“What on earth does that mean?”
He advanced the last few paces between them, towering over her. He stood close enough for her to smell petrichor and grass, nostrils twitching.
“It means,” he whispered, “that I am nae foolish enough to disappear a woman with a laird as a braitherandas a cousin. A treaty hinged on yer safety, ye fool. It would have brought two clans to me doorstep in war, and nearly did, by the way. Oh, and one more thing.” He leaned toward her, his lips twitching into a smile. “If I were to kidnap a person, I’d ensure they werenae found again.”
“Is that a threat?” she gasped.
He chuckled. “Heavens, nay. If I threatened ye, lass, ye would ken it. Now, which one?”
“Eh?”
He gestured. “The horses. Which one would ye prefer? I’d suggest the red gelding for ye. The sandy mare looks a wee bit spirited.”
Skye bristled. “Actually, the sandy mare looks perfect. I’ll take her.”
He looked as though he were biting back a smile.
“Suit yerself.” He shrugged, turning away. “But either way, we should get going.”
She stared at his broad, impassive back and resisted the urge to snatch up a stone from the ground and throw it at him. She’d probably miss, in any case. Her aim had never been much good.
Grumbling under her breath, she spun around and marched toward the sandy mare. The horse eyed her with vivid dislike and snapped at her hand when she tried to grab the reins.
I might have made a mistake,she thought, swallowing hard.
She could sense Evander’s eyes on her and knew without looking that if she turned around, she would find him watching her with an amused grin. There was no chance, no chance at all, that she would give him that satisfaction.
Gritting her teeth, she jammed her boot into the stirrup and hauled herself up. The mare whinnied in outrage, turning her head and trying to bite Skye’s leg. There was a moment wherethe two of them grappled for dominance, bucking and shuffling along the road, raising dust.
At long last, Skye won. With a ragged breath, she settled herself in the saddle and tossed back her hair. She caught Evander watching her with a wide, unabashed grin.
There is that crooked canine.
“Well,” she managed breathlessly. “Shall we go, or do ye intend to stand there and stare at me?”
He lifted his hands in surrender. “I am ready when ye are, lass. Ready when ye are.”
The sun was setting by the time they spotted the inn. Evander had told her the name—the unpleasant Gristle-Pig Inn—and she could see a crooked wooden sign hanging by the door, its lettering too faded to read anything. However, the sign was in the shape of a pig, which surely meant something.
“Ye said ye kent this inn?” Skye asked with trepidation, slipping out of her saddle.
“Well enough,” he answered briskly.
A silent stable-boy stepped out from behind the corner of the building and held out both grubby hands. Evander put the reins in one hand and a coin in the other.
“Hers, too,” he added, jerking his head toward Skye.
She handed the reins to the boy and scuttled after Evander.
The setting sun had set everything on fire. Trees and greenery glowed golden, long shadows cutting sharply across the pathways. She had to squint even to look up from her own feet.
The Gristle-Pig was silhouetted, a dark, blocky shape against the sky. In half an hour, or perhaps even less, it would be an ugly blotch in the shadows, unpleasant except for its butter-yellow windows, candlelight, and firelight streaming out into the night.
Evander strode toward the place as if he could not wait to get in, and Skye scuttled along in his wake.
A short porch surrounded the door, the floorboards groaning miserably under their weight as they climbed the steps.
“Now, I daenae ken if ye have much experience with inns,” Evander stated, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. “Have ye?”
