time he’d made the journey this year. He’d concluded his business, and he was happy enough to put England behind him.
Fergus spat on the ground. “Bloody nuisance.”
Logan didn’t argue the point. Ithadbeen a bloody nuisance, but it had been worth it. He’d been trying for months to persuadeAlistair Campbell’s widow to take her two sons south into York. They were both strapping lads and would find work easily, but Bonnie Campbell hadn’t liked to leave the only home she’d ever known.
Logan didn’t like it either, but neither did he like to see his clanswoman brutally evicted by a greedy landlord. Bonnie Campbell had a sister in York. She and her boys would be better off there. So, Logan had paid the necessary premium to secure an apprenticeship with a York apothecary for Angus Campbell, Bonnie’s eldest son. It was a good start for the boy, and Bonnie had promised Logan if he could arrange it, she’d relocate to York for Angus’s sake.
“I’ve not got much use for York, myself. London, neither.” Fergus’s mouth twisted with disdain. “Nothing but Englishmen there.”
Logan grunted his agreement. “Any letters, Fergus?”
“Aye. I’ll fetch ’em for ye. Go on into the parlor, and Alison will bring ’em.”
Fergus shuffled off, and Logan made his way to the inn’s private parlor. One of the serving lasses came with a glass of ale, and he drained it at once. He sent her off for another, then dropped into a chair to wait for Fergus’s daughter Alison to bring him his letters.
His letters, and Fitz’s, too. Ever since Fitz had appeared on his doorstep, Logan had taken it upon himself to collectallthe letters sent to Castle Kinross. He had reason to congratulate himself on his foresight, if not his honesty.
He’d dreaded the task—had cringed every time he’d seen that thick, cream-colored paper, the daub of red wax. But now, for the first time in months, he waited with tolerable composure. God knew Fitz had thrown everything into a bloody mess when he arrived, but there hadn’t been a word from Surrey since the last flurry of letters several weeks ago.
She’s given up at last…
The serving girl appeared, slapped down a second tankard of ale in front of him, and bobbed a quick curtsy. Logan nodded his thanks and raised the tankard to his lips, but just as he was about to take a long draught, he was interrupted by a feminine drawl.
“Well, Logan Blair. Here ye are at last, snug as ye please, as if ye haven’t been neglecting me these four weeks and more.”
Logan lowered his glass, and a grin curved his lips at the sight of the girl leaning against the door jamb. “Hello, Alison.”
“Hello Alison, he says.” She tossed her mane of long dark hair over her shoulder. “Is that all ye have to say to me, Logan Blair?”
Her tone was scolding, but Logan could see the smile hovering at the corner of her lips. His own grin widened in response. “Tell me what to say, lass, and I’ll say it.”
Alison straightened away from the door and came toward him, swaying her hips as she walked. “Say ye missed me, ye half-wit. Say yer heart broke a little more every day we were apart.”
Logan laughed. “I say any of that and your father will run me off with a pitchfork.”
Alison McLaren was the eldest of Fergus’s five girls, and according to Fergus she was the one most likely to send him into an early grave. Logan reckoned Fergus was probably right. The girl was far too pretty for any father’s comfort, and to make matters worse, she was an incorrigible flirt.
“Ah well, then.” Alison dropped a small bundle of letters onto the table in front of him, then flounced her way back over to the door. “If ye’re not willing to risk a pitchfork to the ribs, then ye’re not worthy of me, Logan Blair.” She winked at him, then disappeared through the door with a final swish of her skirts.
Logan was still grinning when he reached for the bundle of letters, but just as he was about to pluck them up his smile faded, and his hand stilled over the packet.
There, at the top of the pile, was a letter on heavy, cream-colored paper, sealed with a neat daub of dark red wax. Across the front, the direction was written in dainty, feminine script.
His Grace Fitzwilliam Vaughn, the Duke of Blackmore, care of the Sassy Lassie, Inverness, Scotland.
