Page 33 of Abducted By the Highlander
From the corner of his eye, he saw the woman fold her arms and nod sagely, and in the back of his mind he knew this attention was the last thing he needed. If anyone came to the market asking questions about Roisin, or about rebel MacGregors, if it came to that, he didn’t want to be memorable.
But God help him, it was hard to shatter this moment.
My Hugh.Roisin’s soft words echoed around his head. If only that were true. But she was merely playing her part, the way he’d asked herto, and how well she played it, too. He’d be impressed if he didn’t wish with every fiber of his being that she weren’t playing at all.
With a nod of farewell to the woman, he took Roisin’s hand, and they led the horses from the stall but the way she’d gazed at the bronze work tugged at him. “Was there something about the inkwell that ye recognized?”
“Oh.” She shot him a glance, and a small smile played around her lips. It was only when his horse snorted and gave him a head-butt, that he realized he’d been gazing at Roisin like a bewitched fool and had almost collided into a group of townsfolk. Hastily, he corrected their course before he managed to create a fracas. “That was observant of ye.”
For a second he thought she was teasing him about narrowly missing a collision, but when he caught her warm gaze again, he had the uncanny certainty she had no idea why he’d so swiftly changed direction. For which he was thankful. “Was it?”
“First, ye must understand that I realize the Florence artisans were thinking of something quite different when they crafted it, but she reminded me of Dunu, the Great Mother of the Tuatha De Danann with her cauldron of wisdom.”
A cauldron. Of course. He could see it now. And although he knew little about the ancient, mythical race that had, once, supposedly ruled Eire, he remembered the tales Roisin had shared with him of those godlike beings when she’d shown him some of her artwork in Sgur Castle. “Ye never know. They might have been thinking of Danu.”
“’Tis unlikely.” She sounded amused. “But I shall think it nonetheless.”
He glanced over his shoulder, but the stall had disappeared among the many others in the market. But he knew exactly where it was. And before they returned to the camp, he would purchase the inkwell. It was perfect for her. Maybe whenever she used it in the future, shewould think kindly of him.
He didn’t want to think of a future where he’d never see her again, but it was a stark reminder of what he needed to do. As much as he wanted this leisurely stroll to continue, he had to send the missive he’d written last night, before Symon returned from trading the horses, and the only way he could do that unobserved was by ensuring Roisin was safely ensconced in the nearby inn.
“We should go to the inn. They will have food there.” And he’d purchase some extra pasties that Roisin could take back to the camp for her and her maid.
“And I’ll write my letter to Isolde.”
He grunted and avoided her eyes, instead leading them from the busy market to the inn he’d pointed out to Symon. He couldn’t risk sending her letter. If it was intercepted, it didn’t matter how inconsequential she managed to make her letter sound, its very existence, and the fact it was addressed to the wife of a Campbell of high rank, would put her in jeopardy.
But he didn’t want to risk offending her again over the matter, so he kept his mouth shut. Letters, after all, went missing all the time. She’d never know it hadn’t arrived at her sister’s because he had failed to send it.
It didn’t sit right with him, but there was nothing else he could do. It was far safer to keep to his usual methods of communicating with the earl.
He left their horses in the stable block next to the inn before pushing open the great oak door for Roisin to precede him into the inn itself. A large hearth took up one side of the grand hall, and there were fresh rushes on the flagstone floor with several long tables and benches for patrons. Although the place was busy, which helped to keep him and Roisin from attracting too much attention from the proprietor, at least they didn’t need to push through crowds for which he was thankful on Roisin’s behalf. He doubted she’d ever set foot inside aninn before and didn’t want the experience to be more unpleasant than it had to be.
The innkeeper eyed him as Hugh, arm in arm with Roisin, strode towards him. “Good day,” he said. “Do ye have a private room where my bride might take refreshment?”
“Aye.” Despite the innkeeper’s surly appearance, he sounded agreeable. “This way.” He took them to a small room that led directly from the hall and glanced at Roisin. “Ye’ll be comfortable enough here, mistress.” Then he faced Hugh again. “What can I bring ye?”
Hugh glanced at Roisin, who was gazing around the small room in evident curiosity before returning his attention to the innkeeper. “We’ll have cheese and bannocks and six of yer veal pasties. And a flagon of yer best wine.”
The innkeeper nodded and headed to the rear of the inn where, by the smell of it, the kitchen was located. He closed the door, and Roisin went over to where a table and four chairs were placed before the window. She sat down, rested her satchel on her lap, and rummaged through it before pulling out her writing case.
He sat opposite her, and as she set a small inkwell on the table, he thought of the missive he had to send to the earl. At least now he wouldn’t need to use subterfuge to distract her while he found a messenger since she would expect him to find one to send her own letter.
Silence fell between them, broken only by the scratching of her quill on the paper. He leaned back in the chair and exhaled a silent sigh, unable to tear his gaze from her bowed head. A small frown creased her brow, and she bit her lip, as though the words weren’t coming easily to her, and fascinated, he watched her sketch a perfect rose in the top corner.
She looked up and caught him watching her. “I fear my sisters won’t believe this odd letter is truly from me, unless they see evidence. They know I can never resist scribbling in the margins so hopefully,they’ll understand I am quite well, and not under any duress.”
“’Tis far from scribbling.” He was compelled to defend her self-deprecating comment, but inside guilt stirred that whatever Roisin might say, she was under duress by the very fact he hadn’t managed to already arrange her safe passage from the camp. “Yer talent is plain for anyone to see.”
She gave a small smile as she signed her name around the rose. His chest dully ached at how similar her signature was to the exquisitely embroidered design on the handkerchief she had given him eighteen months ago, the one he still kept hidden in a pouch on his belt.
Finally, she finished and wrote her sister’s name on the envelope before handing it to him. “Do ye think Isolde might receive my letter in a couple of days?” There was a hopeful note in her voice, and he hated that he was deceiving her, but it was the only way to keep her from harm.
Although he was confident of sending his own missive this day, he had no way of knowing at which manor or castle the earl was currently residing, which made taking a guess at how long it would be before his message was received unknowable.
He could hardly tell Roisin that and he didn’t want to outright lie to her, either. Keeping the truth from her was bad enough. “It shouldn’t be too long.”
Chapter Thirteen
