Chapter 12
The Inn
By late afternoon, Cormac, Una, and his men reached an inn.
It sat at a crossroads, low and wide, with whitewashed walls gone grey with weather and a sign above the door so old the painting had worn to a ghost. Smoke came thick from the chimney, there were horses in the yard and light in every window.
Inside Una could hear voices, the bang of a pot, and smell bread and meat and woodsmoke all at once.
After days in the forest, it was very nearly overwhelming.
Cormac spoke to the innkeeper, a broad woman called Maisie, who looked at Una with curiosity and at Cormac with wariness. Coin was produced for rooms and ample provisions for his men.
"We only have one fine room available for ye and yer wife. Yer men can bunk down in the common room and the building beside the stables. 'Tis clean, warm, and well lit," Maisie said flatly, looking between them. "There's also water from the well and a large scullery for baths."
"One room inside for the lady and enough pallets and provisions for my men," Cormac confirmed.
Una opened her mouth to say something.
"I'll take the floor," Cormac murmured without looking at her. "'Tis easier if people think we are wed."
She closed her mouth.
His men took the common room and the barn between them. All of them were tired but in good spirits, knowing they would be sleeping in proper shelter with warm meals and baths. The moment they were through the door, the tension of the past days visibly left their shoulders.
Maisie and her serving women produced ample food and ale, and the men descended on both with gratitude.
***
UNA WAS PLEASANTLY surprised when she entered the bedchamber.
It was clean and well appointed, with all the amenities.
Cormac left a small bag of clothes with a grunt of "Ye'll need these" before disappearing below stairs to see to his men.
She used the privy outdoors, and Maisie brought enough hot water to fill a small tub, leaving soap, mint paste, and drying cloths without ceremony.
Una stripped off the borrowed gown, sank into the warmth, and scrubbed herself within an inch of her life.
She felt thoroughly refreshed afterwards. She dressed in the clean shift and kirtle from the bag, stepped into fresh slippers, and wrapped herself in the arisaidh she found folded at the bottom.
She studied it under the light from the window.
The pattern was unmistakeable once she looked properly.
She had been a seamstress long enough to know clan colors on sight.
Clan Stewart. She assumed Cormac must have acquired it on one of his raids, then pushed the thought aside before it could lead her somewhere she did not wish to go.
***
CORMAC DID THE ROUNDS and checked on his men, ensuring they were settled and well provided for.
Life on the road in his service was not an easy one.
He understood the sacrifices each man made, and although they were paid well, he knew that money alone did not buy loyalty or trust. Those were things each man under his command gave freely.
In turn, he made sure they wanted for nothing when they had the chance to rest.
The common room was warm and loud. Half his men were already at the trestle tables, trenchers in front of them, ale in hand, the tension of the road gone from their shoulders.
He could hear more of them bathing in the scullery or out in the yard, voices carrying from the stables where the horses were being seen to.
Maisie's serving women moved through the room with efficiency, keeping the ale flowing and the food coming.
He was satisfied. They were all well.
He was turning toward the scullery when a familiar figure appeared at his elbow.
"Cormac." Seumas fell into step beside him, a cup of ale in each hand and the expression of a man who considered himself excused from all labour for the evening. "Will ye join the men for a pint or two? Maisie keeps a fine barrel."
"I'll take my refreshments upstairs tonight," Cormac said. "With Lady Fenella."
Seumas's eyebrows rose slightly. He simply grinned.
"Stop that," Cormac said.
"Stop what? I said nothing."
"Ye said a great deal. None of it with words."
"I merely noted—"
"'Tis nothing," Cormac replied. "I am ensuring she is safe and comfortable. That is all."
Seumas considered this a moment. "Aye," he said still grinning. "But who's to ensure she's safe from ye?"
Cormac scowled at him.
Seumas chuckled into his ale and had the good sense to move along before Cormac thumped him.
Cormac shook his head. He had known Seumas since they were lads of fifteen sharing a room in the king's garrison, and the man had not improved with age in any respect that mattered. Seumas had also, to his considerable irritation, never once been wrong about anything.
Cormac helped himself to a cup of ale from the nearest jug and cast his eye around the room.
His men were in good spirits – he could hear it in the pitch of the conversation, easy and relaxed.
Ros had produced a set of dice from somewhere.
Three of the younger men were already into a game in the corner.
From the stables came the sound of laughter.
Good.
Seumas returned to his side a moment later, the grin dialled back to something more businesslike. "How long do we stay?"
"At least two nights," Cormac replied. "The men have earned the rest and the horses need it."
Seumas nodded. "And then?"
"Then we return Lady Fenella to Edinburgh. To her family." He said it evenly, and did not examine the reluctance he felt at saying those words out loud. "While there I’ll need an audience with the king. There is the matter of Laird Gunn of Caithness still to be dealt with."
Seumas's expression sobered. "Aye. That'll need careful handling."
"'Tis always a difficult matter when dealing with traitors," Cormac replied. "That is why he sends me."
Seumas snorted and raised his cup. "Two nights then. I'll notify the men." He paused, the grin making a brief return. "Enjoy yer supper. Upstairs."
Cormac did not dignify that with a response.
He finished his ale, made one final pass through the common room and out to the yard to satisfy himself that the men in the stables were equally well settled, then made his way to the scullery for a bath.
***
SOMETIME LATER, CORMAC knocked on the bedchamber door.
He felt refreshed after a warm bath and a clean change of clothes, a fresh plaid over his shoulder.
He had shaved and tied back his hair. Cormac had parted with considerable coin to ensure he and his men received the best care for the evening, and even more to ensure the lass had everything she needed.
Just the thought of her – bathing with the soap he had paid for, wearing clothes he had provided – conjured possessive thoughts and had him aroused within seconds.
He tamped them down firmly. She was in his care and he had no business treating her otherwise.
She opened the door.
All coherent thought left him.
She looked so beautiful he had to remind himself to breathe. And damn his eyes, the sight of her wearing the Stewart colors – his colors – had the power to unman him entirely. Cormac stood in the doorway longer than was necessary, willing his heart rate to slow.
Una felt her own pulse spike at the sight of Cormac freshly shaven, clean-clothed and every inch a Highland warrior. But it was the way he gazed at her, with such open, unguarded appreciation, that made her heart stumble over itself. She had a frightful urge to kiss him.
They were interrupted when Maisie cleared her throat behind them. "I have yer meals. Would ye prefer to eat in yer room or out here in the hallway?"
Una grinned, and Cormac chuckled at Maisie’s sarcasm. He clasped Una’s hand and walked her to the table.
Maisie set down the large tray – broth, bread, a small roast bird, boiled roots, a heel of hard cheese – then her maid collected the wash basin and towels and they left, closing the door behind them.
Cormac pulled out a chair for Una, and once she was settled he sat beside her. Just as he had at the campfire, he immediately began setting the choicest cuts on her trencher. Una poured them both ale.
"Ye look very bonnie, lass," he said.
Una blushed. "'Tis the garments. They are pretty. Thank ye for them."
Cormac paused and looked at her. "It has nothing to do with the gown. 'Tis the wearer alone that makes them bonnie."
Una cleared her throat and remained very still.
"Tell me, lass, have ye ever been kissed?" Cormac wanted to take the question back the moment it left his mouth.
Until she whispered, with a deep blush, "Never."
Never been kissed? How is that possible?
Cormac knew most women had stolen a kiss or two before. Suddenly all he could think about was being her first kiss and his treacherous mind supplied, quietly, that he would very much like to be her last as well.
"What of ye?" she asked. "No doubt ye've kissed many bonnie women."
Cormac shifted uncomfortably. "Ah," he managed. He had never pretended to be a monk.
"Just tell the truth, Mr. Shadow. I am not so young and na?ve that I dinnae ken the way of things between couples. It's how I was—" Una stopped, realising she had been about to mention that she was illegitimate. She needed to remember that Fenella was not. "Never mind. Have ye kissed many lassies?"
"What were ye about to say?" Cormac asked.
"Nothing. Please answer the question."
"I have kissed lassies before. I have done more. But not for some time."
"I see," Una replied, and looked away.
There was an awkward silence between them.
Until she felt fingers lightly touch her chin.
Cormac turned her face so he could see her eyes, but they were downcast.
"Mo leannan, look at me."
The endearment nearly undid her. Una raised her gaze to his, and saw something there that matched her own. Yearning.