Free To Love a Highlander by Sue-Ellen Welfonder Page B

no’ forget the man who kens Wyldes better than you.” Roag reached across the table, knocking his ale cup against Sorley’s. “William!”—he looked at the innkeeper, using his given name—“why is this den o’ madmen so empty? The floor swept and the tables scrubbed cleaner than a bairn’s behind?”
    “Why would any man go to such trouble?” Wyldes pulled back a chair, joining them. “Word came that a party of lofties are riding in later this morn. I wasn’t told if they’ll be staying the night or just wanting a good, warm meal and my best heather ale.
    “So-o-o!” He brought his hand down on the table, striking the wood so hard the ale cups jumped. “I’ve warned my patrons to stay away. The lasses are cleaning the rooms, should they be needed.”
    “Worthies, eh?” Roag cocked a brow. “Good to take care then. Suchlike are the same the world o’er. A dust mote twirling the wrong way and they’ll be for demanding your head. Or”—he slid a wolfish look at Sorley—“are they bringing along ladies? If so, my friend here—”
    “I am no’ your friend, you buffoon.” Sorley didn’t allow him to finish.
    For the oddest reason, his gut had tightened when the innkeeper mentioned visiting nobles. Worse, the fine hairs on his nape lifted, and that was a sign he never ignored. His instincts served him well.
    “Do you ken who these gentlefolk are?” He kept his gaze on Wyldes, not daring to look at Roag lest the blackguard guess his thoughts.
    For that reason, he didn’t dare ask if the guests were Highlanders.
    “Nae, no one saw fit to tell me their names.” Wyldes shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “You needn’t worry you’ll miss a delectable lass.” He winked at Roag. “The men are scholars. Most learned, by the sound of it. Scribes, clerks, and that ilk, I’m sure. Suchlike willnae have fetching misses with them.”
    “Quill-wielders and ink-fingers?” Roag nearly choked. “What would they want at the Red Lion?”
    Wyldes gripped the table edge and leaned forward. “Queer folk, I say you.” He lowered his voice, casting a glance at the inn’s main door. “I was told they plan to climb on the roof to examine the lichen and moss up there. Odin only knows what they hope to discover.”
    “Odd, indeed.” Roag waved a hand through a drift of smoke wafting past them from one of the lanterns.“Whate’er, you’d best put fresh oil in the lamps before they arrive. On the other hand,” he sounded amused, “if they’re after slate moss and lichen rather than your ale and fine roasted meats, like as no’ they’ll no’ notice a bit of candle grease and lamp smoke in the air.
    “Eh, Hawk?” Roag half-rose from his chair to punch Sorley’s arm. “Such fools could probably eat a plate of bog peat and no’ ken what they’re putting in their bellies. Nothing but their books and scrolls interests them.”
    Sorley scarce heard him.
    He had caught Wyldes’s calling the men learned.
    Mirabelle’s father was a known scholar. Hadn’t she claimed they were in Stirling so he could assist the King’s scribes in translating ancient Gaelic medicinal texts? Could lichen and moss be used for healing? Sorley was sure he’d heard the like somewhere.
    With his luck of late, the party of nobles would be MacLarens. For sure, Lady Mirabelle would be along. Meeting her here, at the Red Lion, was the last thing he needed. He especially didn’t want to run into her when he was leaving the inn.
    Hoping to avoid such a disaster, he pushed back his chair and stood.
    “I must be away.” He shot a glance at a door in a corner of the inn. It led to the rear yard and stables. He turned to the innkeeper, hoping Roag would take his leave. “Have you readied a horse?”
    “I’ve done better.” The big man grinned, likewise pushing to his feet. “You’ll find two of my sorriest nags saddled and waiting for you. And”—his deep voice took on a conspiratorial tone—“o’er by the well, there’s