Her Highness and the Highlander: A Princess Brides Romance (4 page)

Might they still be searching? Might they even now be on their way to this inn, checking
one lodging after another in the vicinity in hopes of locating her?

She met the major’s gaze again and let him see the silent entreaty in her eyes, begging
him to stay.

He studied her for another long moment, then turned to the servant. “An ale for me,
rather than the wine, and a hot brandied milk for the lady. She looks as if she could
do with some warming up even now.”

Mercedes released a pent-up breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding, then
took a step back to let the maid walk past. Only after the door closed behind the
servant did she look toward MacKinnon once more. “Thank you for agreeing to join me
this evening,” she said. “I am not in the habit of dining alone and I thought we might
both benefit from the company.”

He gazed at her as though he knew exactly why she had insisted he join her, but to
her relief he did not press the point. “Indeed, pleasant company and good food ne’er
go amiss.”

She nodded and gave him a slight smile.

He continued studying her, a thoughtful expression on his rough-hewn features. “What
really happened to you today, lass?” he questioned in a soft, melodic brogue. “Who
is it that you fear?”

She shivered and played her fingers over the edge of her robe. “That’s just it. I
do not know who they are. I know only that they want to find me and do me harm.”

D
aniel quaffed a mouthful of ale and watched Mercedes tuck in to the hearty mutton
stew the serving maid had provided for supper. Although he had to confess that
tuck
might not be the right word for the delicate way Mercedes wielded her knife and fork.
Her precision was almost mesmerizing, as she cut each piece of food into a neat, easily
consumable portion before bringing the bite to her lips. She ate and drank and patted
her mouth with her napkin with equal measures of refinement.

Even so, he mused, as he leaned negligently back in his chair, that didn’t mean she
was anything more than a good mimic.

He’d once seen an actress portray a duchess onstage with an elegance that would have
impressed an Almacks’s patroness. But when he’d gone backstage with a friend after
the performance to meet her, he’d been astonished by the complete change in the woman
as she drank and swore and displayed her more than ample physical wares with all the
grace of a Billingsgate fishwife.

Mercedes Wyndom might have excellent table manners, but they didn’t make her a princess
any more than they made
him a king. He’d listened to her story of danger and murder at the hands of highwaymen
intent on harming her, and although he knew there must be some truth to her tale,
he wondered if there was more of the Minerva Press about the events than actual reality.

Someone had threatened her, though, that much was clear. She jumped at every creak
and thump that echoed through the inn, and he couldn’t forget the quiet desperation
that had shone in her dark eyes, both downstairs and when she’d insisted he join her
for supper.

He wondered again who she really was. A down-on-her-fortune lady’s maid perhaps? Or
a squire’s daughter who had run away from home?

For now, however, he would play along with her Banbury tale.

“More bread, Your Highness?” he suggested, gesturing toward the wicker basket of rolls
and the small brown crock of butter that sat on the table between them.

“No,” she refused. “I couldn’t possibly.” She paused, her gaze falling on the empty
plate he’d earlier set aside. “Are you sure you won’t have any of the stew? It is
surprisingly excellent, all things considered.”

He shook his head. “As I said before, I ate earlier in the taproom and have no appetite
for anything more than this ale.” He lifted the tankard in a silent salute, then took
a drink.

“As for your remarks on the meal,” he continued once he’d set the ale aside, “were
you expecting to be served something less than palatable? Poached lambs’ brains, perhaps,
or pickled tripe?”

Her eyes widened.

He rubbed his fingers over his mouth to hide a smile.

“Well, no,” she ventured. “I did not know what to expect, as I have never before dined
in an establishment such as this one. Do some inns really serve”—her lip curled—“those
dishes you mentioned?”

“A fair few might to the unsuspecting traveler. But you’ve
no cause to worry. We Scots only serve bad fare to Sassenachs we doona like. We save
the rancid haggis for them.”

She stared, clearly trying to decide whether he was jesting. Slowly she relaxed and
smiled. “Then it is good that you agreed to join me at table so that the serving maid
wouldn’t ruin the meal.”

“She wouldn’t have dared.”

Or risk inciting my wrath,
he added to himself.

Earlier, before he’d come upstairs to check on Mercedes, he’d had another conversation
with the innkeeper and the maid. By the end of their talk, they’d been left in no
doubt that he would tear a strip off anyone who tried to cause Mercedes further distress,
and that they were to see to it she was cared for with the same concern they would
give a member of their own family. Between the money he’d pressed into their palms
and the none-too-subtle warning, they’d both agreed to do his bidding with alacrity.

“She seems a kind girl,” Mercedes remarked about the maid as she laid her knife and
fork neatly across her plate. “She lent me these clothes and said she’d find a new
gown for me to wear on the morrow.”

Daniel raised the tankard to his mouth again, and decided not to mention that he had
been the one responsible for the new gown as well. At his behest, the maid had promised
to visit the dressmaker in the nearby village as early as possible, assuring him that,
even if she had to roust the woman from her bed, she would have clothes ready and
waiting for Mercedes by the time breakfast was served.

He wasn’t certain why he was going to so much trouble and expense for this wayward
young woman. He supposed he couldn’t resist any female who was so clearly in need
of help. But once he made sure she was settled sufficiently to manage until her friends
or family could be contacted, he would be on his way. He had another four days’ ride
to the coast and a fifth by boat to Skye. He’d been away long enough; he had no wish
to delay further.

“Sadly, my gown is an utter ruin,” Mercedes said. “It used
to be so lovely. One of my favorite traveling gowns before—” She broke off, swallowing
hard. The fear had returned to her eyes, turning them nearly black.

Picking up a serving spoon with a trembling hand, she reached for the dessert in the
center of the table. “Would you…would you care for some of this tart? It’s strawberry,
I believe,” she said.

Daniel set down his tankard and reached out to cover her hand. “You’re safe here.
Doona be afraid.”

She lifted her gaze to his. “What if they are still searching for me? What if they
find me?”

“Shh,” he hushed. “No one is going to find you here.”

“But they could—”

“They will no’,” he soothed, humoring her on the subject of her phantom highwaymen.
“Even if someone is still looking, it’s highly doubtful he would check this particular
inn. It is no’ on the main coaching route. Besides, any newcomer would be noticed
the instant he set foot over the threshold. You should be aware of that fact for yourself.”

He watched as she considered his words; reluctantly she nodded.

“I’ve also told the innkeeper that if someone does ask for you, he is to tell me instead.”

Her lips parted on an inhalation of surprise. Daniel couldn’t help noticing how pink
they were, and how pretty.

“You did?” she murmured.

“Aye.”

He might not trust the more elaborate aspects of her story, but that didn’t mean it
was all a pack of nonsense. On the slim chance that someone really was searching for
Mercedes—presuming that was indeed her real name—then he wanted to be there to find
out exactly who they were and what they wanted of her.

“Which is why you are no’ to worry further,” he continued. “Once I retire for the
night, you are to lock the door securely behind me so no one can startle you as I
so regrettably did earlier.”

“And where will you be once you leave?” she asked, a quaver still audible in her tone.

“Right next door. If anything frightens you, you are to knock on the wall and awaken
me. I assure you, after ten years of war, I’m a very light sleeper.”

She studied him again, then nodded once more. “Thank you. You are…extraordinarily
kind.”

“Ha. I doubt you’ll convince anyone else of that, since I’m no’ known for my sympathetic
nature. Rather the opposite, or so I’ve been told.”

“I cannot believe that,” she said gravely.

“Believe it, lass. I’m as tough as they come.”

He’d had to be in order to survive; men with soft hearts and weak constitutions didn’t
last long on the battlefield. He’d done things that would make her blanch with horror.
He’d cut men down where they stood and left them gasping their last breath while he
turned his back to slay the next.

But that was over now, his days of blood and carnage in the past; peace was the blessing
that lay ahead.

Suddenly he didn’t want her to know him for who he was, wanting her to believe he
was the hero she seemed to imagine.

Daniel smiled. “But enough of such talk. You’re safe and have no reason to worry.
Are we agreed?”

Slowly, her lips curved up as well. “Yes. Agreed.”

“Good.” He gave her hand a light squeeze, noticing how silky smooth her skin felt.
Whoever she was, she’d clearly never done a day of manual labor in her life.

Is she a runaway?
he wondered again.
If so, who has she run from and who does she fear?

“On second thought,” he said, “I could do with a helping of that tart. Assuming you’ll
join me, that is.”

She smiled. “I suppose it would be rude to disappoint the cook.” Reaching again for
the serving spoon, she began to portion out the sweet.

Bushes scraped her skin while tree branches tangled in her hair and snatched at her
clothes like a hundred bony hands. Her breath burned hot as flame in her heaving lungs,
her feet aching as she ran and ran and ran.

She was lost. Hopelessly lost.

But not alone.

The forest echoed with the heavy footfalls of the hunters giving chase, and she knew
how the fox felt as the poor animal dashed for freedom.

If she stopped, they would have her. But how could she keep going when she was so
tired? How much longer would she last?

Suddenly a man’s hot breath whispered in her ear and she screamed.

“Got you, Your Highness.”

Mercedes sat bolt upright in bed, a silent scream lodged in her throat. Shaking, disoriented,
she gazed around the dark, unfamiliar room, not sure where she was or how she had
gotten there.

The inn,
she realized suddenly.
I’m at the inn.

She peered through the low light toward the door, relieved to find it closed and locked.

At least she assumed it was locked.

But was it still? What if someone had come in while she was sleeping? What if the
man from her dream hadn’t been a dream at all?

The room looked exactly as it had when she had gone to bed; nothing was different
or out of place. And another careful inspection showed that there was no man—only
her.

A nightmare,
she assured herself.
It was nothing but a nightmare.

Her gaze went again to the door, her pulse racing fast, her mouth dry.

Before she gave herself a chance to lose what sliver of nerve she had left, she flung
back the tangled covers and hurried
across the room. She rattled the doorknob in its frame and checked the iron bolt above.

Both were locked.

She dashed back to the bed and climbed in, pulling the covers as high beneath her
chin as they would go.

The single candle the maid had lit earlier had gone out, leaving only a watery moonlight
to shine weakly into the room.

At least the worst of the storm had finally passed, although the wind continued to
blow with a low, eerie keening. The wooden building creaked and groaned at odd intervals,
its frame shuddering slightly whenever a gust whipped hard against the timbers.

“It’s only the wind,” she whispered to herself over and over again in a quiet chant.
“Just close your eyes and go back to sleep. It’s only the wind.”

But she lay trembling instead, her eyes squeezed shut, her fingers half numb from
their grip on the sheets. She thought about calling for Major MacKinnon, but what
a coward he would think her. What a ninnyhammer.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Slowly she began to relax, the exertion and exhaustion of the day rising to draw her
back into the world of dreams. She was sliding over the edge into sleep when a high,
thin screeching sound raked across the windowpanes like fingernails being drawn across
a slate.