Page 51 of Ruthless, But for Her

“Ye devil,” she murmured to Ashton, her tone confirming she believed none of the tale they’d offered.

Then she asked him a bit louder, “You’ll be wanting a hot meal and a room?”

“Two of both,” he said, handing her coin. “What news of late?”

“Cattle lifted out of Redesdale, three score head, and no man will say by whose hand. And there’s a toll dispute at the ford that’ll be settled with knives before the month’s out.” She sniffed. “And de Grey’s been calling men in. A dozen at Alnwick that I’ve heard of, likely more I’ve not.”

“To what end?”

“If I knew that, I’d charge ye more for it.”

When the door of the inn opened, Magge turned her attention to it. A man had walked in—Sir Bryce Warren. Ashton met his eyes across the hall and the knight inclined his head, no more than that, before Magge reached him. Ashton returned the nod.

“This is an... interesting place,” Cassia observed.

“And Magge?” Ashton couldn’t resist asking.

Cassia looked toward the innkeeper and then back to him just as a serving girl clapped down two mugs of ale in front of them. She eyed Ashton appreciatively, then walked away. She had known him and his brothers on more than one occasion. He was less interested now than he’d ever been, despite an allure that had likely earned her more coin than any of the Wild Boar’s other serving maids.

And probably the Daisy’s too. With exceptions.

“Magge is sharp-eyed and sharp-witted. She’s obviously respected, but there’s a kindness to her that I suspect others fail to see.”

Ashton took a sip of his ale, stunned.

Her description of the innkeeper was more accurate than Cassia could have imagined. And she’d ascertained it almost immediately. He had watched her do it for weeks without naming it.

“Your ability to read people is uncanny. It’s one some people spend years attempting to perfect.”

Cassia took a timid sip. She’d had ale at her father’s table most days of her life, but it wasn’t ale like this.

“As I said, ’tis an ability I’ve not been encouraged to use.”

“I believe I’ve told you of Walter Crey once before. He was a mentor, of sorts. Walter often said that most men listen only for their turn to speak. Yet if you learn to listen for what a man would rather you didn’t hear, he’ll hand it to you himself.”

“He was the advisor to the English crown,” she said. “You spoke of him once. You said he taught you to speak in rooms you were never meant to enter.”

“He did.”

“An advisor to the crown. A Norse jarl who once ruled Orkney, a man who was a finer shipmaster than any man living.” She turned the cup in her hands. “In some ways, you and your brothers received an education others would envy.”

“Some might envy other parts of our upbringing as well.”

That was something best not said aloud to a lady, and Ashton wasn’t ignorant of the fact. But instead of being shocked or insulted, Cassia smiled.

He suspected she might.

“Evidently word of Roland’s death has not reached the inn yet,” he said. “I suspect Magge would have mentioned it already. So it seems this may be an extended stay.”

Cassia leaned forward, elbows on the table in a way he was certain she was bred not to do, and gave him the most genuine open smile that, perhaps, he’d ever been given. There was a cheekiness to it as well.

“So, tell me true. What is it like to grow up in a stew house?”

CHAPTER 31

Ashton

“Many have asked that question,” Ashton said with some amusement. “I've answered with many different versions. Which would you like?”