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Authors: Christina Dodd
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she’d seen two houses together she could scarcely contain her excitement. The narrow street, dirt road, and cramped, narrow shops gave the place an almost medieval feel, and as she neared the market, the noise of many voices raised to sell and buy sent a shiver of exhilaration down her spine.
Each sound struck her ear, transporting her back to Beaumontagne, to her capital city of Beauvallee. She could almost imagine that when she rode around that corner, she would see the colorful market with the royal palace perched high on the crag above the town, see Clarice and Amy with their arms full of flowers, smiling as they walked toward her—
Clutched by an unreasonable excitement, Sorcha urged the pony forward, around the corner—and almost ran into Sandie, seated on his pony, glowering and surly. “Keep up, young man.”
After their first day, he’d never again referred to the fact he knew she was a woman. In fact, despite her cheerful attempts to start a conversation, he’d hardly spoken to her for the two and a half days it had taken the poor ponies to plod their way into Hameldone.
She, who had lived in a convent and dreamed of meeting people, of learning new ways and seeing new places, had spent the first leg of her journey in silence. If he’d been trying to make her glad about his impending departure, he had gone about it the right way.
Now he turned back in his saddle and urged his pony into the depths of the market.
Sorcha’s nose twitched as she smelled fresh-baked bread and roasted venison. She would eat here before she took the road east toward Edinburgh. Eat, and buy some rosy apples and some potatoes and some dried beef—
“Are ye going t’ ride that beastie up my back?” Sandie asked. “Because if ye are, we can part ways right now.”
Startled at his harsh tone, she stared at her traveling companion. At the convent, she had imagined she would hate to part from whoever brought her so far. Actually, she’d be relieved to see his back. “We can part now.” With tardy courtesy, she added, “If you’re amenable.”
He narrowed his eyes.
Belatedly, she realized he might not know the meaning of amenable . “I mean, if you don’t mind, I’ll go on without you.”
“I know what ye mean.” His gaze flicked over her mount. “Ye’ll be taking the pony, then?”
“St. Donkey? Why, yes!” Sorcha could scarcely believe he asked. The poor dear still looked gaunt and at first she’d shown nothing more than a wary acceptance of Sorcha’s petting. Now her eager affection made her follow on Sorcha’s heels like a dog, and Sorcha wouldn’t let her go to a cold fish like Sandie the blacksmith.
“’Tis an expensive gift from MacLaren,” Sandie said.
Presumptuous man! “She was not a gift. Mother Brigette paid MacLaren good money for her!”
Sandie grunted and headed for a squat building with a horseshoe nailed on the door.
She followed. “Is that the stable where I should leave St. Donkey?”
“Aye.”
“Can you tell me the best place to trade my herbs?”
“Mrs. MacDuncan’s.”
“And is that the best place to buy supplies for my journey?”
“Aye.”
“Can you recommend an inn where I can spend the night? Because I’d like to have a good place to sleep with clean linens and a fine meal before I take to the road.”
Sandie stopped. He slewed around in the saddle. He scowled. “If this is what ye mean by parting ways, ye’ll be for following me all the way home.”
She drew up. She watched him dismount and lead his pony into the stable. She waited until he came out and headed into the crowd. And she took St. Donkey inside, rubbed her down, put her in a stall and fed her, paid the hostler for the straw and the oats, and headed for Mrs. MacDuncan’s to sell her herbs.
Sorcha didn’t notice the broad-shouldered, well-dressed stranger standing in the shadows, watching her, or see Sandie take a small purse from him and, in an unusual burst of loquaciousness, gesture to
Each sound struck her ear, transporting her back to Beaumontagne, to her capital city of Beauvallee. She could almost imagine that when she rode around that corner, she would see the colorful market with the royal palace perched high on the crag above the town, see Clarice and Amy with their arms full of flowers, smiling as they walked toward her—
Clutched by an unreasonable excitement, Sorcha urged the pony forward, around the corner—and almost ran into Sandie, seated on his pony, glowering and surly. “Keep up, young man.”
After their first day, he’d never again referred to the fact he knew she was a woman. In fact, despite her cheerful attempts to start a conversation, he’d hardly spoken to her for the two and a half days it had taken the poor ponies to plod their way into Hameldone.
She, who had lived in a convent and dreamed of meeting people, of learning new ways and seeing new places, had spent the first leg of her journey in silence. If he’d been trying to make her glad about his impending departure, he had gone about it the right way.
Now he turned back in his saddle and urged his pony into the depths of the market.
Sorcha’s nose twitched as she smelled fresh-baked bread and roasted venison. She would eat here before she took the road east toward Edinburgh. Eat, and buy some rosy apples and some potatoes and some dried beef—
“Are ye going t’ ride that beastie up my back?” Sandie asked. “Because if ye are, we can part ways right now.”
Startled at his harsh tone, she stared at her traveling companion. At the convent, she had imagined she would hate to part from whoever brought her so far. Actually, she’d be relieved to see his back. “We can part now.” With tardy courtesy, she added, “If you’re amenable.”
He narrowed his eyes.
Belatedly, she realized he might not know the meaning of amenable . “I mean, if you don’t mind, I’ll go on without you.”
“I know what ye mean.” His gaze flicked over her mount. “Ye’ll be taking the pony, then?”
“St. Donkey? Why, yes!” Sorcha could scarcely believe he asked. The poor dear still looked gaunt and at first she’d shown nothing more than a wary acceptance of Sorcha’s petting. Now her eager affection made her follow on Sorcha’s heels like a dog, and Sorcha wouldn’t let her go to a cold fish like Sandie the blacksmith.
“’Tis an expensive gift from MacLaren,” Sandie said.
Presumptuous man! “She was not a gift. Mother Brigette paid MacLaren good money for her!”
Sandie grunted and headed for a squat building with a horseshoe nailed on the door.
She followed. “Is that the stable where I should leave St. Donkey?”
“Aye.”
“Can you tell me the best place to trade my herbs?”
“Mrs. MacDuncan’s.”
“And is that the best place to buy supplies for my journey?”
“Aye.”
“Can you recommend an inn where I can spend the night? Because I’d like to have a good place to sleep with clean linens and a fine meal before I take to the road.”
Sandie stopped. He slewed around in the saddle. He scowled. “If this is what ye mean by parting ways, ye’ll be for following me all the way home.”
She drew up. She watched him dismount and lead his pony into the stable. She waited until he came out and headed into the crowd. And she took St. Donkey inside, rubbed her down, put her in a stall and fed her, paid the hostler for the straw and the oats, and headed for Mrs. MacDuncan’s to sell her herbs.
Sorcha didn’t notice the broad-shouldered, well-dressed stranger standing in the shadows, watching her, or see Sandie take a small purse from him and, in an unusual burst of loquaciousness, gesture to
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