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Frances didn’t look up. She’d forgotten to put her spectacles back on.
“Excellent,” she said, her voice just as clipped and cool as his.
“I will see that your room is made ready for you.”
“Most gracious,” said Frances.
The tone was slightly acid, and Hawk frowned a bit. No, he thought, shaking his head as he strode into the inn, leaning over a bit to keep from hitting his head on the darkened oak beams, not acid. She was diffident and shy. Her voice was weary, that was it. She was probably very fatigued. He sighed, resolving to be more amiable over dinner.
There was no private parlor at the Devil’s Lair, but the miserable weather had kept all the usual habitués away. There was only one snoring old man in the corner, curled up next to the fireplace, and old Harmon quickly rousted him out and into the taproom. Frances, having scraped her hair into a ferocious bun, adjusted her spectacles and marched into the parlor. She paused, sniffing delicious smells. Her stomach growled loudly.
Hawk looked up and caught himself smiling at the sound.
“My lady,” he said, rose, and pulled back a chair for her.
Frances kept her head down and seated herself.
So much for a polite greeting, Hawk thought, and reseated himself. “A glass of wine, perhaps?”
“Yes, please.”
“Look, I’m sorry if you’re tired. It’s just that I want to get to my father as soon as possible.”
“I understand.” And I’m not tired; I’m bored from riding by myself in that awful carriage, and I don’t like you.
He poured wine into her goblet, and watched her wrap her fingers about the blunt stem. He found himself frowning a bit. Her hands were slender, the fingers long and graceful. The fingernails were buffed and short. Without thinking, Hawk reached out and took her hand in his. He turned her hand over. There were calluses and a few scratches. It was a strong hand, a capable hand.
Frances yanked her hand away and raised startled eyes to his face. For a moment she forgot to squint.
“You have lovely hands,” Hawk said.
“Oh?”
There was a wealth of sarcasm in that one word, and Hawk found himself surprised at it. He repeated again to himself that she was tired, and kept an equally stinging comment to himself.
Old Harmon’s wife, Nedda, entered carrying three huge covered trays.
Frances’ stomach growled again, and Hawk laughed.
“Oh,” she exclaimed as one tray was uncovered beneath her nose. “Clootie dumplings! How marvelous. And forfar bridies.”
What the devil were clooties and bridies? Hawk wondered, but the delicious smells dampened his revulsion at the bizarre names.
“Be that ye, Lady Frances?”
Frances, cursed herself, aware that Nedda was regarding her with something akin to horror. She managed to say calmly enough, “Aye, ‘tis I, Mrs. Rapple.”
“What do ye wi‘ this mon?”
Scots were known for their bluntness and their lack of class distinction, Frances thought, grinning to herself.
“He is my husband, Mrs. Rapple. I am leaving Scotland.”
“But, what do ye wi‘ yerself, ye don’t look—”
“Kippers with rice balls! I’m certain everything will be delicious, as usual.”
She shot Mrs. Rapple a pleading look, and the good lady, confused but sensitive to that look, merely nodded and left the parlor.
