Page 24 of Highland Crown
Isabella expelled a frustrated breath, trying to shake off thoughts of Cinaed Mackintosh. She had to. She didn’t need him. She only needed a whisper of faith that all would be fine.
“I believe the Queen of Sheba’s arrived.”
Jean nodded in the direction of a stout woman wiping her hands on her apron as she came across the taproom toward them. From the way the waiter and potboy jumped when they saw her, Isabella knew she had to be the innkeeper’s wife. As she drew near, she and Jean both stood, but the woman looked only at her, at the bags, and at Isabella’s forest-green carriage dress before addressing her.
Before they’d left Duff Head, Isabella had changed out of the bloodstained travel dress she’d been wearing into this one, which was of higher quality material and required no cloak in good weather. She’d intended to change into it once they’d boarded the ship for Halifax or after they arrived. But the blood from surgery had given her no choice. And she was limited to the two pieces that her housekeeper had hurriedly tucked in around her medical instruments while they were hiding from the authorities in Edinburgh.
“Are ye a lady?”
The question took her by surprise, and she was relieved when Jean—suddenly behaving like a mother bear—put herself between them.
“Ye’d be only talking to me, if ye please,” the older woman snapped. “So what is it now? Do ye have an answer about my nephew?”
“Who is she?” the woman asked, trying to look around Jean for a better view of Isabella.
“Not that it’s any business of yers, but she’s a friend of my cousin, traveling from the Orkneys. Now is John Gordon staying with ye here or not?”
The innkeeper’s wife stepped around Jean and addressed Isabella. “What are ye doing in Inverness?”
“What’s it to ye?” Jean barked, trying to put a stop to the questions. “My companion can wait outside if that’d help ye to answer me.”
“What’s yer name?” the woman asked, persistent.
“To be sure, yer the most impudent—”
The innkeeper’s wife raised her hand so quickly, Isabella thought she was about to slap Jean. “Can’t she speak for herself?”
The customers in the tavern grew silent, and every eye turned in their direction. Isabella knew there would be no end to the woman’s questions until she spoke herself.
“Mrs. Murray,” she said, trying to imitate Jean’s accent.
“Ye don’t sound like folk from the islands.” The woman cocked her head and looked at Isabella with open suspicion. “Are ye from Stromness? I know folk from there.”
“Nay, she’s not from there, ye bold piece,” Jean snapped. “She’s down from Kirkwall, if ye must know.”
“I’m a governess,” Isabella broke in before the two came to blows. “For a family in the Borders. I was only visiting Mrs. Gordon’s cousin in Kirkwall. I’ll be returning south in a few more days. We heard her nephew was staying here, and I hoped to pay a call while I’m in the area. That is, if you’d be kind enough to tell us if he’s staying at Stoneyfield House.”
The woman considered the reasonableness of the answer as she ran her eyes over the travel bags again before letting them linger on the purse still in Isabella’s hand.
“We have a room for the two of ye, if ye care to stay.”
“That would depend on your answer.” Isabella waited, pasting a pleasant smile on her face.
The burly woman thought for a moment and then made up her mind. “Aye, yer Mr. Gordon is staying with us. But he’s not here at present.”
Tremendous relief washed through her. Arriving in the Highlands, Isabella’s primary concern was the safety of Maisie and Morrigan. John had assured her that he had trustworthy connections in the Inverness area. They’d be protected and well cared for. But right now, he was the one person who knew where they were. It would have been horrible if she’d lost the means of communicating with him.
“We’ll wait for him,” Jean said waspishly. “Ye can just show us his room.”
The innkeeper’s wife shook her head, waving for the potboy. “Nay. Don’t ye be thinking I’d trust ye to wait in anyone’s room. But I’ll have the lad here show ye to a private dining room, and I’ll send someone to fetch ye when Mr. Gordon returns.”
Waiting in a private room, Isabella thought, sounded far preferable to sitting here under the baleful stares of the farmers and other customers. She picked up their bags before Jean could do it.
Upon receiving his directions from his employer, the potboy glanced at the bags in Isabella’s hands and sent a worried look at the innkeeper’s wife.
“Off with ye, scamp,” the woman said, cuffing him lightly. “Ye know which dining room.”
As they crossed the taproom toward the back of the inn, hostile stares followed their every step. Following the lad through a narrow door, they made their way down an unlit corridor past a flight of stairs ascending into darkness. Presently, the boy stopped at a closed door and turned to say something to Isabella but decided against it. After opening the door for them, he stepped back and they entered.
