Page 137 of Bride of Ice
Neither did he find it in Linlithgow or Falkirk or Bannockburn.
Wandering once again, he trudged through the silent fog and the last muddy slush of winter, feeling as empty as the black-branched ash looming over the road. Without direction. Without a clan.
Nearly three months ago, he’d set out to find his place in the world. Instead, his heart kept getting pulled back, again and again, toward the clan that had taken him in. The man who was like a brother to him. And the lass whose image had never faded from his dreams, not even after weeks away.
What he was looking for he couldn’t name. But perhaps he’d find it in Stirling.
Eventually, the mire beneath his feet hardened into well-traveled hardpack. The civilized smoke of peat fire mingled with the wild fog, filling the air with an acrid but welcoming stench. After three days on the road, he’d finally arrived at the town that served as the gateway to the Highlands. He felt like Stirling was his last chance to purge himself of a destiny he couldn’t have and to look toward a fresh future.
He secured lodging on the high street and asked the innkeeper for the names of the town’s best stews. He intended to plunge at once into freewheeling debauchery. Drink himself blind and forget Hallie between the thighs of a willing wench. Hell, adozenwilling wenches.
The first task he managed to accomplish. By the time he emptied his fourth cup of ale and staggered out of the inn, his head was spinning.
As for the stews, he didn’t make it past the first doorway.
He was full of excuses. The glaring excuse being none of them were Hallie. This lass was too short. That one too ruddy. One reminded him of a nun he’d once met. Another was old enough to be his mother.
Then he realized any one of them could have been his mother. Struggling for survival. Trying to support herself and her bastard son. Painting on a smile that belied the horror of her existence. Subjecting herself to the tawdry whims of whatever brute pressed a coin into her palm.
Despite being steeped in ale, he instantly sobered.
Gazing around the room at young faces aged by abuse and rejection, he wished he had enough silver to free them all.
Discouraged, he returned to the inn, which by now was teeming with soused patrons.
“Ye’re back quick,” the innkeeper said with a chortle. “The lasses do right by ye?”
Colban shook his head and gestured for another drink.
“Nay?” As the innkeeper filled his cup, he leaned in close so no one else could hear. “Maybe ye’re interested in somethin’ out o’ the ordinary?”
Colban frowned. “Out o’ the ordinary?”
The innkeeper shrugged. “Somethin’ of a…different…nature.”
Colban’s frown deepened. What the hell did that mean?
The innkeeper, sensing Colban’s disapproval, raised his palms defensively. “’Tis up to ye. Just let me know if ye’re in the market for, well…”
“Somethin’ out o’ the ordinary.”
“Aye.” He raised his brows toward the corner of the room. Alone at the table, a pale, black-haired nobleman with thin lips and a sharp nose sat with his beringed fingers wrapped around his ale, surveying the inn in quiet speculation. “If ye’ve got coin, the gentleman there can look after your…unusual requirements. I can make the introductions.”
Colban studied the man. He looked like a lizard, waiting in coldblooded calculation, seeking his next fly.
The innkeeper confided, “’Tis said Sir Geoffrey procuredspecial entertainmentfor the laird’s son.”
“The laird’s son?”
“Aye, Archibald Scott himself, though he’s gone now.”
Colban furrowed his brows. Archibald Scott. That name sounded familiar. Wasn’t it the name Isabel kept muttering at him at Morgan’s wedding? The one he didn’t want to hear? The name of Hallie’s betrothed? Surely it couldn’t be the same man.
“He’s gone, ye say?”
“Aye,” the innkeeper said, shaking his head. “Sent away by the new king. Wedded to a Lowland warrior bride as cold as ice.” He shuddered.
Colban’s world tipped on its edge.
