“She was named after the donkey that carried Mary to Bethlehem.”
Rainger thought it was probably the first time since MacMurtrae was out of diapers that his expression softened. But it did and he, too, petted the pony. Then his face regained its usual surly scowl. “Do ye want me t’ interview the children she’ll carry t’ make sure they’re kind?”
“That would be lovely.” Sorcha beamed at him. “I knew that gruff exterior hid a kind heart.”
“Buried deep,” MacMurtrae growled. “Verra deep.”
“It was a pleasure to deal with you, sir.” Taking his hand, she pumped it enthusiastically.
When she released him and walked away, MacMurtrae wiped his palm on his pants.
Rainger relaxed and prepared to return to his horses.
Then Sorcha turned back to MacMurtrae. “You’ve been so fair, given me such an enjoyable barter, and I know I can trust you—so can you tell me, please, where can I get a meal? Someplace I can eat and pick up food for someone else?”
Rainger saw it happen before his very eyes.
An evil scheme took root and blossomed in MacMurtrae’s head. With a cheerful gloat in Rainger’s direction, he dipped his head and whispered in Sorcha’s ear.
“Thank you!” She started toward the edge of town.
“Hell!” Rainger followed.
MacMurtrae collared him as he walked past. “Ye got what ye wanted, man—a blasted guid price for the horses and yer woman’s pleased wi’ herself.”
In return, Rainger collared MacMurtrae. “She’s a lad. Remember that. She’s a lad.”
“If she is,” MacMurtrae reported, “she’s a damned silly lad.”
Rainger shoved past MacMurtrae.
But by the time he turned the corner behind Sorcha, she had disappeared.
Chapter 10
W ith her wonderful, hard-won two hundred pounds jingling in her pocket, Sorcha almost danced down the street and toward the inn recommended by Mr. MacMurtrae.
Arnou would be so pleased with her success! And surprised, too, for although he’d tried to hide his doubts, he clearly had misgivings that she could get the amount they’d decided would be appropriate. Plus she had the added satisfaction of knowing MacMurtrae would place the horses in good homes. Beneath that gruff, tough exterior, MacMurtrae was obviously a good man.
Sorcha knocked on the narrow door in the wall to which he had directed her, and when the serving girl opened it, Sorcha smiled. Careful to keep her voice at a masculine pitch, she said, “I’ve come to eat.”
The girl looked Sorcha over, then said, “All right. I’m Eveleen. This way.” Eveleen led her into a small, dim foyer decorated with two marble statues—nymphs holding water vases on their shoulders. An odd choice for an inn, but the whole place looked odd. Or rather—too nice to be a common inn.
As Sorcha followed Eveleen down a long corridor, she noted that this place was larger than it appeared. A series of closed doors lined one side of the hallway. A shut set of double doors were right in the middle of the wall on the other side. The walls were plastered, whitewashed, and decorated with framed paintings of lovely women in various stages of undress. Sorcha lingered by one, a well-rendered scene of a female bathing in a moonlit waterfall wearing nothing more than a startled expression. On the cliff above her, a man and his horse stood in shadow, looking down at the girl. His air of brooding intent made Sorcha’s heart beat faster. The woman had no chance; he would capture her and have his way with her.
“Come on.” Eveleen grabbed Sorcha’s arm and tugged. “Ye can admire the art on the way oot. There’s better stuff ahead.”
“Really?” Sorcha stumbled after her. “Because I know something about art, and that painting is amazing. It tells a story. Is it supposed to be Zeus and one of his paramours?”
“I dunna know.” Eveleen was clearly a workingwoman who wasted no time. “Ye’ll have t’ ask Madam.”
“Madam? Does she run this inn?”
“Wi’ an iron fist
Rainger thought it was probably the first time since MacMurtrae was out of diapers that his expression softened. But it did and he, too, petted the pony. Then his face regained its usual surly scowl. “Do ye want me t’ interview the children she’ll carry t’ make sure they’re kind?”
“That would be lovely.” Sorcha beamed at him. “I knew that gruff exterior hid a kind heart.”
“Buried deep,” MacMurtrae growled. “Verra deep.”
“It was a pleasure to deal with you, sir.” Taking his hand, she pumped it enthusiastically.
When she released him and walked away, MacMurtrae wiped his palm on his pants.
Rainger relaxed and prepared to return to his horses.
Then Sorcha turned back to MacMurtrae. “You’ve been so fair, given me such an enjoyable barter, and I know I can trust you—so can you tell me, please, where can I get a meal? Someplace I can eat and pick up food for someone else?”
Rainger saw it happen before his very eyes.
An evil scheme took root and blossomed in MacMurtrae’s head. With a cheerful gloat in Rainger’s direction, he dipped his head and whispered in Sorcha’s ear.
“Thank you!” She started toward the edge of town.
“Hell!” Rainger followed.
MacMurtrae collared him as he walked past. “Ye got what ye wanted, man—a blasted guid price for the horses and yer woman’s pleased wi’ herself.”
In return, Rainger collared MacMurtrae. “She’s a lad. Remember that. She’s a lad.”
“If she is,” MacMurtrae reported, “she’s a damned silly lad.”
Rainger shoved past MacMurtrae.
But by the time he turned the corner behind Sorcha, she had disappeared.
Chapter 10
W ith her wonderful, hard-won two hundred pounds jingling in her pocket, Sorcha almost danced down the street and toward the inn recommended by Mr. MacMurtrae.
Arnou would be so pleased with her success! And surprised, too, for although he’d tried to hide his doubts, he clearly had misgivings that she could get the amount they’d decided would be appropriate. Plus she had the added satisfaction of knowing MacMurtrae would place the horses in good homes. Beneath that gruff, tough exterior, MacMurtrae was obviously a good man.
Sorcha knocked on the narrow door in the wall to which he had directed her, and when the serving girl opened it, Sorcha smiled. Careful to keep her voice at a masculine pitch, she said, “I’ve come to eat.”
The girl looked Sorcha over, then said, “All right. I’m Eveleen. This way.” Eveleen led her into a small, dim foyer decorated with two marble statues—nymphs holding water vases on their shoulders. An odd choice for an inn, but the whole place looked odd. Or rather—too nice to be a common inn.
As Sorcha followed Eveleen down a long corridor, she noted that this place was larger than it appeared. A series of closed doors lined one side of the hallway. A shut set of double doors were right in the middle of the wall on the other side. The walls were plastered, whitewashed, and decorated with framed paintings of lovely women in various stages of undress. Sorcha lingered by one, a well-rendered scene of a female bathing in a moonlit waterfall wearing nothing more than a startled expression. On the cliff above her, a man and his horse stood in shadow, looking down at the girl. His air of brooding intent made Sorcha’s heart beat faster. The woman had no chance; he would capture her and have his way with her.
“Come on.” Eveleen grabbed Sorcha’s arm and tugged. “Ye can admire the art on the way oot. There’s better stuff ahead.”
“Really?” Sorcha stumbled after her. “Because I know something about art, and that painting is amazing. It tells a story. Is it supposed to be Zeus and one of his paramours?”
“I dunna know.” Eveleen was clearly a workingwoman who wasted no time. “Ye’ll have t’ ask Madam.”
“Madam? Does she run this inn?”
“Wi’ an iron fist
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