To Love a Highlander by Sue-Ellen Welfonder Page B

Stirling?”
    “I think not, my lady,” Sorley answered in the musical dialect of an Islesman, grateful not for the first time for his ability to adopt different accents. He also allowed his hood to slip farther down his face. “My like isnae welcome there.”
    “Is that so?” She lifted a brow. “I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere. It will come to me.”
    “Belike you saw him here, fair lady.” Roag rode between them, blocking her view of Sorley. “If you’ve halted at the Red Lion before.
    “See you,”—he used the same Hebridean dialect as Sorley—“Dungal here empties the inn cesspit for a crust o’ bread and ale.
    “When I’m hungry meself, I help him.” He flashed a look at Sorley, the muck smears on his face not dark enough to hide his amusement. “A good day to you, lady! The saints’ blessings upon you.”
    Mirabelle opened her mouth to respond, but Roag whacked Sorley’s nag on the rump so the poor beast bolted through the gate and onto the road. Roag followed swiftly, his laughter again disguised as a cough.
    Sorley waited until they’d rounded a bend in the roadbefore he reined in and threw back his hood. Anger blazed in his veins and he’d swear a fine red haze tinted the rolling farmland and woods around them. For two pins, he’d whip out his sword and ensure that the ground ran red as well, drenched with Roag’s spilled blood.
    Roag was still laughing, nearly convulsed, and his tears made tracks in the dung on his face.
    Sorley reached over, gripping the lout’s arm. “Dinnae e’er do that again or I’ll forget every rule I live by and make you a true reeking gangrel before you could catch your breath to run away.”
    “You could try.” Roag grinned and thwacked Sorley’s shoulder. “I’m thinking you should thank me. Thon lady knew you.”
    “A pig’s eye, she did.” Sorley knew she had.
    Scowling, he drew a long, tight breath and started riding again.
    Roag could take himself to hell, though Sorley knew he’d never have such luck. He also knew he’d be wise not to meet Mirabelle in the chapel later that night.
    He should forget their rendezvous and put her from his mind.
    But even as he acknowledged the wisdom of such a plan, he knew it was doomed to fail. As soon as he returned to Stirling from the hamlet of St. Mary’s, he’d take a hot, cleansing bath, dress in his finest, and hie himself to the chapel like the fool he’d become.
    Mirabelle would be there waiting.
    And simply put, he couldn’t resist her.

Chapter Four

    L ichen and moss such as gracing this inn’s roof slates have long been prized for their remedial properties.” Munro MacLaren’s voice rang with enthusiasm as he paced the Red Lion’s long room. A small man, slight of stature, but with piercing, intelligent blue eyes, he could scarcely contain his excitement. “A century ago, Bernard of Gordon praised them in his masterful work on healing, the
Lilium Medicinae
.”
    Standing near the door, Mirabelle recognized her father’s fervor. She hoped he wouldn’t start a long discourse, keeping them from their business here.
    It wouldn’t take hours for his men to help him onto the roof to examine and gather his samples.
    But if he became carried away speaking of medicine and healing, they wouldn’t be leaving the inn before nightfall, if then. Should rooms be secured, their return to the castle delayed until morning…
    She’d miss meeting Sorley at the chapel.
    Not wanting to consider such a possibility, Mirabelle stepped closer to the door, pretending to peer out at the inn’s cobbled rear yard.
    Behind her, her father had drawn a deep breath and was already extolling the virtues of the
Lilium Medicinae,
his favorite manuscript on healing.
    Turning back to the room, Mirabelle’s heart sank to see the familiar look on her father’s face. The slight flush to his cheeks and the light in his eyes hinted that they could be here until the morrow.
    If so, she’d find a way to return to