Heart's Thief (Highland Bodyguards, Book 2) (3 page)

Colin cursed his squelching boots as he crossed the inn’s common room.

He cursed the relentless rain that had pounded them all the way from Lochmaben.

He cursed the thick mud that had made the roads nigh impassable.

He cursed the fact that what should have been an easy half-day ride to Dumfries had turned into a miserable day-and-a-half slog.

But most of all, he cursed himself for his foolish pride.

He dropped onto a stool in front of a high counter that served as the inn’s main table. A few shorter tables and chairs sprinkled the dim common room, where a handful of the inn’s other patrons sat hunched over their mugs of ale, some talking quietly.

The small fire on the other side of the room didn’t exude enough warmth to cut through Colin’s damp tunic or breeches. Thank God he didn’t have to wear heavy chainmail for this mission.

Still, wearing clothes in the style of the English chafed. He cursed yet again, this time for the fact that he couldn’t wear the MacKay clan colors here in the Lowlands without drawing unwanted attention.

A stout older woman, no doubt the innkeeper’s wife, bustled by, her graying head down and her face creased with a frown.

Colin forced a smile to his mouth despite the foul words that clung to the tip of his tongue.

“Excuse me, madam,” he said.

The woman grunted as she glanced at him, but then her foot faltered. She came to a sudden halt, her eyes rounding and a silly smile coming to her lips.

“Oh, ah, forgive me, milord. I didn’t see ye there,” she sputtered, gazing at him.

Aye, his smile still worked as well as ever.

“That’s quite all right. I ken ye are busy this eve.” He waved at the half-empty room, pushing sympathy into his eyes. “I only wonder if I may bother ye for a mug of ale and a warm meal. It is another miserable, damp night out.”

“Oh aye!” the woman said eagerly. “Right away, milord.”

She hurried around the counter and through a swinging door that led to the attached kitchen. Once she was out of sight, Colin let his smile drop as he surveyed the room.

The few men who sat in the common room looked as bedraggled as Colin felt. Most had mud on their boots, as he did, and their simple homespun tunics looked damp. One man stood before the fire, warming his hands, while the others nursed their mugs sullenly.

So, he wasn’t the only one in a foul mood over the weather. But while these men were likely worrying about crops or the increase in wool prices over the last few months, Colin had more reason to be cross than they did.

This whole bloody mission was already a bust—and only a day and a half in, at that.

Within hours of meeting Osborn, Colin sensed instinctually that his suspicions about the messenger were unfounded. The man was overly talkative, aye, but entirely guileless. Though Osborn had already demonstrated a fine opinion of himself, Colin didn’t believe for a second that the messenger possessed the skill or wits to knowingly compromise the Bruce’s missives.

Even with Osborn out of the equation, that still left the possibility that he’d been waylaid on his way to deliver the King’s message without even realizing it. Osborn had claimed that he didn’t remember aught suspicious or untoward happening on his journey to the Highlands to deliver the missive about Carlisle to Colin and Finn, but then again, sometimes a man could be hit over the head so soundly that he couldn’t even recall it.

That possibility meant that Colin still needed to keep his eyes and ears open—and remain close to Osborn. But so far all he’d seen last night on the road and now tonight in this inn outside Dumfries was a load of wet, grumpy farmers and merchants.

Worse, in the short time Colin had been in Osborn’s presence, he’d learned that for the first time in his life, he couldn’t get another person to do what he wished using his charm.

No matter how many times Colin lightly teased, or gently suggested, or hinted, or outright ordered Osborn to cease his incessant chatter, the man simply wouldn’t shut his trap.

Aye, working as a messenger was certainly lonely work. It meant traveling long stretches alone, with only innkeepers and stable hands to talk with. Still, Colin had never met a man so oblivious to those around him.

Mayhap it grated so much because Colin prided himself on being able to charm people into doing as he wished—or that his abilities were completely wasted on Osborn.

He would have been saved a great deal of trouble if he had met Osborn when the man brought the missive to the Highlands requesting Colin and Finn at the Bruce’s side a fortnight ago. But alas, Osborn hadn’t been ordered to wait for a response, so he’d delivered the message to Robert Sinclair and returned to the Lowlands before Colin had even laid eyes on him.

Regardless, he was stuck with the man for what would no doubt be a very long fortnight. Ireland had never seemed so far away as it did now.

Speak of the devil
.

Osborn came tromping down the inn’s stairs, his hands looped in his belt and an inexplicably easy grin on his face. Though the mop of brown hair on his head was still damp from their travels, he’d changed into a dry tunic and breeches.

“Ah, there ye are, Colin!” he said loudly. A few of the other patrons lifted their heads at the intrusion.

Osborn strode over and plunked himself down on a stool at Colin’s side. Rubbing his large, red-tipped nose with the back of his hand, he glanced around the room.

“Quiet tonight, eh?”

“Indeed,” Colin replied. It was all he could do to smooth the grimace from his face. Aye, his gentle, kindly prodding hadn’t worked to get Osborn to shut up, but at least he could avoid openly scowling at the man.

“Ye’re wet as a dog, man! Are ye sure ye dinnae wish to change in our chamber? Surely ye have some dry clothes in that saddlebag of yers. I daresay ye’ll catch yer death sitting here in damp garments.”

By God, even the man’s Lowland lilt grated on Colin’s nerves. He nodded, pressing his lips together to keep from snapping at the messenger.

Clearly, Osborn didn’t notice the fact that Colin was barely holding on to his temper by a thread, for he went on.

“I take it ye havenae done much traveling, based on the fact that ye are still sitting here in those soggy clothes. Heed my advice, laddie, for I am an expert of sorts. I’ve traveled all over Scotland in the service of King Robert the Bruce.” Osborn leaned in, rounding his beady eyes for effect. “And even into parts of England, though I dinnae like to brag about it.”

“I’ve traveled a piece myself,” Colin managed through gritted teeth. “Ye neednae lecture me, friend.”

The Bruce had thought it best not to alert Osborn to the fact that Colin was actually one of the King’s most trusted warriors. Colin now saw the wisdom in the Bruce’s withholding, for though there wasn’t a malicious bone in Osborn’s body, the less the man knew, the better. The messenger had only been told that the Bruce was sending Colin to assist his brother in Ireland. Colin might as well accompany Osborn, who was going there anyway with a missive from the King—or so he thought.

“Oh, aye, ye’ve traveled from the Highlands, judging from that brogue of yers,” Osborn said with a wave of his hand. “But I have gleaned some of the finer skills over the years.”

It was a finer skill, in need of careful gleaning, not to sit in wet clothes?

Colin was saved from having to fake another neutral response, for just then, the innkeeper’s wife swung through the kitchen door with a mug of ale and a bowl of steaming stew. She beamed at Colin as she set the meal before him on the counter. He slipped on his practiced smile, meant especially to charm women.

“Thank ye, madam. Ye are most kind.”

The woman flushed and began to simper, but Osborn cut her off.

“There ye are, wench! I’ve been sitting here for several minutes without any ale to wet my whistle or a bowl of stew to warm my belly. See to it now, if ye please.”

The innkeeper’s wife’s smile faltered as she turned to Osborn. “Forgive me, milord,” she said icily, narrowing her eyes at him. “I was just seeing to yer friend, here.”

She spun on her heels, giving Osborn her back before he could reprimand her again.

Bloody hell, the man was as tactless as a fly in a cup of fine whisky.

As usual, Osborn didn’t seem to notice the woman’s curtness. He began whistling softly, for apparently he felt that any and all silences must be filled.

Colin took a long drag of ale. Was he losing his edge? His inability to subtly manipulate Osborn into a pliant charge was unsettling.

Mayhap he’d been spending too much time in the company of taciturn warriors. For most of the last nine years that he’d been in the Bruce’s service, he’d worked in the King’s inner circle, usually in small teams with men who would rather exchange sword blows than pleasantries.

Colin had always been a bit different from the others, though. Aye, he was as skilled as any of the Bruce’s other elite warriors—he’d proven it enough on the practice field as well as in battle. But while Finn Sutherland would probably rather have a tooth pulled than prattle on with the likes of Osborn, Colin had always had a knack with people.

With a joke or a pound on the back, he made men feel welcome, relaxed. And with a smile or a wink, women turned soft and supple, as the innkeeper’s wife had.

Aye, he’d been told by many a lass over the years that he was a handsome devil, but it was more than that. It was listening with an easy smile, all the while sharply observing the person across from him for clues on how to act, how to steer them toward what he wanted.

He’d always had such a skill. Or rather, he’d always found that reading people came easily to him. He didn’t use to think of it as a skill—more like a natural way with people. But ever since Joan’s betrayal, he saw it for what it truly was—a tool to be used in the service of the Scottish cause. Or a weapon.

He quickly shoved away the dark memories. Now was not the time to think on the events of eight years past. He still had a mission to complete, even if half of that mission was to play nanny goat to Osborn.

As the innkeeper’s wife arrived with a second bowl of stew and a mug of ale for Osborn, the icy look still in her eyes as she served him, a muffled sound drew Colin’s attention once more to the stairs.

The sound grew more distinct as someone began descending the steps—sniffles interspersed with little sobs.

A woman’s green-dyed skirts emerged from the shadowy stairwell. The material swayed around slim hips as she continued down the stairs. Hips gave way to a narrow waist, and then a snugly laced bodice. The curve of petite but shapely breasts rose above the bodice’s scooped neck. A thin metal chain was clasped around a delicate neck, disappearing between those pert breasts.

With another step, the woman’s head came into view. Unbound dark brown hair framed a pale face. She held a kerchief to her nose, obscuring the lower half of her face, but wide hazel eyes took in the common room. Those tear-brimmed eyes darted to each of the tables, finally landing on the counter where Colin and Osborn sat.

Heat, slow and familiar, settled low in Colin’s belly. The lass was undeniably attractive, if a bit thin. Still, her delicately feminine curves and wide, innocent eyes could entice many a man.

The woman muffled another little sniffle behind the kerchief. She dipped her head so that her eyes landed on the floor, her dark hair sliding down around her face like a veil.

Colin realized that the room had fallen still at her arrival. A quick glance told him that he hadn’t been the only one to notice the lass’s bonny features.

A woman in an inn wasn’t so unusual that all the other patrons should be staring quite so slack-jawed at her, however. Colin reminded himself that the men around him were simple farmers and merchants unused to a pretty young lass’s company.

He’d have to make a point of leaving her alone. Even from the brief contact their eyes had made, he sensed that she was not one for a quick and easy dalliance. A lass in tears almost always meant more trouble than she was worth.

Besides, he had better things to do than indulge in a wee bit of distraction. Though he knew that Osborn was incapable of deceit, the messenger still might be targeted by one of King Edward or Lancaster’s lackeys.

As he turned back to his ale and stew, a flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye. The lass had settled herself on one of the stools a few feet down from Osborn.

“My, my, little missy,” Osborn said, leaning toward the lass. “Ye have been through quite a tribulation, from the looks of ye.”

The lass sobbed again, dabbing the kerchief at her eyes. “Oh, aye, indeed,” she replied, her voice soft with a Lowland lilt.

“Wench!” Osborn called. The innkeeper’s wife reemerged from the kitchen, her hands planted on her ample hips and her eyes shooting daggers at Osborn. “Wench, please serve this young lass.” Osborn removed an extra coin from the pouch on his belt. “On me.”

Impossibly, the lass’s eyes rounded even more. “Oh, ye are too kind, milord.”

“Och. I ken a good lass in trouble when I see one. What has ye in a twist?”