14 NOT TONIGHT #2
Two wooden cups thumped down on the table.
An instant later, a harried-looking woman appeared at her husband’s side bearing two trenchers of what smelled like mutton stew. She set them down. However, her distracted expression vanished when her gaze settled upon Dale.
Ailsa marked the admiring look she gave him.
It was warm inside the ale-hall, and he’d taken off his thick fur-lined cloak. Light from the cressets on the nearby wall played across his arms, highlighting their strength. He bore no tattoos on them, and a light dusting of oak-brown hair covered his muscular forearms.
Even travel-weary and dirty from the road, there was no ignoring his masculinity. His looks weren’t chiseled, yet they were more arresting for it.
Aye, he was aggravating, but he was also easy on the eye.
Shrugging off her own cloak, she set it down on the bench seat next to her. Then she picked up her cup and took a deep draft of ale. The cool drink washed down her throat.
She reached for her spoon then—the nail of her forefinger scraping wood—and froze.
Swallowing, she stared down at her nails.
She’d filed the bloody things down in Farnoch, yet the points had already returned.
What if they never stopped growing?
Breathing shallowly, she glanced up at Dale, relieved that he wasn’t looking her way. Instead, he’d started to eat his stew.
Clenching the spoon tight, she took his lead.
“We should make the most of our forced rest,” Dale announced as he followed her into the room: a cramped, windowless space with a hearth in one corner and a pile of furs in another.
Ailsa’s breathing grew tight. A single pile of furs.
Dale seemed not to notice—or pretended not to.
Meanwhile, she surveyed their cramped lodgings. The ale-hall had an annex at the rear where guests stayed. Her gaze rested on the small table by the door. Someone had brought in a bowl of steaming water, a block of coarse-looking soap, and two drying sheets.
Gods, her body screamed for sleep. She’d hardly been able to keep her eyes open as she finished her stew.
Likewise, Dale’s eyelids kept drooping.
They were both so exhausted, they’d even stopped jabbing at each other.
After the day’s tension, racing on the heels of Kayla and her pursuers and just missing them, it felt as if a door had slammed shut. Suddenly, Ailsa felt fit to drop.
There was little point in locking horns with her bodyguard now. Dusk was settling, and the Slew would be here soon.
Dale gestured to the washing bowl before he turned toward the door. “Bathe first … I’ll wait outside.”
Ailsa nodded. She waited until the heavy oaken door thudded shut. And then, with a sigh, she hung up her cloak before wriggling out of her clothing. She washed quickly, goose pimples pebbling her skin. A lump of peat burned in the hearth, yet the air in here still held a chill.
Shivering, she washed and rinsed her hair and then dried herself off.
As she did so, her mind churned over their journey from Farnoch so far. They’d encountered far more trouble than she’d anticipated, and they hadn’t even caught up with Kayla yet.
Dale concerned her as well. Aye, he could handle himself with a blade, but the mercenary was secretive and clearly not used to compromising or working with others.
And she tried not to think about Kayla, somewhere out in the darkness on Gateway, but it was impossible not to worry. She was tough and resourceful—Ailsa’s anchor in the world—but she wasn’t a match for the creatures and wraiths that would come out to play tonight.
Ailsa’s belly tightened then as she remembered the pulse beating in Dale’s throat the night before.
How her gaze had fixed upon it.
How, for one horrible moment, she’d almost tasted his warm blood flooding her mouth.
She shut her eyes.
No—don’t go there.
And then there was her fight with the Reedohran. Her loss of control.
Teeth clenched, she dug into her satchel for a clean undertunic. She needed to focus on small, practical things right now. She had to distract herself.
Fortunately, she’d washed her spare tunic at Talia’s home in Farnoch. She’d wash the one she’d just taken off once Dale was done with this water. Hopefully, if she hung it by the fire, it would dry overnight.
A short while later, washed and dressed once more, she opened the door to find her bodyguard leaning on the wall outside, feet crossed at the ankle. He was whittling that cat figurine of his.
“Your turn,” she announced, stepping outside. The Sweeper held a bite now, whipping her wet hair around her face. The light was fading fast. “Don’t take too long, mind … it’s freezing out here … and I’d rather not meet a boggart looking for treats.”
“No doubt, I’ll be quicker than you,” he grumbled, moving past Ailsa, his shoulder brushing hers.
The door thudded shut, and Ailsa took up the position he’d vacated against the door.
Pulling her file from her belt, she then began to file back her nails.
In the stall opposite, she spied Rùn. The stallion was pulling hay from a manger.
Despite all that weighed upon her, her lips tugged up at the corners.
The horse had been tireless so far, but even he needed a rest.
She glanced up at the darkening sky then.
For a heartbeat, she imagined she saw the ragged shapes of The Unforgiven—the souls of the damned searching for victims—and her pulse fluttered.
But it was only a play of the setting sun on brooding clouds, and she exhaled sharply.
Even so, she’d be relieved to go indoors and shut the door behind her.
She huffed a curse under her breath. As much as it galled her, Dale was right. Riding on from Rhu tonight would have been idiotic.
She wasn’t about to admit that to him though.