Enlightened by Joanna Chambers

and lowering himself into a blessedly hot bath, his first in days. The heat eased his pinched knee—always made worse by inactivity—making him sigh with pleasure and relief.
    He stayed in the water till it was practically cold. When he finally got out, he quickly dried himself off, then gave his leg a brisk rub with liniment before dressing again. When he ventured out of his room, he felt cleaner and more relaxed than he had in days. He made his way to the private parlour Murdo had reserved, sniffing appreciatively as he went—the scents emerging from the kitchens were very promising—to find the innkeeper himself waiting outside the parlour door.
    When Foster saw David, he greeted him with the same servility that had made David shudder earlier, even tugging at his forelock before opening the door for him. David gave him a curt nod and passed him.
    The parlour was a cosy room, twee even. Murdo looked quite out of place in it, surrounded by floral china and Toby jugs and framed needlepoint pictures. He was too big, too male. A wolf in a woodcutter’s cottage. David smiled at his own whimsy and walked farther into the room, noticing with pleasure that Murdo’s expression warmed when he saw David. He suspected his own did the same.
    The door closed behind them and immediately Murdo’s expression became less guarded. He quickly stepped up to David and captured his mouth in a quick but thorough kiss, his big hand resting at David’s waist. When he pulled back, his eyes were dancing.
    “We shouldn’t,” David said, as though Murdo had posed a question. Despite his reluctant words, though, he was grinning, almost dizzy with happiness at Murdo’s brief, seemingly helpless show of affection. They’d shared little more than a few such kisses since they’d left Edinburgh, and this was the first night they’d managed to secure a private parlour for dinner. The closed door and drawn curtains made their privacy feel more secure than it possibly was.
    “Probably not,” Murdo agreed merrily, adding, “Did you enjoy your bath? You look as though you did. You’re all pink-cheeked and shiny.”
    “The bath was wonderful,” David assured him gravely. “I stayed in so long my fingers were like prunes when I got out.”
    “Me too.” Murdo grinned. “And I have high hopes for dinner. The food doesn’t smell half-bad.”
    As though he’d heard them—and perhaps he had—Foster chose that moment to enter, bearing a basket of new-baked bread in one hand and a dish of butter in the other.
    “Good evening, my lord,” he said with a deep bow to Murdo. He looked odd, bowing like that with the basket and butter dish still in his hands. He turned to offer a smaller bow to David. “Sir.”
    David nodded and murmured a “good evening” of his own, but it was lost as Murdo bit out angrily, “I thought you said this was a private parlour?”
    The innkeeper blanched, freezing in the midst of straightening from his bow. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”
    “You damn well ought to!” Murdo continued. “Haven’t you heard of knocking before you enter a private room?”
    David swallowed, suddenly mortified. Could Murdo make it any more obvious that they craved privacy? Then he dismissed his own thoughts impatiently. Murdo was right. It was meant to be a private parlour, and Foster wouldn’t necessarily assume that, just because his male guests wanted privacy, they wanted one another. They could simply be discussing private business.
    “Well?” Murdo snapped.
    “Please accept my apologies, my lord,” Foster stammered. “I forgot myself for a moment. It won’t happen again.”
    It didn’t. Foster stayed away after that, and the nervous young serving maid he sent in his place nearly knocked the door down each time she brought a new dish, her hands shaking as she laid the rattling crockery down. Murdo was polite to her, though. Gentle even.
    There was a bit of a disaster when she brought the gravy. She was balancing too many