The wench nodded and headed off to fetch their dinner.
Fiona picked up the jug and poured them each a cup of ale. She tentatively took a sip. It was warmer than usual and not very good, but Fiona was thirsty so she managed to choke it down.
“This is shite,” Brogan murmured, watching his men slug back their cups as though it were liquid gold.
A moment later, the same wench returned with a blanket. “For your wife. Ye look a bit chilly in that wet gown.”
Fiona took the blanket, only too happy to drape it around herself. “I hope the stew comes quickly so I can go upstairs and sit before a fire,” she murmured to Brogan when the woman had left them alone again. The hearth was quite far from where they’d sat to eat.
“Ye’ll catch your death if it is not served soon,” Brogan said. “Let’s change tables.”
Fiona shook her head. “Nay, I’ve been wet before and for longer.”
He raised a brow. “Is that so?”
“Think about how icy and cold it was at Culloden.”
“True enough. At least now the weather is milder.”
She stared out the closest window, watching the wind whip the rain against the panes.
“To Mrs. Grant!” Fin shouted, and she turned to see him holding his cup into the air.
Fiona laughed at the jubilation in the men’s voices, their hair plastered to the sides of their faces and even now water still dripping off their noses, and yet they were truly happy. Or else it was the ale they were guzzling.
She raised her glass and took a sip, and when she glanced back at Brogan, he had the oddest expression on his face.
The wench brought their steaming stew, placing it on the table. Fiona’s belly growled, and she bit the inside of her cheek in embarrassment. How long had it been since she’d had a warm meal? She didn’t hesitate to dig in, glorying at the warmth on her tongue even though the stew itself was decidedly lacking in flavor. She dipped stale bread into the broth and ate heartily.
Their conversation was light during the meal, mostly appreciative grunts over having something warm to eat. The men had quieted too.
Fiona was scraping the last remnants of onion and broth from her bowl when a shadow darkened their table.
She glanced up into the face of one of the other patrons who stared down at them, consternation knitting his brows.
“She’s your wife?” the stranger asked.
Brogan set down his bowl and spoon slowly and stared up at the man. He rested his hands casually on the table. “Aye.”
“Ye’re newlyweds?”
“Aye.”
The man nodded, hooking his thumb behind him toward Fin, Sorley, and the lot of them. “The lads seem awfully proud of the two of ye.”
“They are.” Brogan leaned back in his chair, his full attention focused on the stranger.
“Huh. Ye said the lot of ye were brothers, but one of ’em’s Irish.”
Brogan didn’t take his eyes off the man. “He is.”
“How’s that possible?”
“He’s my brother,” Fiona said in a perfect Irish brogue.
Brogan, not missing a beat, didn’t even blink as he said, “My wife’s Irish.”
The man nodded and held up his cup. “Cheers to the two of ye then.”
“Thank ye.”
The man backed away, eyeing them some more as he sat down with his mates.
“That was a good impression,” Brogan murmured.
“He is after something,” Fiona replied in equally low tones.
“Looking for a reason to turn us over to the authorities.”
A shiver passed through Fiona, and images of Boyd and his men came crashing back. She gripped the edge of the table to still her trembling hands. “Best tell the men to be careful tonight.”
“I think they’d be safest sleeping in the stables with the horses if those men camp out in here.”
Fiona nodded.
Brogan stood and approached the men, giving his orders softly. The men all broke out into laughter as if he’d told them a joke, and then he nodded to Fiona to join him. She stood, the cold, wet folds of her gown slapping against her calves and making her wince.
They headed toward the stairs. The tavern owner gave Brogan a key.
“After ye, wife,” Brogan said with a smirk.
Fiona lifted her heavier than normal skirts away from her boots and made her way up the tiny, narrow stairs, each step groaning beneath her and Brogan’s clomping boots.
There were only four doors at the top of the stairs, and one stood ajar.
“That must be for us.” Fiona made her way into the small but cozy chamber. A bed was shoved against the wall, and the wooden floor had a threadbare but clean rug on it. A small hearth was blazing. A very tiny circular table flanked by two wooden stools held a glass carafe of watered red wine and two pretty wineglasses.
“The honeymoon suite,” Brogan teased.
Fiona made her way to the blaze, small though it was, and held out her chilled hands. Brogan came up beside her doing the same.
“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he said.
“I dinna want ye to be uncomfortable. I’m happy to sleep on the floor. I’ve done it many times.”
“So have I, lass.” He winked slowly, taking her breath.
“We’ll take turns. I’ll wake ye in the middle of the night to switch places.” She used her no-nonsense tone so he wouldn’t argue, and so she didn’t ask him to join her on the bed.
Brogan stared, using the same tone as he said, “I’ll tell ye to go back to bed.”
“This is no’ a true marriage, Brogan. Ye dinna need to be chivalrous.” She rolled her eyes.
“I’d be chivalrous even if we were no’ married, in case ye had no’ noticed.”
Fiona pursed her lips, keeping her gaze on the flames.
“Ye need to get out of those wet clothes and allow them time to dry.” He searched through his satchel and pulled out a clean shirt. “Put this on.”
“What about ye?”
“I can wrap a sheet around me.” He tugged back the coverlet and pulled off the top sheet. “See? A perfect substitute.”
He was right, and yet the idea of stripping nude, even with his back turned, had her belly flopping. “Turn around then.”
He did as she asked, giving her his back as he stripped out of his clothes one article at a time. Fiona found herself staring as he unbuttoned his jacket, revealing a soaked linen shirt that clung to muscles that rippled with each movement. Then came his boots and hose, his breeches, until he was just in the clingy wet shirt, and she could see his bare legs up to midthigh.