The Highlander's Thief

Chapter Three

Clearly the lass wasn't nearly as smart as she thought, McWilliam mused as they continued on. Not if she thought a declaration like that would instantly change his mind. She could claim to be telling the truth until her face turned blue, he wasn't ever going to give her the benefit of the doubt.

She was feisty, sure. Spirited, even, but a liar and a thief most definitely.

The day dragged by, and Rosa wiggled the entire time. He handed her another couple of oatcakes as he contemplated their sleeping options. If it was up to him, they would travel through the night, but Mist was beginning to tire and, in truth, so too was he. It had been a long day.

When darkness came, sleeping rough wasn't ideal but being arrested and sent to prison was even less desirable. Nevertheless, a warm bed, bath and shave wouldn't go amiss. Perhaps one of the hamlets they kept passing housed a suitable coaching inn. If they only stayed one night and left early the next morning there'd barely be time for questions to be asked. And he hadn't been lying when he'd told Rosa everybody would be searching for a single woman, not a married couple.

McWilliam glanced over Rosa's shoulder to the simple band on her finger. It suited her—the gold brought out the warm tones of her skin and seemed to amplify the soft pink of her nail-beds.

He nodded contentedly to himself. The ring would work.

By sundown, Mist was beginning to tire, so he brought them to a stop before a pub nestled between a couple of farmhouses and a large storage barn. Rosa raised a questioning eyebrow but remained silent.

"If you talk to anyone," he threatened. "We're leaving, and you can spend the night sleeping in a ditch."

He helped her down, Rosa brushing away his hands as soon as her feet touched the ground.

The ring would work, but if anyone caught sight of the nightdress beneath her mantle people would definitely be suspicious. At least the mantle hid most of the nightdress, and if he stood in front of her nobody should get anything more than a glance at her dirt-splattered hem.

McWilliam tucked Rosa's hand into the crook of his arm and strode inside before he could change his mind.

They were greeted by a middle-aged woman who sent someone outside to care for Mist with a jerk of her head. Her greying hair was tied back in a tight bun, not a strand out of place and, while her shoes were almost worn through at the toe, they'd been shined so black they practically reflected the roof rafters overhead.

She barely glanced at Rosa, her gaze caught on McWilliam's kilt.

He straightened his shoulders. "A room, Mistress, if ye have one to spare."

She narrowed her eyes at his words, her displeasure at hearing his Scottish accent almost palpable. "I don't think—"

"Ye don't think what?" His hand dropped automatically to the dirk hanging from his belt, although he made no move to draw it.

"It's getting cold outside," Rosa interrupted. "I'm sure you have two rooms to spare."

So much for keeping her mouth shut, and like hell he was letting her stay in her own bedchamber.

The women finally looked to Rosa. "Is that a London accent I detect?"

Rosa glanced towards him and something about his face must have silenced her for she clamped her mouth shut again.

"My wife," he emphasized, "and I are newly married. While she's English, we'll be living in the land of my ancestors. That's where we're headed. But it's been a long day and we're both tired."