Page 58 of Rogue with a Brogue
Finally he lifted his head from her shoulder and kissed her again. “The part ye asked fer, with me kissing every inch of ye, will have to wait till we next find a proper bed,” he murmured.
“I’ll hold you to that.”
A fist pounded on the roof of the coach, making her jump. “M’laird, coaching inn ahead. Howard wants to change the horses.”
“Aye,” Arran called out, the sound shuddering into her. “We could stand to stretch our legs and find someaught to eat.”
Grimacing, he pulled out of her and rose up on his knees again to refasten his trousers. Not wanting to be caught on her back with her dress hiked up around her waist, Mary sat up and smoothed down her skirts. “How long have we been traveling?” she asked, finally pushing aside a curtain to see filtered sunlight lengthening the shadows of the trees to the east.
“A little better than seven hours. We’ll have breakfast here and then push on north. If ye want to change into yer riding habit we can travel on horseback until the next change of horses.” He favored her with a wicked smile. “Or we could stay in here and make ourselves comfortable.”
“That sounds delightful,” she returned, “but I think I’d prefer to ride for a while. I swear the coach’s springs are rusting away with every mile, if it had any to begin with.”
“They may be,” he agreed. “She’s nae much fer comfort, but she does have some speed. And today I’m glad fer that.”
In less than a minute they turned off the road and pulled to a halt. Still a bit shaky and out of breath, Mary waited until Peter opened the coach door and flipped down the steps before she emerged into the early morning chill. “Where are we?”
“Howard reckoned we’re just south of Bunbury,” Peter replied. “I told him that meant as much as the devil’s laugh to me, so then he said we’re aboot thirty miles south of Manchester.”
Neither man looked particularly satisfied with that answer, either. And Mary wished she’d paid more attention to her geography lessons. “I believe that puts us approximately eighty miles south and west of York,” she offered.
Arran’s expression cleared. “Nae good enough, but it’s progress,” he said. “I could say I wish now we’d taken less time to stroll aboot the countryside, but that would be a lie.”
She knew what he meant. As much as they could have used the distance now, staying at quaint inns and going to the Wigmore assembly to dance had been the most magnificent set of days of her life. “How much farther to Fort William?”
“If we’re as far from York as ye say, I’d wager aboot two hundred miles, lass. In this coach, on these roads, three days at the very least.”
Just from Arran’s tone she could tell what he was thinking. That it would more likely be four or five days, and that the rackety old coach wouldn’t be able to stay ahead of the Campbells. They would be caught. “Arran, I—”
“Let’s get someaught to eat, Mrs. Fox,” he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “I, fer one, am famished.”
“So we’re to wait until disaster strikes?” she asked, wrapping her hand around his sleeve.
“Disaster hasnae found us yet. And there are several roads leading north. We’ve nae been run down so far.”
“I had no idea MacLawrys were such optimists.”
This time his eyes danced as he grinned, and that seemed like something of a triumph. All she’d done thus far in this flight was to insist that Crawford join them and then to shut the maid into a room when she’d finally believed the overwhelming evidence that the woman had betrayed them. So she had a balance of nought.
“Oh, aye,” he responded, thankfully not reading her mind. “We MacLawrys still believe in sylphs and fairy tales. Or at least my brother Bear does.”
The inn’s roof sagged on the left side, and Arran had to shove on the door twice to get it open. All she could read of the hanging sign was Something Black Something, though from the faded drawing beneath she could guess it was Witch’s Black Kettle. Or perhaps Cauldron. Whatever it was, the place didn’t look terribly welcoming, and she edged closer to Arran as they stepped inside.
“The mail stage won’t be by here until Monday,” a low voice grumbled from the darkness. “You’d be better off waiting for it in Manchester.” Evidently the innkeeper could only afford a single pair of candles, because that was the only light present. Nor did she see any windows that could be thrown open to let in the morning sunlight.
“We’ve our own transportation,” Arran said in his faux accent, this time mimicking that of the unseen man in front of them. “We could use a change of horses and some eggs and toast.”
“Can you pay for it?”
“Can you provide it?” Arran countered.
A squat, round man waddled out of the back of the common room. “I’ve a pair of horses that’ll do for you, if you’ll pay for the hay to feed the ones you leave behind until somebody collects ’em.”
“And food?” Arran prompted, still not moving from the doorway. He had his free hand in his right pocket, Mary realized belatedly. Was he carrying a pistol? Did he expect an ambush?
“I’ll poach you some eggs. No toast, though, because I’ve no bread. Three shillings first.”
Arran released Mary and took a slow step forward, blocking her view of the stout man. “Do you have many people robbing you of poached eggs, then?” he asked succinctly. “Because I’m beginning to feel insulted.”
