Chapter Six
They traveled for several more hours in relative silence, broken only rarely as Brinley pointed out some sight to her or she inquired after an interesting landmark.
He mentioned once that he’d not been to his home in Edinburgh in a decade and hoped the house was in as decent shape as his steward had indicated.
“The decorations and the furnishings will likely be very out of fashion, but it should not matter all that much since we will not be entertaining.”
“No?” Clara asked, slightly crestfallen at his proclamation. One of the few things she’d long looked forward to about married life was being the mistress of her own household and being able to host her own parties. Now, it seemed as if her husband would deny her this as well.
“We are technically on our honeymoon trip,” he said matter-of-factly. “No one expects us to entertain since we are supposed to be…otherwise indisposed.”
“I see,” she whispered and looked back out the window, praying that he did not notice the flush creeping up from her neck to her cheeks.
They arrived at the inn by late afternoon. By then, Clara felt as if her stomach had begun to eat itself, so she did not care where they stopped as long as she could find food and stretch her restless legs.
Brinley helped her down from the carriage and continued to guide her through the dirt yard to the two-story plaster-stuccoed inn.
It was a pretty building, picturesque and clean, with red-and-pink flowers planted on either side of the door and a carved wooden sign marking it as The Black Unicorn.
She thought the artist’s imagining of a unicorn was rather more frightening than it needed to be with its snarling muzzle and hellfire eye, but to each their own, she supposed.
Mistaking her little shudder of distaste for a chill or nerves, Brinley held her even closer to his side.
Despite spending the morning in a smithy and the better part of the day in a carriage, he smelled divine…
that sweet citrus scent that reminded her of lemon shortbread, something mouthwatering and enticing.
And my, wasn’t he warm and sturdy beside her?
She was still unused to being alone with Brinley and in his sole care, but it felt easier when they were not cooped up in the confined space of the carriage.
She could almost pretend they were not alone, that her entire life did not lay in the hands of a man who had never shown her genuine affection.
She shoved that thought aside as they entered through the building’s low door.
Brinley actually had to duck so he did not knock his forehead on the frame.
They were greeted by the cheerful, ruddy-faced innkeeper wearing homespun clothing and a swath of well-worn blue-green tartan across his barrel-shaped chest.
“My valet procured accommodations,” Brinley said after pleasantries and introductions were exchanged. “My wife and I will be spending one evening here and departing in the morning.”
“Oh, aye, m’lord!” said the innkeeper as he smoothed back what little wisps of red hair remained on his gleaming pate.
“Made space fer tha horses ‘n’ we’ve rooms fer tha staff.
” The smoky thickness of the man’s brogue made his speech difficult to parse out, but Clara managed well enough.
The inflection was slightly different than what she was used to at Coylton Castle, but it was still technically the King’s English.
“Ken I take ye to tha private room fer somethin’ ta eat ar drink? Aught else?”
Clara took but one glance around the bustle and joyous cacophony of the inn’s warm, clean main room to know a silly partition away from all of it was the last thing she desired.
The small inn’s sleeping accommodations could not have possibly accommodated all these bodies, so they were likely locals enjoying a pint or travelers such as themselves passing through to another destination.
It was fascinating to her to witness everyone interacting so freely, voices loud and gay, some even using a lyrical tongue she did not know.
“We will sit in the public room, thank you, Mr. Robertson,” Clara piped up impulsively.
The innkeeper all but skidded to a halt where he’d already begun to lead them toward the far corner and the carved wooden screen reserving the space for upper class travelers wishing for either a bit of privacy or to remind others that they were their betters.
“What?” Brinley reared back as if she’d suggested they prance around the packed public room in their undergarments. She might have thought the shocked tilt of his brows was amusing had it not been so irksome.
“I would like to sit amongst the rest of the patrons,” she explained as if speaking to a child younger than Archie.
Her husband narrowed his quicksilver eyes at her for several heartbeats before eventually capitulating. Clara practically bounced along beside him, considering this the first of what she hoped would be many victories throughout their marriage.
After they were shown to a table in the corner, a woman of middling years who was as skinny as a willow pole breezed over to them with a wide smile.
Though she wore nothing fancier than her husband’s homespun clothing, the woman who was clearly Mrs. Robertson ruled the inn with all the grace and confidence of a queen.
Even the loudest of the patrons downcast their eyes and murmured an apology when she sent a glance in their direction.
“Are ye hungry?” Mrs. Robertson asked not unpleasantly, but with the air of a woman who had little time to waste.
“Tea ken be out in a trice. We’ve wine, mead, ‘n’ ale—whiskey, o’ course.
I think there’s some o’ tha bread left ‘n’ a soft cheese from me daughter’s farm.
Anythin’ more substantial than tha’ will have to wait ’til supper; I’ve too many guests ‘n’ not enough hands at tha moment.
” She lifted a shoulder in a half apology.
“Tea, bread, and cheese all sound lovely, thank you,” Clara chirped delightedly. She’d be perfectly content to ignore Brinley’s displeasure as she stared around the room in rapt delight, sipped her tea, and filled her belly with all the bread and cheese she could.
“Yes, thank you,” Brinley added just as Mrs. Robertson was already beginning to turn away to fetch what Clara had requested.
Clara’s attention bounced from person to person, and she could not help but wonder at what brought them all to this little inn with its terrifying sign.
Were the trio of red-haired men at the bar brothers enjoying a bit of time away from their labors before they returned to their respective homes for the evening?
Was the older couple near the door traveling to visit their grandchildren?
And the young man and woman in the dim corner opposite where Clara and Brinley sat…
were they on their way to or from an elopement at Gretna Green?
They certainly seemed cozy enough for it.
The man’s arm was around the back of the woman’s chair, and she leaned into him almost indecently close.
They spoke without removing their eyes from one another’s face, their lips barely moving as if they required almost no words to communicate.
Clara marveled at that. The couple were so connected, so enthralled, that it was as if nothing else in the world mattered.
The Black Unicorn could burn down around them, and she suspected the most notice they would take of it would be when the man brushed a bit of ash from his beloved’s cheek.
She thought it was rather lovely until she realized her own wedding had been just that morning, and she and her new husband were nowhere near that level of devotion. Her throat constricted quite suddenly.
“You are staring rather intently.” Brinley’s voice right beside her ear nearly made Clara leap from her chair.
“Good Lord, but aren’t you intrusive,” she said somewhat breathlessly.
“I believe the person staring at strangers in a public room would be considered more intrusive.”
She turned her attention to Brinley and narrowed her eyes at his flicker of a grin. “I wasn’t staring.”
“You most certainly were, and I will not argue otherwise; I’d much rather know why the pair over there has so thoroughly captivated you.”
Clara’s cheeks warmed. “It is nothing,” she answered and turned her gaze down into her lap.
“Are you familiar with them?”
“No.” She wished he would forget the subject.
“What is it then?”
“You are creating an unnecessary scene,” Clara hissed. “They will take note of you gesturing in their direction if you do not cease.”
His small chuckle was infuriating.
She sighed resignedly, realizing he would not stop until he received a sufficient reply. “If you must know, I was admiring the affection they are displaying for one another.” She ran her gloved finger along the grain in the wooden tabletop, unable to meet Brinley’s eyes.
“Ah,” was all he said.
“You travel quite a bit, do you not? Do you never wonder at the stories of each of the people you encounter?” She looked up to discover his brow had knitted together in serious contemplation.
“I cannot say that I have.”
“You should; it really is quite amusing. There are so many nuances in mannerisms, clues you might take from their dress or speech. It is quite diverting on a long journey.” She tilted her chin to indicate a man near the center of the room who was tucking into a tin plate of cheese and bread, gulping down ale as if it were the very bounty of the gods.
His clothes were dust-worn and travel rumpled; his cheeks were windburned and lined from hours spent in the sun.