Free The Prince Kidnaps a Bride by Christina Dodd

spoon, Rainger joined in the slurping, too hungry to bother with manners that would be ill-appreciated here anyway. When Mrs. Gurdey placed a platter of sausages on the table, his knife held the others at bay while he stabbed the largest.
    It was a crafty display of skill, for he trusted these men not at all and they needed to know he was not easy prey.
    When he had satisfied his hunger, he sat back, fixed his most princely expression on his hostess, and asked, “Have you seen a young woman with hair the color of sunrise riding the road?”
    She stared sullenly at him, a woman who obviously hadn’t smiled since the day she first looked in the mirror. “No women ride this road. ’Twould be foolish.”
    “She was with a man named Sandie.”
    Mrs. Gurdey stared at him. “Sandie? Aye, Sandie’s been here.”
    “But no woman?”
    The female snorted. “Sandie hasna got a woman o’ his own. He’s a surly bastard, he is.”
    She returned to the fire to fling on another sausage, leaving Rainger to stare after her and wonder what Sandie’s temperament must be to have this woman think he was surly.
    Feandan wiped the gravy off his beard. “Did ye lose yer woman, lad?”
    “Yes.” Years ago. “Yes, I did.”
    “’Tis a shame when a filly goes astray.” He cocked a knowing eye. “Still, there are always others.”
    “Not for me.” Rainger had only the one princess left.
    “Ah. ’Tis like that, is it? Well, then, I’m afraid I didna see yer woman, but perhaps she covered her hair.”
    “Perhaps.” Rainger had been so frantic to find her, he hadn’t thought that the nuns might have dressed her in a habit or disguised her as... as what?
    From the woman by the fire came the answer. “Sandie had a lad traveling with him. Sandie was coming back, but the lad said he was going on t’ Edinburgh.”
    Horror lifted Rainger to his feet. “Did the boy have hair the color of sunrise?”
    “I don’t know aboot that,” she said, “but that lad had carrot hair fer sure. Do ye think that could be yer woman?”
    Rainger died a thousand deaths at the thought of Sorcha dressed like a lad. Did Mother Brigette not realize a pretty boy was as likely to be raped as any girl?
    But at least Sorcha was a woman who’d had little contact with men and would have the shy nature of a cloistered nun. She would keep to herself, barely speak to strangers, tremble at the idea of interaction with an unfamiliar man—and for her, all men were unfamiliar.
    Slowly Rainger sank back onto the bench.
    That was what he needed to remember. Sorcha might be untutored in the way of the world, she wasn’t bold, and she was very, very wary.
    Luckily for Rainger, he didn’t know that at that moment, Sorcha stood in the common room of the Brown Cock Tavern, her arms draped around the shoulders of her new best friends, Mike and Haverford, singing the ditty called “Your Bubbies Look Like Melons, But They’re Lemons In My Mouth”—and she was having a marvelous time.
     
    The next morning, Sorcha shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. MacCutcheon. “Thank you so much for allowing me to stay in your marvelous accommodations. I can well see why your inn was recommended to me.”
    “Ach, ’twas a wonderful night we had wi’ ye.” Mr. MacCutcheon’s round face beamed like the full moon. “The best I can remember.” He nudged his wife. “Heh, Nellie?”
    “I canna remember a better.” Mrs. MacCutcheon, as tall and thin as her husband was short and round, wiped her hands on her apron, reached out, and gave Sorcha a jerky hug. In Sorcha’s ear she whispered, “I’ll remember what ye said about shrieking at the pig rather than MacCutcheon—they’re enough alike I’ll get me satisfaction and MacCutcheon will stop scowling.”
    Sorcha hugged her back. “He’s a fine man, to have such a fine woman for his wife.”
    “I’ll remind him of that, too.” Mrs. MacCutcheon smiled at her spouse, who smiled back with the blissful expression of a man who, the