Page 6 of Heather and the Highlander
“Let’s begin with why you’re running away,” he said.
“Running away?” Heather asked indignantly (veryindignantly, considering that she had, in fact, run away). “No, not at all! I’m, uh, going to the city to work as a seamstress.”
“Oy, are you a bad liar.” He caught one of her hands in his own, examining it with a critical eye—and a caressing touch. “You never worked for a living before. You were raised as a lady.” Heather wanted to take her hand back…or did she? It was actually quite nice to be held like that.
He went on, “By your speech and your manners, you’re gentry. And gently born ladies don’t simply become seamstresses on a whim. Which means you’re running away.” Finally, he released her hand. “Eat. Your beef’s getting cold.”
Heather picked up her fork and took a bite, chewing rapturously. When she swallowed, she said, “I don’t know why you’re so interested. It’s my own problem, and I’ll solve it.”
“When your problem resulted in you getting hounded by a gang of country bampots, I became interested. What’s the matter? Is it something scandalous?” His leer was too comical to be insulting.
Heather laughed in spite of herself. She sobered as she remembered why she left. “It’s merely…oh, I can’t explain…you would call me silly for even attempting it.”
“How will you know what I’d call you unless you tell me?” Niall pressed gently.
“But we’re strangers,” Heather protested.
Niall said, “All the more reason to spill out your story. I’m a clean slate, an unbiased listener.”
Heather stared at him for a moment. He looked sincere.
So she said, “Iamgentry. My name is Heather Hayes, and until yesterday I lived with my uncle, who is my legal guardian.”
“The one who hit you.” Niall guessed, gesturing to the bruise on her face.
“He was angry at me for opposing his choice of husband.”
“So you’re running away. Why have you not got further already? The Double Swan is a posting inn, so you can surely get a ride with any passing coach to your destination. Or did your odd attire prevent any coach drivers from accepting your money? As far as I know, they’ll let anyone ride if they can pay.”
“I…do not have any money with me,” she admitted. “I left in rather a rush.”
“Ah.” There was a world of understanding in that one syllable.
Heather went on, “My attire was one more way of his to make leaving more difficult. So you see, I just need to be able to stay in one place for a bit. Then I can write to a friend and request a small loan. I’m very good friends with the Duchess of Lyon.”
“Are you,” he said, skepticism now creeping into his voice. “Can she lend you a pair of shoes too? You’re in need.”
“Our feet are different sizes!” Heather retorted, realizing he didn’t believe her. She went on, “Or I could go to Wildwood Hall, that’s where I went to school.”
“With the duchess, no doubt.”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” Heather glared at him. “Or London, I have a friend in London.”
“Another duchess?”
“A viscountess, actually.”
“Of course she is. However, I’m afraid London is very far from here,” he noted, his expression both sympathetic and cautioning.
She knew why. A woman with no money and no protection would never reach any destination she was interested in. She’d be assaulted or worse long before she ever got close.
He tapped the table. “Look, finish eating before we discuss anything further. Food always helps me think.”
It was solid advice, and Heather took it to heart, diving into the meal with all the gusto one got from not eating for a full day.
Just as Heather was sopping up the last of her sauce with a piece of bread, a man’s voice boomed out from the hall that separated the dining room from the other half of the inn. He bellowed for the proprietor, and the tone of the voice was unmistakable.
Heather’s stomach dropped, the food sitting in it like a brick. “Oh, no. I know that voice. They’re here,” she whispered.
