Mrs. Grace waved a hand at him. “That’ good enough for me,” she said. “You may assign Lady Elizabeth your daughter’s room, and I thank you kindly.”
“Oh, no!” said Elizabeth, but Mrs. Grace held up a hand in that way she had when matters were already settled. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “You take the room, dear.”
“But—”
“No buts,” said Mrs. Grace. “I’ll be perfectly fine. And anyway, I can hardly tolerate my own snoring. If we share, you’ll be baggy eyed and fit for no one’s company, much less prepared to meet your darling groom.”
“I would be happier to share,” argued Elizabeth.
“No,” said Mrs. Grace. “I won’t allow it. How much?” she inquired of the innkeeper.
“Half a crown for the both o’ ye. Supper’ll be extra.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Grace, and with that, she removed the proper remuneration from her reticule and asked, “Shall I pay you directly?”
“Oh, no,” said the man. “Gi’ all remittance to Mrs. Pitagowan, else she’ll put my arse in the snow with Hadley.” His blush returned, as he pointed toward the woman who’d already yelled at him once. “Bess,” he said. “She’s o’er there.”
Mrs. Grace pointed as well, and he nodded, then her faithful companion grasped Elizabeth by the arm and squeezed gently, and said, “Sleep well, dear.” And suddenly she was away, leaving Elizabeth to deal with the innkeeper.
“So ye’re going tae meet yer groom?” he said, once again tugging at his beard.
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Inverness?”
“Yes, sir.” The man was entirely too forward; still Elizabeth held her tongue, looking wistfully over her shoulder at Mrs. Grace, who was now conversing quite amenably with “Bess” “o’er there.” It never failed to impress her that Mrs. Grace could so easily get along with anyone—unlike Elizabeth, who hadn’t a good conversational bone in her body. But it really mustn’t be entirely unexpected, when she’d been left to fend for herself for most of her life.
And anyway it was never on her own behalf that she became nettled; nothing ever got her dander up more than the disaffection of others.
Elizabeth waited whilst the man searched the myriad of keys on his belt, and then he smiled congenially and led the way into a scullery, where he hollered to a young boy to light the fire in Carrie’s room, and to change the bed sheets. Afterward, he led Elizabeth into another smaller room, then stopped before an old, iron-banded door.
“So, then, who’s the lucky groom?” he asked as he slid a big black key into the lock. “Is it Douglass?”
Elizabeth shook her head.
“Mackintosh?”
“No sir. I’ll be pledging my…”
“Ach, now, dinna tell me, it must be MacKinnon!” He shook his head sadly, and said, “Poor bastard.” He jiggled the knob, then opened the door to let her in.
The room itself was quite cozy, with a small brick fireplace and an adjoining door at the far side of the room. “Is that perhaps another guest room?” she asked, hopefully.
“Nay,” he said, shaking his head. “Tis my daughter’s closet.”
“May I use it to store my valise?” She lifted the heavy bag in her hand, only belatedly realizing that he had never once bothered to offer to carry it—not that this itself should bother her overmuch. Elizabeth had long been of the mind that a woman could carry her own bag. It was rather his unhelpful demeanor.
“Nay,” he said again. “Tis locked. We’ve had some guests snooping of late, and my daughter’s no’ too keen on it. Also,” he said with a lift of his brow. “No baths. Ain’t no one about to draw you any water. And if you want tae sup, ye’ll be more’n welcome in the hall. Mrs. Pitagowan makes a fine stew, and I believe she’s got some frumenty as well.”
“Frumenty?”
“Pudding,” he said, “wheat boiled in milk, with cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger, made special for the holiday, all very expensive!”
“Thank you,” said Elizabeth, and then he was gone.
Still, she wasn’t alone. She waited patiently for the young man who’d rushed in after them to finish lighting the hearth fire, and then change the bedsheets. After he left as well, Elizabeth closed the door. As weary as she was, she set down her valise in the middle of the room and went to test the bed, considering how hungry she might be—perhaps not enough to brave the randy lot in the tavern. And anyway, she doubted she would see Mrs. Grace again this evening. Her companion was not the sort to dally before bedtime; no doubt she was already making herself comfortable out in the stables—or as comfortable as she was able.
Suddenly, she leapt up from the bed, curious to explore Carrie’s closet. She jiggled the knob, and, found, much to her delight, and contrary to Mr. Pitagowan’s claims, the door was unlocked. Only one look inside and she gasped over the grizzly display—it was a shrine full of wartime accoutrements: shields, swords, coats, cuffs, spurs, pistols, hats—much of which she suspected was still encrusted with blood. Certainly, the scent of the room was ghastly. And although it wasn’t a small room by most standards, there was little doubt Mrs. Grace would prefer the stables. With a hand to her breast, she closed the door again and, resolved to make it a night—vittles could wait until the morrow, when everyone else was sleeping off hangovers.
Chapter 2
Callum MacKinnon was close enough to home now that he could taste the tang of pine in the air. Unfortunately, the carriageway was impassible—vehicles stalled along the roadway, some parked on the embankments, fresh snow piled high against their rutted wheels.
He frowned at the sight, considering that he might be able to slide through the blockade by abandoning the roadway, but, even eight months later, the area was still crawling with Sassenachs soldiers.
Bloody hell.
At this point, neither he nor his horse were particularly enjoying the bite of the wind, and the snow had already dampened his cloak. The last thing he wished to do was to arrive home looking like the walking dead, and scare his sister into pissing her bed.
And anyway, he was still far enough that, even if he managed to get through the crush, his aching bones might not make it through the night. His wounds were still raw—those on his body, and the one in his heart. Not only was his clan forever divided—some had fought for the Stuart King—he was returning home a traitor, pardoned only so long as he forfeited title and lands.
Decision made, he grunted his annoyance, although, in truth, he couldn’t blame it on the weather. He was perpetually disgruntled these days, mourning that bright-hearted self he’d lost on a blood-soaked field at Culloden.
Ach, now, why shouldn’t he be sour as sorrel?
He had an Englishman to thank for saving his miserable life, and considering that it was that same bloody Englishman who’d put a ball between his father’s eyes, none of it sat well in his gut.
Bloody rotten bastards.
Even despite the fact that they’d already surrendered, General Hawley had ordered both Callum and his father executed, then, to make sure it was done, he stood by as one Major James Wolfe had fired the first ball. That his man wasn’t too thrilled to end a life of a prisoner off the battlefield wasn’t much of a comfort to Callum’s father. Young as he was, the major was an excellent marksman, although once Hawley departed, Wolfe put the next two volleys into Callum—one through his shoulder, the other his thigh—then ordered Callum to run. And run, he had, by God. Only now he sometimes wished he too had taken a ball to the head rather than be forced to relive the memory of his father’s twitching corpse and piddled plaid.