Connor guided her across the square toward the tavern, keeping his pace slow.
“Me horse,” he called to the man behind him.
“I have him, me Laird,” the man called back.
The tavern keeper met them at the door, with his wife just behind his shoulder. Her gaze went to Violet’s face first, then to Connor’s hand on her back.
“Me Laird,” he greeted. “Me Lady. Is everything…” Connor looked at him, and the man immediately straightened. “Would ye like a room?”
“Now.”
“Aye, me Laird.”
The keeper’s wife stepped aside at once. “There is one upstairs, warm enough.”
Connor gave a curt nod. “Nay one comes in unless I ask.”
The keeper swallowed. “Aye.”
Violet’s fingers tightened around the herb bundle as Connor guided her up the narrow stairs. She tried to walk withoutleaning against him. He let her until she missed the edge of a step, then his arm came around her waist.
She said nothing.
In the room above, a small fire burned low. There was a table, two chairs chair, and a bed with a clean blanket.
He led her inside, waited until she put one hand on the back of the chair, then turned and closed the door.
Violet stood with her back straight, her face pale, the tied herbs crushed in her fist.
21
Connor shut the door and turned the key in the lock before Violet could argue.
She stood by the chair with one hand braced on its back, too pale, too straight, still clutching the tied bundle of herbs as if it were a weapon. Dust from the market clung to the hem of her plain gown, and a burr had caught in her ankle.
She had walked from the castle alone, in plain clothes, without a guard or maid, and had nearly fallen in front of half the village.
Connor’s anger flared hotter at the reminder.
He crossed the room and took her elbow. “Sit down.”
“I am sitting,” she said, though she had only lowered herself halfway.
“Then sit better.”
Her mouth tightened, which pleased him more than it should have. Sharpness meant she had enough strength to be offended.
He guided her fully into the chair and stepped back just far enough to look at her face without crowding her. She tried to lift her chin, and the effort made the color drain from her lips again.
Connor stripped off his riding gloves and tossed them onto the small table. The signed treaty packet sat in the inner pocket of his coat, stiff and useless now. None of it mattered while Violet sat pale before him, her trembling fingers clutching bitter herbs she would not explain.
“A cold bath would help,” she said.
Connor went still. “Would it?”
“Aye.” She looked down at the bundle in her lap. “And steeped angelica.”
His gaze darted to the herbs. “How do ye ken that?”
