Of course.
She only lay on top of the grain, looking daggers at him, which only encouraged Ian to spin tales of his own about their imaginary happiness as man and wife. He particularly relished his new pet name for her, “Sweetie.”
Rae also gave him good information on what to expect of the countryside on their journey to Appin. He’d visited the area more than once. “Tough going, if the weather is not with you. You’ll most likely see rain, maybe some sun, and possibly snow—all in the same hour.”
“We shall take our chances,” Ian answered.
All too soon, they had to part ways. Ian thanked the man and gave him a coin for his trouble.
The farmer had barely taken the bend in the road and disappeared from sight when Miss Harrell turned on him. “I thought you didn’t have any money,Sweetie.”
Ian choked back a laugh. “I have enough to get us where we are going and pay for passage to London, if we are careful.”
She hummed her disbelief, then changed her tack. “Well, at least I should be able to sleep in a bed tonight.”
It was on the tip of Ian’s tongue to contradict her. At first he thought they’d be wiser to sleep in the open or borrow a nighton some farmer’s hayloft. But then he changed his mind. He’d had his hands full resettling his sisters and their brood before charging off to Scotland. He needed sleep. It would be easier to guard Miss Harrell in a room at some local inn than to sit watch in the open. If he put himself across the doorway, he might even manage a few winks of sleep.
Mentally calculating how much money he had in the leather bag he wore on a cord around his neck and how much they might need for passage to London, he decided that a night in a modest inn would be a good investment.
“We’ll see what we find,” he answered and walked on.
She followed. They moved upward, through the forests with its rivers and small burnies and into the mountains and shaggy beauty of the Highlands.
He thought she did little more than concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. However, an hour on their way she surprised him by asking, “Where is your family?”
Ian paused. “Where…?”
“Yes. Are they are in London? Do you live there, or in Ireland?” she asked.
“London.” Why the devil was she asking these questions? And then, for reasons he couldn’t fathom he elaborated, “I put them up in a decent inn in Chelsea. A good place. A safe one.” Or so he hoped they would be safe until he returned.
He could feel her glance at him, and he self-consciously regretted revealing so much. His story was not one he was proudof. Lengthening his stride, he pushed forward even harder, and she fell silent.
Three hours later, as evening approached, they came to a village with an inn nestled beside a small lake. Ian knew it was time to stop. Miss Harrell was exhausted. He led her inside and was surprised to see the taproom crowded with sportsmen of all shapes and sizes.
The moment they saw Miss Harrell, even as tired and bedraggled as she was, every male eye centered on her.
Ian guided her to a table in the corner and looked around for service. The innkeeper was nowhere to be seen, and the sole barmaid and lad working the ale keg were too busy to pay attention to them. He frowned at the staring company of men and they turned their attentions back to their drinks and conversation.
“Sit here while I find the innkeeper and speak about a room,” Ian ordered. “I’ll also order supper. Do you have a preference?”
She shook her head, too tired to talk. He knew how she felt.
Then, as he started away, she said, “Tea. I’d like a pot of tea. Keemum, please.”
“Kee-what?”
She made a soft, exasperated sound, as if this question was always so tiresome. “Keemum. It’s a tea.”
Of course, my lady, he wanted to drone like a footman, but bit his tongue. “I’ll see what I can do.”
She nodded and he felt dismissed.
Pulling his temper in hand, Ian sought the innkeeper. Catching the attention of the overworked barmaid, he ordered their dinners and a cup of tea for both himself and Miss Harrell. He didn’t even bother mentioning a specific type of tea.
The innkeeper was in the hallway outside the taproom door. As Ian had feared, rooms were at a premium.
“There was a fight and a horse sale over in Douglas today,” the landlord said. He was a portly fellow with a florid complexion and a head full of curly black hair. “However, you are in luck. We had some lads staying here—Daniel MacGregor and his brother, both bad news—” He took a moment to spit on the floor at the name. “I had to throw them out. I’ve their room left. It’s in the front of the house, over the door. Top of the stairs, second one to the left.”
