By the time they returned to the horses, Lachlan was there, passing her a glance that said he was displeased she’d not followed his orders, and her returning stare dared him to bring it up, else feel the lash of her tongue. He did not. So maybe there was some intelligence to him after all.
“Lad,” Lachlan called to the young one guarding the stable door. “The horses need water, oats. An apple or carrot if ye have them.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Anyone else here to help?” Angus added.
“My brother, sir.”
“Call him out, then.”
Isabel stroked her mare, feeling awful about the grueling intensity of their travel across the moors and through the woods. She’d been on hundreds of rides, but never had she felt that she’d ill-used her horse as she did now. The poor beast needed a long nap and a treat.
“Make sure she gets two apples,” Isabel said, handing the reins to another wee lad.
“Aye, my lady. We’ll spoil her right.” Isabel tossed the two lads each a coin from the purse she kept folded in her skirts.
As they entered the roadside inn, where tavern tables had been set about and at least a dozen people were eating a hearty-looking stew, her stomach grumbled at the savory scents of meat and rosemary.
The only thing she’d eaten today were the apple slices and oatcakes for breakfast and a strip of venison jerky mid-day on the road. When was the last time she’d had a hot meal? Even at the castle, she’d been so busy rushing from wounded man to wounded man that she’d barely scarfed down bread and cold chicken, let alone anything that was still warm.
Isabel sat on an uneven stool at a table with Elsa on her left and Lachlan on her right. The rest of the long wooden table was filled by Lachlan’s men, Angus, James and Malcolm closest, followed by the other eight, and moments later bowls of stew, chunks of crusty bread, and cups filled to the brim with ale were placed in front of them. She wasted no time gulping the ale and tearing off a hunk of bread to dunk it in the thick brown stock. Thank goodness for the volume of voice in the inn, else they all would have heard the moan of delicious satisfaction as she scooped a hunk of carrot and meat into her mouth.
She didn’t even care that she ate like a woman who had been starved—with gusto and ferocity—for she was as hungry as they came. Beside her, Elsa did the same. Even Lachlan ate with hurried spoonfuls as though he were worried someone would take it away. Or maybe as though the enemy would burst through the door, and he’d have to abandon his good meal.
Around them, locals looked on edge, shifting in their chairs, eyeing them with concern, as they sipped their stew and ale. Isabel slowed her frenzy to watch, nervous when a man with a patch over one eye stood, slowly stalking toward their table. The voices in the inn dimmed, and all she could hear now was the stew being consumed.
“My laird.” The man stared at Lachlan with his good eye, as though even at a table of a dozen, his command showed in the set of his shoulders. “Plenty of Sassenachs patrolling nearby.” The man tapped his eye. “A few of us have run into them personally.”
Lachlan took a long sip of his ale. “I bet whoever did that, lived to regret it.”
The man grinned, straightening. “Aye, he did. But your presence here… makes us a target. Will ye protect us if they attack tonight?”
Without hesitation, Lachlan nodded. “Aye. We are happy to protect all who need protection while we are here. We’ll no’ let any bloody English in tonight.”
The man pressed a fist over his heart and nodded. The small group in the inn cheered, raising their ale in the air, and the tension that had filled the room only moments before dissipated.
By the end of their meal, Roy, Mungo and a few others of Lachlan’s men were mingling with the locals. Isabel wanted the chance to get to know them too, but she could barely keep her eyes open. All she wanted to do was collapse onto a bed and sleep for one hundred years.
Lachlan saw her exhaustion, his eyes flicking to hers and at her wilting shoulders, as though her head and the table were two old friends that needed to meet. Without a word he stood from the table and with more strength than before, probably from the hot meal, made his way over to the proprietor of the inn to procure her a room with Elsa. He gestured for her to join him, and as she was sent upstairs she could hear several of his men approach, pulling him aside at the base of the stairs.
She slowed her pace, tugging on the back of Elsa’s gown to get her to slow as well.
“Someone just told me that English riders passed this way asking about the Bruce’s men traveling with a lass. But how would the English know where the Bruce’s forces were moving?”
Lachlan muttered a curse as she reached the top of the stairs. Isabel paused and pretended to adjust her boot lace. “’Tis someone close to the Bruce then.”
Someone close to her uncle. She swallowed. There could be any number of people in that circle. Lachlan turned then, “Everything all right, my lady?”
Caught. Isabel’s face heated and she shook her head. “My boot. All is well.” But the excuse sounded as weak as it was, and she hurried toward her rented room.
There was a spy among her uncle’s men who would be reporting everything that happened to the English. Maybe even someone in Lachlan’s own camp. Isabel knew not to trust easily, having the Bruce as an uncle, even during times of peace, was dangerous. But to be wary about the men in his handpicked circles? She began to sort those she knew into categories, from most likely to have something to gain from the English to least.
There were the Comyns who were too smart to bite the hand that fed them but also just as devious, the MacDougalls were too cowardly, but the Balliols… they were the worst combination of devious and cowardly, enough to attempt something like this.
Elsa opened the door of their shared room for her, and once they were both safely inside, Isabel pressed a thick wooden board into the iron rungs on the door, locking it in place.
A quarter of an hour later, she was seated beside the warmth of the hearth with Elsa brushing her hair. Her list of men was now over thirty strong, with far too many in the maybe an arsehole who betrayed her uncle category, when three knocks sounded on the door, rattling the board where it held.
