Page 11 of Torin and His Oath (Torin and the Princess #2)

LEXI

T he road grew crowded as daylight waned. We moved with the press of peasants, cattle drovers, and hard-eyed ruffians — some trudging on foot, some behind ox-carts, a few lucky enough to ride. Very few women.

We had the finest horses of the lot, and Torin was the tallest, broadest man in sight. But his size drew eyes, and I felt his tension in the way he kept his jaw set, curt with every passerby. He urged us straight through the crowd, headed for the inn.

It was a low stone building, whitewashed in patches, its thatched roof dark with smoke and rain. It was too small for the number of travelers that had been jostling along the road. It made me wish we had hurried up and gotten here earlier.

I lowered my voice. “Are they going to have room for us?”

“I daena ken.”

“What is your excuse for the bruise on your face?”

“I will tell them we were set upon by ruffians. Tis an explanation enough for yer strange dress as well.”

“Oh.”

A crude wooden sign swung by the door, a stag’s head scratched in charcoal across a splintered board. A man stood in the doorway, lighting the lamp as dusk crept in. Torin drew us up beside him.

“Dost ye hae a room?”

The innkeeper didn’t even glance our way. “Nae.”

Torin demanded in a strong loud voice, “Ye will. Ye canna leave us without shelter. M’uncle is a laird?—”

That made the man look up, his eyes narrowed.

Torin pressed, “M’wife is weary. We were assaulted upon the road. She needs rest and shelter. We need a meal. Allow us tae enter and provide room and board.”

The innkeeper squinted. “Twas on the pass?”

“Aye, ruffians.”

The man muttered, “Och, there’s a great deal o’ trouble about. Ye’ll pay well for the difficulties it causes?”

Torin didn’t hesitate. “Aye. I will pay well.”

The innkeeper’s wife appeared in the doorway, her apron food-stained, a kerchief binding back her hair. He bent to whisper in her ear, and she disappeared quickly into the smoky interior.

He said, “I’ll move the drovers from Kincardine tae the stables, and free up a room for ye. But I warn ye, Sire — there are ruffians about. A murder up near the pass. Ye must be cautious.”

Torin said, “We heard tell of it. Dost ye ken the reason?”

“Twas likely outlaws battlin’, but ye best keep yer wife safe.”

Torin gave a single nod. “Will there be room in the stable for our horses?”

“We’ll make room, Sire.”

Torin swung down from the saddle, boots hitting the dirt. He turned immediately, arms raised. His hands closed warm and firm around my waist as he lifted me free and lowered me slowly to the ground. Protective, steady — and for one dizzy moment, I had the ridiculous urge to swoon.

“Come with me tae the stables,” he said, still holding me a breath longer than necessary before letting go. Then he gathered the reins and led us there.

The stables crouched low and dark, the smell of hay, horses, and damp wood heavy in the evening air. A boy darted past with a pitchfork, startled wide-eyed at the sight of Torin’s broad frame and our fine mounts.

Inside, shadows stretched across straw-strewn floors.

A single lantern swung from the beams. The air was warm with horse and peat smoke.

Other travelers’ beasts shifted uneasily, the close air thick with their snorts and stamping hooves.

Torin guided our horses to a corner stall as though the place belonged to him.

Dude leapt from the saddlebag, winding around my legs. I crouched to scratch behind his ears, and he began to purr.

While Torin unlatched our bags, I explained solemnly to Dude, “We’re staying in this hotel. It’s not big, I don’t know if you’re invited, but we’ll be right inside.” I pointed.

Dude rubbed once more beneath my hand, then darted out into the night. I straightened, hands on my hips, watching him go.

“Do you think he knows what I’m saying? That he needs to stay close?”

Torin dropped a bag at my feet. “He’s a cat of verra few words, but clever enough. He kens the horse is his ride and ye are his master. He ought tae stay near.”

“If the vessel starts working, we can’t leave him here. He’s not a medieval cat — he’s a modern cat.”

“Aye, we winna leave the cat tae fend for hisself. He has lived on Mistress Lexi’s lands, rulin’ over yer house, what did ye say twas called?”

“Laurel Ridge.”

He nodded. “Laurel Ridge must have its cat, the cat must have his home. Tis m’first priority.”

He untied the last bag, stacked it on the pile, and passed the reins to a stable boy. “Rub them down proper, lad. Twas a long day.”

“Aye, sire.” The boy bowed and led the horses deeper into the shadows.

Torin’s stomach growled again. “Finally, I can eat.” He hefted the pile of bags to his shoulders, a ridiculous amount of weight.

“I could help.”

His eyes went wide. “Och nae, Princess, ye would hae me walk intae a tavern with m’ lady carryin’ the load?”

“Not all of it — just one. A light one.”

“What would the men think of me? They would mock me mercilessly!”

I said, “That can’t possibly be true. Women can carry things, we’re strong.”

He jokingly scoffed. He had heavy bags all over his shoulders and looked very weighed down. “Ye say ye are strong. Where are yer muscles?”

I bent my elbow and flexed. My bicep barely showed. He laughed.

I joked, “It’s much bigger when I pump some iron.”

He looked confused. “Pump... tae mean, what?”

“I mean to lift weights and pump the muscle bigger so it will impress you.”

He shook his head, amused. “I daena think we hae time tae wait for the miracle it would take tae impress me with yer muscles. Princess, I am verra hungry. Can I give ye one sack so we may get straight tae supper?”

I said, “Fine, yes, heaviest you’ve got so I can prove myself.”

He dipped his shoulder, and let one bag drop with a thud.

It was heavy. Very heavy. I hoisted it, wobbling under the weight. “Ferrari carried this without complaint? Wow.”

I trailed him toward the inn, staggering under the filthy leather bag, the stench of horse and dust rising with every step. Hungry, raw-skinned, weak-kneed, I wondered why I hadn’t just played the Princess card and let him carry it.