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Authors: Christina Dodd
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her and then to the road out of town.
The road into the wilderness and toward Edinburgh.
Chapter 7
F rom the moment Rainger fought himself free, it had been a grueling day, but he was rested and the horses were good—MacLaren knew his horseflesh. The pony Rainger abandoned close to Castle MacLaren, figuring the beast would return to its stables if it had any sense. He led the second horse, riding the first one, then the other to keep them fresh. Now he kept an eye on the rocky path and urged them along as quickly as he dared.
But when the sun dipped toward the horizon he had to stop for the night or risk laming the horses on the rocky, pockmarked trail.
Four men sat outside a squat stone farmhouse smoking pipes and watching him; when he asked if he could get lodging, one pointed toward the door with the stem of his pipe and said, “As long as ye’ve got coin, Mrs. Gurdey will feed ye, and ye can sleep in the hut before the fire.”
“I’ll sleep in the stable with my horses.” Rainger wasn’t fool enough to leave the valuable horses alone in this poverty-stricken country.
“As ye like, young firebrand.” The spokesman, an older man with as many crags in his face as the
Pyrenees
Mountains
, puffed a smoke ring into the air and let the breeze carry it away. “Where are ye going?”
“To Hameldone.” Rainger dismounted. “How much longer will it take me?”
“Riding those fine beasties, ye’ll be there before the sun sets tomorrow night.”
Two men nodded.
Another said, “Ach, Feandan, he’s young and in a hurry. If he hastens, he’ll be there by early afternoon—if he doesn’t break his neck first.”
Rainger smiled a chilling smile. “It’s not my neck I’m likely to break.”
At the implicit threat, all four men lifted their bushy eyebrows, but they appeared neither worried nor alarmed. Of course not—there were four of them and one of him. They could bring him down if they wished. It was Rainger’s task to make them believe such action would cause them more harm than profit.
“All right, then,” Feandan said. “Ye’d best tend yer horses. We’ll tell Mrs. Gurdey to set another place fer supper.”
Rainger turned away, then turned back. “Have any of you been to Hameldone?”
“We’re coming back from market,” Feandan said.
“Did you see a girl with hair the color of the sunrise?”
“In Hameldone or on the road?”
“Either. Have you seen her? She’d be traveling with a man.”
The men exchanged glances. “Nay. Havena seen her.”
But they should have—if she hadn’t already been attacked.
“Mayhap Mrs. Gurdey will know.” The elderly man jerked his head toward the dark, open doorway. “She’s the only wayhouse between here and the market. She sees everyone pass.”
Rainger took the horses to the stables, curried and groomed them, gave them oats, and returned to the little hut, his thoughts grim. Surely Godfrey wouldn’t have traveled so far into the Scottish wilderness after his prey. Yet he’d traveled the road before when he had taken Sorcha to the convent... .
The men had disappeared and a tall, stout woman stood in the doorway, her beefy fists resting on her hips. “Show me the color o’ yer money. ’Tis na charity house I’m running here.”
Rainger kept his gaze on her, not backing away from her hostility, and dug a coin from the pouch he’d taken from MacLaren’s saddlebag.
She grunted at the sight, palmed the coin, and disappeared into the hut.
He stepped inside and blinked until his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Smoke swirled up from a small peat fire in the middle of the single primitive room. A pot bubbled on a hook over it. Sausages fried on a hot, flat rock.
The men were gathered around a long, rough table, slurping stew with wooden spoons, scoops of bread, or their fingers.
Rainger did not regret his decision to bed down in the stable.
He joined the men. His hostess slapped a bowl in front of him. Digging out MacLaren’s
The road into the wilderness and toward Edinburgh.
Chapter 7
F rom the moment Rainger fought himself free, it had been a grueling day, but he was rested and the horses were good—MacLaren knew his horseflesh. The pony Rainger abandoned close to Castle MacLaren, figuring the beast would return to its stables if it had any sense. He led the second horse, riding the first one, then the other to keep them fresh. Now he kept an eye on the rocky path and urged them along as quickly as he dared.
But when the sun dipped toward the horizon he had to stop for the night or risk laming the horses on the rocky, pockmarked trail.
Four men sat outside a squat stone farmhouse smoking pipes and watching him; when he asked if he could get lodging, one pointed toward the door with the stem of his pipe and said, “As long as ye’ve got coin, Mrs. Gurdey will feed ye, and ye can sleep in the hut before the fire.”
“I’ll sleep in the stable with my horses.” Rainger wasn’t fool enough to leave the valuable horses alone in this poverty-stricken country.
“As ye like, young firebrand.” The spokesman, an older man with as many crags in his face as the
Pyrenees
Mountains
, puffed a smoke ring into the air and let the breeze carry it away. “Where are ye going?”
“To Hameldone.” Rainger dismounted. “How much longer will it take me?”
“Riding those fine beasties, ye’ll be there before the sun sets tomorrow night.”
Two men nodded.
Another said, “Ach, Feandan, he’s young and in a hurry. If he hastens, he’ll be there by early afternoon—if he doesn’t break his neck first.”
Rainger smiled a chilling smile. “It’s not my neck I’m likely to break.”
At the implicit threat, all four men lifted their bushy eyebrows, but they appeared neither worried nor alarmed. Of course not—there were four of them and one of him. They could bring him down if they wished. It was Rainger’s task to make them believe such action would cause them more harm than profit.
“All right, then,” Feandan said. “Ye’d best tend yer horses. We’ll tell Mrs. Gurdey to set another place fer supper.”
Rainger turned away, then turned back. “Have any of you been to Hameldone?”
“We’re coming back from market,” Feandan said.
“Did you see a girl with hair the color of the sunrise?”
“In Hameldone or on the road?”
“Either. Have you seen her? She’d be traveling with a man.”
The men exchanged glances. “Nay. Havena seen her.”
But they should have—if she hadn’t already been attacked.
“Mayhap Mrs. Gurdey will know.” The elderly man jerked his head toward the dark, open doorway. “She’s the only wayhouse between here and the market. She sees everyone pass.”
Rainger took the horses to the stables, curried and groomed them, gave them oats, and returned to the little hut, his thoughts grim. Surely Godfrey wouldn’t have traveled so far into the Scottish wilderness after his prey. Yet he’d traveled the road before when he had taken Sorcha to the convent... .
The men had disappeared and a tall, stout woman stood in the doorway, her beefy fists resting on her hips. “Show me the color o’ yer money. ’Tis na charity house I’m running here.”
Rainger kept his gaze on her, not backing away from her hostility, and dug a coin from the pouch he’d taken from MacLaren’s saddlebag.
She grunted at the sight, palmed the coin, and disappeared into the hut.
He stepped inside and blinked until his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Smoke swirled up from a small peat fire in the middle of the single primitive room. A pot bubbled on a hook over it. Sausages fried on a hot, flat rock.
The men were gathered around a long, rough table, slurping stew with wooden spoons, scoops of bread, or their fingers.
Rainger did not regret his decision to bed down in the stable.
He joined the men. His hostess slapped a bowl in front of him. Digging out MacLaren’s
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