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Chapter Twelve
Dirk and Duck Inn
Midway between Edinburgh and Culloden
23 March 1721
Long after the sun had set and only the purplish-dark blue of impending night streaked the northern sky, the coach jostled and groaned to a stop in the circular dirt courtyard before a two-story structure. The ground floor’s curtained windows glowed with muted light.
A half-moon hung lazily in the sky, visible now and again as fat, lazy clouds drifted past. A large brown and white dog, its tail wagging, barked an exuberant greeting as it jumped to its feet on the stoop.
Squinting, Bethea tried to read the sign swaying softly in the breeze.
Dirk and Duck?
Thatwas supposed to be a duck? It looked more like a sickly stork, or mayhap an oversized crow a child had painted.
A sagging front step and lopsided shutters suggested the establishment wasn’t as well kept as The Boar and Brew. She eyed the lodging house warily as Camden handed her down before he reached in and collected her valise with her overnight necessities.
“Have ye stayed here before?” she asked, trying to keep the apprehension from her tone.
“Nae. I thought it wiser to stay at an inn where nae one would know me.” Camden glanced around, then nodded in silent communication to a coachman.
That made sense. They were traveling incognito, after all, and this lodging house was certainly off the beaten path.
Would the coachmen and the other riders Keane had sent to safeguard them sleep inside the inn, too? She rather hoped they would. She supposed it depended on how many chambers were available, though.
From the run-down looks of the place, it didn’t host an abundance of travelers regularly.
Two tow-headed stable lads, one carrying a lamp, both sporting broad grins on their well-scrubbed faces, trotted out to greet the drivers and team.
“I’d like ye to sleep near the coach tonight,” Camden advised the two armed coachmen.
Ah, so he, too, had noticed the seedier elements of the hostelry. Bethea prayed that at least the linens were clean.
“Aye,” Higgins, the burlier of the drivers, agreed, giving the inn a once-over. “’Tis a good idea.”
Crawley, the other coachman, spoke quietly with one of the lads as they prepared to unhitch the team.
“Pull yer hood up, lass,” Camden advised even as he rucked his coat collar higher and pulled his hat lower. “We dinna ken who might be inside.”
She complied without complaint.
“Camden, are ye certain…?” Before Bethea finished the sentence, the four unofficial guards rode into the courtyard, two abreast. It will be fine, she consoled herself. Counting these four, the drivers who looked like they could take on a bear single-handedly, and Camden, they were well protected.
It wasn’t in her nature to be high-strung, nervous, or suspicious, but then again, she’d never been a witness to treason or abducted before. Not to mention wedding under duress and then fleeing under an assumed name to evade possible retaliation by said traitor.
Another stable boy, this one younger and with darker hair, hastily tucked his slightly too-big shirt into his breeches as he hurried from the stables and went directly to the newcomers. “Welcome to the Dirk and Duck,” he greeted cheerily.
Well, at least the stable hands were an efficient and merry lot in their clean, but obviously worn and mended, clothing.
In short order, Camden had ushered Bethea inside and secured a chamber for them. She didn’t protest when he requested one room, rather than two.
She didn’t fear he’d force himself upon her, and in truth, she’d not sleep a wink if alone in a chamber in this strange place, knowing Montieth was out there, somewhere.
A couple of nondescript men—the only occupants of the public room—nursed tankards of ale. They conversed in low tones at a slightly uneven table a few feet from the fireplace.
Their footsteps heavy on the wood floor, the guards entered and, conversing in low tones, awaited their turn to speak with the innkeeper.
