Page 45 of The Scot’s Secret

And so his companion for the rest of the day was not the comely maid he’d come to enjoy looking at, but the squire who’d come to Brockburg to serve him. Seeing her with her hair piled into that plain hat, the familiar smudges of dirt on her face. . .

He should never have allowed such a thing to happen.

They pushed past both meals, stopping only for their base comforts. Both mounts were trained for hard conditions, and despite the hilly, often difficult path, they arrived at The Anvil Inn just past sunset.

Owned by a man whose wife had been killed by Scottish reivers, and now run by the man’s two sons, The Anvil Inn was large and fairly clean, which meant they’d likely have a warm bed—possibly two—waiting. The temperature had dropped markedly, which made the prospect even more appealing.

“’Tis not a place fit for a lady,” he said, apologizing as the inn came into view. It was surrounded by a stone wall and two other structures. . . a stable and another small building Alex knew to be for storage. A few years earlier, the only other inn for miles was robbed and razed by a Scottish border clan intent on staking a claim to the area. Since then, no others dared to try to establish themselves here.

As they dismounted from their horses, the brothers who ran the inn, Bo and Berit, came out to greet them. The brothers bore a close resemblance; brown hair covered their heads and faces in waves. Indeed, if anyone reminded Alex of England’s Norse invaders, it was their descendants, Bo and Berit.

“Twice in one year! Look Bo, Kerr has come back with a big strong lad to serve him.”

“You may be twice his size, Berit,” Alex said gamely, “but Alfred could outwit you without saying a word.”

A groom poked his head out from the stables, and Berit nodded to him, indicating he should see to their horses. Scurrying to carry out his order, the boy took their mounts, leaving Alex and Clara—Alfred—alone with the brothers.

“Greetings, men. You’ve met my new squire, Alfred. Many thanks for the warm welcome.” Alex turned toward Clara with a grin. “A personal greeting from Bo and Berit. They must have known you were English at first sight.”

“English?” Bo turned toward her. “Leave this bastard and work for a real man,” he blustered. “I’ll offer ya—”

“The squire’s not for hire, you overgrown ox,” Alex said.

“Better an overgrown ox than the worst sort of man, despite your humor.”

At Clara’s confused glance, Alex clarified. “Scottish. You see, Bo and Berit haven’t yet reconciled that we’re not very different here along the border, with the exception that they fight for the wrong side.”

“Fight?” exclaimed Berit. “Not for this king.”

That he was so willing to speak words that could see him hanged for treason was yet another reason they needed to be on their guard this eve. Bo and Berit cared for one thing, their inn. They were raucous, teasing men, and while they could not be trusted, they would offer them clean beds thanks to Bo’s wife, who managed the household tasks.

“Admirable,” Alex said, catching Clara’s horrified glance. “Poor Alfred will think you brutes the most inhospitable of hosts if you don’t invite us inside.”

Berit’s laugh was cut off when Bo clasped Alex on the back, prompting their entire party to move toward the inn. “Do join us for the evening meal, sire,” he said, mocking a proper English noble.

“’Tis your own countrymen, not mine, who are so intent on propriety.”

They moved under the wooden sign bearing an etched image of an anvil, the sound of raucous laughter reaching them already.

“’Tis said the Scottish nobles are just as—”

“Be careful, Bo. Alex Kerr is the brother of a chief,” Berit said with laughter in his voice. “Which makes you the second most important person in the clan, does it not?”

“Not quite,” Alex shot back. “How nice to see you’re running a clean establishment these days.”

The moment the door opened, Alex moved to block Clara’s view. But it was too late. Her gasp drew attention from both brothers, and Alex could have kicked himself for not being more explicit in his warnings. Scantily-clad serving women competed for the attentions of patrons with coin to spare.

“My squire will take dinner in his room if you can show him there.” He tried to guide the group through the door and to the left where a wall separated a corridor and the common room. “Good night, Alfred,” he said.

“He’s not that young, is he?” Berit said. “How old are you, boy?”

Alex silently prayed Clara would lie.

“Ten and six,” she said. He could kiss her.

“Too young for proper entertainment?” the innkeeper scoffed, looking toward the scantily-clad serving wench closest to them. He wrapped his bulky arm around Alfred and pulled him toward the hall.

Why had he thought this a good idea? He’d knowingly brought Clara to an inn infamous for activities beyond eating, sleeping, and drinking. He’d put her in the company of Bo and Berit. All for a warm bed?