Page 8 of The Highlander’s Dangerous Desire

They’d been riding for candle-marks and Grace was utterly miserable. She wasn’t used to long hours in the saddle, nor riding on such rough terrain. She rarely traveled when the roads were rough or drowned with rain, nor when the weather was poor. Her body was stiff as the leather of her traveling pack, and more sore than she could ever remember being before in her life.

Ewan, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying both the ride. Once they crossed the border into the Scottish Lowlands, he’d visibly relaxed, but Grace found herself becoming ever more uncertain. She hadn’t crossed into Scotland since Niamh had left.

Attending festivals without Niamh, especially across the Scottish border, was far too dangerous. Now here she was, riding through the Lowlands, in the company of a man she knew almost nothing about. The knowledge did not make her feel particularly safe, even though she was certain Niamh had sent him.

They rode throughout the day, stopping only to rest the horses and take some sustenance. It was never long enough, and only one stop - their midday meal at a small inn - afforded any chance of washing up. By the time dusk fell over the land, she was more tired than she could ever remember being, and almost ready to beg for Ewan to stop. Only her pride was keeping her in the saddle, which was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with every step the horse took.

Finally, Ewan guided his horse toward a large building with an attached stable. Grace almost melted with relief when she realized it was an inn. “Are we stopping for the night?”

“Aye. The horses need tae rest, and so dae we,” Ewan nodded and swung down off his horse with an ease Grace would have envied if she hadn’t been so tired. The Scotsman spoke with the innkeeper and passed him some coins, then turned. “I’ve secured us a room.”

“Only one?”

“’Tis all that’s available, unless ye want tae sleep in the barn.” The innkeeper’s voice was gruff, and his gaze was unfriendly. Grace swallowed hard. In her weariness, she hadn’t thought about how her words, and her accent, would reveal her as English. Or how many would consider her an enemy, based on that alone.

Ewan pulled her travel-sack from the horse and gestured for Grace to dismount. She did, but it was only her grip on the horse’s bridle that kept her from going face-first into the mud. Her legs were so sore and weary they could hardly hold her.

Ewan made no move, but the innkeeper scoffed disdainfully. “Och, yer lass is a soft one. But what can one expect from an English wench, wanderin’ where she doesnae belong?”

Grace flushed, but before she could think of a suitable response, Ewan spoke. “Better a soft lass than a discourteous lout. Wherever my companion is from, ‘tis ill-manners for a tavern-master tae speak poorly o’ guests.”

“She’s–”

“Daesnae matter what she is. We’ve been on the road all day, and ridden a fair few miles. The sign on yer door says ye welcome all, and ye’ve tak’n good coin tae give us both shelter and supper. On yer honor as a clansman and innkeeper both, ‘tis yer duty tae be civil tae yer guests, nae matter where they hail from.”

The innkeeper scowled. “Are ye one o’ those then? Fools who would rather side with the English than fight fer our rights as free clansmen?”

“Nay. I’ve shed me blood on the field o’ honor under me laird’s banner. And led soldiers who shed more. But nae even the English are mad enough tae put women on the field, which means this lass is nay more a fighter than any bairn o’ the clans. Her kinfolk ye can hate if ye like, fer I’m sure I would if I met them, but the lass has done naught tae earn yer contempt.”

The innkeeper’s scowl deepened. “Dinnae see why an English lass should be traipsin’ across the Lowlands.”

“’Tis business o’ me laird’s, and if I didnae protest or ask why, nae reason ye should either.” Ewan’s voice was low, and though there was nothing overly threatening about it, the innkeeper stepped back and looked away.

It was evidently some manner of Scottish custom or law that she had no idea about, but Grace was too tired to care about the specifics as Ewan led her inside the cramped, smoky building, toward the stairs that led to the upper floor of the inn. All she cared about, in that moment, was finding a place to rest her aching body, and perhaps a bite or two of food to quiet her grumbling stomach.

The innkeeper pointed them to a door. “There. I’ll have a girl bring up plates fer ye.” His glance cut sidelong to her. “Best ye eat up here. I dinnae want any trouble on yer account.”

“That suits us both well enough, certain sure.” Ewan nodded. With a grunt, the innkeeper nodded, shouldered his way brusquely past them both, and stomped his way back down the stairs to the waiting tavern room and his other guests.

Ewan held the door open, and Grace stumbled gratefully inside, only to be brought up short at the sight before her.

The room was small, plainly furnished, with a single chair and small table by the fire. The hearth had been lit, the welcome warmth seeping into her bones even from across the room, but before she could properly appreciate it, her gaze was drawn to the last piece of furniture. The bed.

There was only one bed in the room, and though it wasn’t nearly as small as some she’d seen, neither was it all that large.

Grace’s eye fastened on the bed, then on her traveling companion. “There’s only one bed.”

“Aye. ‘Tis rare fer inns in these lands tae have more than one per room.” Ewan shrugged, showing no concern as he moved to set their traveling packs near the fire, then stretched to loosen muscles stiffened by long hours in the saddle

“There are two of us.”

Ewan glanced at her. “Aye. And what o’ it?”

Grace held onto her temper and her composure with an effort. “Where will we both sleep? You cannot be suggesting that we share a bed.”

Ewan stared at Grace, startled by the vehemence in her voice. He was tired, and more than ready to get a hot meal and some sleep. It was an effort to remain civil when he replied.

“I never said we’d share a bed, lass, only the room.”