Chapter Twenty-One

“I do not like the look of the place,” Mara grumbled as she peered down upon the town below. She and Ramsay lay side by side on their bellies in the bracken, their ponies some distance behind them.

The town, a small fishing port she guessed might be Ullapool, told her they had veered too far west. She must have lost her way at some point during the last five days’ travel which, she admitted ruefully, was what came of being distracted by a man she could no longer resist.

Indeed, when she thought back over the past days of their flight, only a certain few moments stood out in her mind: the scare they’d had after coming down from the mountain and nearly riding into a troop of King’s men; the constant bursts of rain; the warmth of Ramsay’s arms at night, and the way it felt when he ran the palm of his hand up her thigh; the many places where they had made love, including caves, copses, and on one abandoned afternoon the top of a mountain. She barely recalled the course they had set or how she had led him.

Which meant she had failed in her task. For her da and Laird Elliot had entrusted her with this man’s safety, expected her to guide him, not couple with him until both she and he became senseless.

Ramsay’s fault, entirely, she reflected now. She had only to look at the man, measure the breadth of his shoulders with her gaze, remember the touch of his fingers, or look into his eyes to want him all over again. The taste of him haunted her, prompted a hunger she could not seem to satisfy.

She glanced at him now before turning her gaze away sternly. He rested his chin on his fisted hands, and the weak sun burnished his hair with streaks of red gold.

“It looks peaceful enough,” he offered.

It did, yet a frisson of warning chased its way up Mara’s backbone. The town, a cluster of streets and cottages, faced a wide, shallow harbor where boats bobbed at anchor. More small boats could be seen arrayed out on the silver water, with the dots of islands beyond.

“There might be an inn,” Ramsay offered. “We could buy some ale.”

The longing in his voice reminded Mara of how he sounded at other times, and made her want to knock him back into the bracken and have her way with him.

“We dare not risk it,” she told him, and felt him slant a look at her.

“What do we dare, Mara MacIvor? Where is this wild chase meant to lead us, and how will it end?”

“I do no’ ken.”

“But were you no’ the one instructed by the fine Laird Elliot, he with all the grand ideas?”

“Aye, though we did no’ speak about the end of the chase.” Mara frowned. To be sure, Laird Elliot’s intentions now seemed unco’ vague. Her enthusiasm had carried her beyond any lack, at the time.

When she made no reply, Ramsay pressed his case. “Why not venture down there as anywhere? Surely if I shed my Prince’s garb we could go below and purchase a pint or two like any ordinary couple. We shall say we are newlyweds on a wedding journey.”

He leaned in to nuzzle her neck, and her blood leaped within her. Aye, so, and they had been behaving like newlyweds, right enough: all over each other at any given moment.

She drew away—not far. “If you shed your Prince’s garb, you shall be stone naked.” Ah, and that did not make a safe path for her thoughts. She had now seen Diarmad Ramsay naked many a time, and hoped for many more.

“If I shed the damned coat and wear my old plaid, I should pass muster.”

“Wear the Ramsay plaid over a Stuart kilt?”

He grunted and gazed below again. “It does not look busy enough for a town occupied by soldiers.”

It did not, yet from their vantage point they could not see the whole street, which curved away from them, and Mara’s uneasiness persisted. “What worries me is, since we have strayed so far west, the true Prince may already have been here, and not long since. Should a second Prince appear or even someone taken for him, ’twould mean exposure for sure.”

“Ah.”

“I am sorry, Ramsay, but a pint of ale is just no’ worth the risk.”

He glared at her in protest. By way of comfort, she leaned in and planted a kiss on his mouth. Her lips lingered and her blood instantly warmed.

“Is there not something else you would have, rather than a draught?” she asked when the kiss ended.

“Come to think on it, there is.”

“I promise it shall be yours—as soon as nightfall,” she whispered.

“Not before?”

“Perhaps before.” Quite possibly she could not endure until nightfall.

“Compensation, eh?” He lifted an eyebrow. “And just what form shall this compensation take?”

“Whatever form you like.” Did he not guess that he commanded her even as the Prince might not? Whatever Ramsay may think, she would never consent to do the things with Charles Edward that they had done together. For she loved it when Ramsay took command of her flesh almost as much as when she rode him like a pony.

“What if I would like an ale first and then you, Mara MacIvor? If there is an inn, we might take a room. Share a whole night in a bed.”

“And I might enjoy a bath.” The prospect danced before Mara’s mind’s eye the way flowing ale no doubt lured him. Was it safe? Could she disguise him as an ordinary traveler?

“Come.” She slid back from the rise and scrambled to her feet. “Let us see what can be done with you.”

****

The inn called Horns of the Moon appeared nearly deserted at this time of the afternoon. Situated at the intersection of the main road and another stony track, it seemed humble and far less well visited than the larger inn Mara could glimpse still farther down the street. Yet uneasiness still shimmied up her spine and made her skin itch.

The prospect of a bath, though, continued to entice her. Her vision of it had now evolved into one wherein she and Ramsay shared the water together, with beguiling consequences.

As soon as they stepped into the inn yard, a lad ran out to take their horses.

“Have we coin enough?” Ramsay whispered even as he surrendered his mount.

She glanced at him. Devoid of his fine coat and bonnet, and with his own plaid covering most of what lay beneath, he looked remarkably convincing as an ordinary traveler. She had combed and bound his hair and bidden him to look like a besotted bridegroom. Surely no one would connect him with Charles Stuart.

“Aye,” she returned; the horses they’d stolen from Archibald had proved generously supplied. To the lad she said, “Feed them well and brush them down. They have had a rough journey.”

He nodded and led the beasts off, which left Mara feeling even more vulnerable.

She looped her arm through Ramsay’s and started for the inn door. “Remember to look smitten with me.”

“Will this do?” He shot her a look hot enough to sear her skin and added lightly, “I am smitten with you, Mara MacIvor.”

Mara’s heart stuttered within her chest. He did not mean it; he merely teased her once again.

“Mara Ramsay now,” she returned. “Do no’ mistake and call me the wrong name.”

“Aye—my wife.” He drew her closer to his body, where she could feel its heat. She knew all the contours of that body now, where she only need touch him with her lips to render him hers.

Hers.

And what if she were his wife in truth? Impossible to imagine, but no more than she desired. A vision of the future wavered before her eyes: the two of them inseparable through the years, with a home together, and bairns. She could have wept for it.

She stumbled, and his strong arm caught her up.

He whispered, “Come along, Mistress Ramsay.”

They stepped through the main door into the gloom of a large room, nearly empty. The small windows that faced the street bore a century of soot, which dimmed the sunlight; a fire burned sluggishly in the hearth at the far end. A number of tables stood about, all but one unoccupied. A woman swept the floor industriously; Mara wondered how she could hope to see the litter.

She glanced up when they appeared and set her broom aside. “Good day. Did ye want a room?”

The two men sitting at the table looked up when she spoke. Both wore dark clothing and showed no glimpse of tartan—not soldiers, yet Mara mistrusted their appearance. The uneasiness that dogged her intensified.

She prodded Ramsay in the ribs with her elbow. As the male half of a wedded couple it was his place to speak.

“Aye, mistress,” he said in the humble tones to which she had bidden him. “If you might ha’ one available.”

The landlady, a head shorter than Mara and twice as wide, gave them an assessing look, no doubt wondering if they could pay.

Mara leaned toward her confidingly. “We are on our wedding journey, mistress, and would ha’ a fine place to…well…” She strove to blush, though the effect in the dim room was probably lost.

The landlady’s eyes widened with comprehension, but she said, “A wedding journey now, wi’ all the unrest about?”

“We were…constrained and could not wait.” Mara laid her hands across her belly in an age-old gesture, and Ramsay stared.

The landlady grunted. “What is the world coming to, just? But you are in luck; I’ve three rooms upstairs and only one taken.”

The two men seated at the table must be lodgers then. Mara had hoped they might soon depart.

As befitted his role of bridegroom, Ramsay asked, “How much, mistress, for a room, a good meal, and some ale?”

“And a bath,” Mara put in. “I would give much for a hot bath.”

The landlady’s brows rose as if scandalized, but she said grudgingly, “We have a room in back where the bath might be set up. ’Twill cost a bit extra, mind, with all that water to tote.”

Mara thought of the money in the pouch on the horse she had appropriated—left by MacNeal, no doubt. She nodded at Ramsay, who said, “A pint first.”

“The bath first,” Mara objected.

“Nay—the pint.”

The landlady grunted again, with what sounded like amusement this time, and relaxed a bit.

“Typical newlyweds, are you no’?” She looked at Ramsay. “You will have your hands full wi’ this one.”

“Aye,” Ramsay agreed. “Do I not know it?”