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Ahh, so this was the reason for the innkeeper’s pride in telling the story few wished to hear coming inside from the rain. This man was a relative of the one who founded this inn, indeed, this village. A poet, no less.

“He did,” the innkeeper replied.

“As the story goes, he played at the wedding of the MacRob laird there, meeting a noblewoman, the laird’s niece, who fell in love with the musician poet.”

The innkeeper, an older man, attempted to get a better look at Tor.

“They married against the wishes of her family,” Tor shouted, “she bringing the man coin he had been sorely lacking. Years later they left for Berwick so that Hayle might find more opportunities to share his tales. With their four children in tow, they were caught in a storm, much like the one we seek shelter from, on their way to Berwick. Finding long abandoned buildings and an old, deep well, they stayed only because one of their children fell ill. When the boy died, his mother refused to leave his burial site. Recruiting others to join them kept the woman from her grief. She was eventually healed here.”

And so, Mend Hayle.

How did Tor know all of this?

The man jumped from the stool as the others, wet and seeking food and shelter like them, continued to grumble. As he got closer to Tor, recognition dawned. The innkeeper smiled through his gray beard. When he clasped her husband on the back and hugged him, Tor said, “Best ye be as wet as the rest of us, standing here shivering, listening to yer stories.”

The innkeeper laughed and pulled back. He spoke then to a woman Ainsley hadn’t noticed before, and she immediately got to work. Calling the others to her, she inquired as to who needed a meal, and who a room. The innkeeper moved them to a clearing.

“If ye think because ye’re a MacRob ye’ll be gettin’ my best room . . .” The man laughed at his own jest before even finishing.

“Ye’re as much a MacRob as I and ye know it.” Tor turned to her. “Ainsley, I’d like to introduce Neil Hayle, owner of this fine establishment. Neil, meet Lady Ainsley. My wife.”

“Yer . . .” For a man who was weaving tales from a barstool, he’d gone suddenly quiet. “I do no’ believe ye, lad.”

“’Tis true, though there’s a tale to be told as to our marriage. But first . . .” He smiled. “I’ll take that best room ye mentioned.”

“Of course ye will. And I suppose ye’ll be wanting me to clear a table just for ye and yer lovely bride after ye dry too?” He winked at her. “Or would ye prefer to take yer meal abovestairs?”

“The hall will be fine,” she said at the same time as Tor said, “Down here will do.”

They exchanged a glance, one Neil likely found odd from a newlywed couple.

“A tale indeed. I’ll take that and news from our clan when ye return. ’Tis said the king is no’ pleased with ye and this Shaw feud.”

“In fact, he is no’ pleased at all,” Tor started, but Neil interrupted.

“Bloody bastards. Those Shaws can rot in hell, each and every one of ’em.”

“Neil—”

“There’s a rumor the bastard laird married yer sister, but I know that cannae be true. Tor,” he said, looking from her to her husband. “Yer wife laughs at me.”

“She speaks too,” Tor said. “Mayhap ask her the reason for it.”

Ainsley did not begrudge the man his words. If his great-grandfather had married a MacRob, he was one of them. His words were no less than she’d have said of his clansmen too. Before Catlin. And perhaps Tor too, but Ainsley was not certain of her feelings precisely on that one. She’d been attempting to work that out all day and was no closer to an answer now than last eve.

And then there was Tor’s comment. There are other ways to find pleasure between a man and a woman, Ainsley. She’d thought of naught else since he made it.

“As my husband said,” she began, “there is quite a tale to tell. But for now, suffice it to introduce my full name.” Ainsley gave the man her hand. “Lady Ainsley Shaw, sister of Broden Shaw, laird of my clan.”

His expression was worth the discomfort of hearing her kinsmen affronted. Tor laughed beside her, a sound she’d begun to enjoy.

“My apologies, Lady Ainsley.”

“Are accepted. As a recompense, ye did mention a room?”

Collecting himself, Neil murmured, “Of course, of course,” and began to shuffle away, toward the stairs. She and Tor followed as he led them to the second floor, down a long corridor that opened to the hall below. They turned once, then twice, still able to see the happenings down below. Ainsley had been to a few inns before, but never one such as this.

When Neil opened a door near the corner, she stepped through, pleasantly surprised.