IT SURELY FELT good to be clean, Caithren thought. Even if she’d had to fold her knees up to her chin to fit into the inn’s small wooden tub.
She tipped the wee bottle of oil she’d pressed from Leslie’s flowers, pouring a few more precious drops into the bath. Scooping a palmful of the lukewarm scented water, she smoothed it over her shoulders.
It smelled like Scotland. Like home.
When the water grew cold, she donned the clothes she’d brought for riding: soft brown breeches and a coarse white shirt, castoffs outgrown by Adam years ago. After plaiting her dark-blond hair, she piled it atop her head and jammed Cameron’s hat on top.
There was no mirror in her room, but she hoped she looked enough like a lad that the men downstairs would leave her alone. She’d had her fill of English men tonight. Just her luck, the scum brothers would be staying at this inn. And still in search of girls.
She ducked out the door, then turned and went back in to paw through her satchel and find Da’s pistol. It was an ugly thing of cold, mottled steel, made for naught but utility. It felt heavy in her hands—heavy and surprisingly reassuring. Bless Cameron for making her bring it; how had he known how alone and out of place she’d feel so far from home?
Remembering how Da had done so, she made sure the pistol was loaded, then half-cocked it and stuck it in the back of her breeches.
She dug her plaid out of the satchel to cover it. Unlike the English cloaks, a plaid was neither masculine nor feminine; Cam’s looked exactly the same as hers. With any luck, she might pass.
As an afterthought, she tucked both the miniature of Adam and his letter into her breeches pocket, then headed downstairs to the taproom, doing her best to swagger like a lad.
The paneled room was lit by oil lamps burning cheerfully on each of the round wooden tables. Pewter spoons clinked on pewter plates, and the buzz of leisurely conversation filled her ears. Homey scents of meat pie, fresh-baked bread, and brewed ale hung in the air. Her stomach growled.
She made her way to the taproom’s bar. “Mr. Brown?”
“Yes?” The innkeeper looked up from wiping the counter. His brow creased, as though he were wondering how she knew his name. So he didn’t recognize her; her disguise must be working.
She felt better already. “I’m looking—” She cleared her throat and deepened her voice. “I’m looking for my brother, an Adam Leslie. He was staying with Scarborough this week past.”
“Adam Leslie?” The man set down his fistful of rags and wiped his hands on the front of his breeches. “I don’t recall a man by that name.”
Caithren’s heart sank. Adam was fond of frequenting public taprooms, so she’d been hoping the innkeeper would know where he’d gone, what route he might have taken. Maybe she wouldn’t need to travel all the way to London.
The man ran a hand across his bald head. “What does he look like?”
“Tall, fair, longish blond hair…” She dug in her pocket and brought out the portrait. “Here,” she said, holding forth the wee oval painting. “I’m wondering if he told anyone where he was headed next.”
Brown took it and considered, frowning. “I’m sorry, but I recall no man named Adam Leslie, nor anyone who looks like this picture.” He handed it back. “Is it a decent likeness?”
She nodded.
“I have a good head for people, sir…er, miss?”
“Aye.” Caithren sighed. Her disguise wasn’t working after all.
Mr. Brown piled some discarded trenchers on a tray and lifted it to his shoulder. “I’m sure I would have remembered your brother had I seen him.”
Another lump was rising in her throat. She’d never been a crybaby, and she didn’t intend to take up the practice now. She pulled the letter from her pocket and unfolded it, scanning the worn page. “He was traveling with two other gentlemen, Lords Grinstead and Balmforth. Might you have seen them?”
“I’m afraid their names aren’t familiar, either.”
“Oh.” A burst of laughter in the background seemed to mock Caithren’s distress. Her hunger had faded…although she could very much use a mug of ale.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“It’s no fault of yours.” Slipping the letter and painting back into her pocket, she glanced about. She couldn’t face the other travelers eating and socializing in this room—she’d spent the best part of a week with some of them already, with more forced togetherness promised to come.
And what if Mrs. Dochart came downstairs? The old bawface didn’t know Cait was back yet—with a quick escape and any luck at all, she could spend one night alone in her peaceful, solitary room.
She turned back to the innkeeper. “Might you have some supper sent up? Room three.”
“Certainly, Miss…Leslie, is it not?”
“Aye. Thank you.”
“No trouble a’tall.” With another appraising glance, he disappeared into the kitchen, and she decided to order an ale before heading upstairs.