“Murphy will not be back until morning,” Fergus announced upon joining Moira outside the inn. He’d wanted her to join him inside, frustrated as ever when she’d refused.

Why would she wish to step inside when there was so much of interest going on all around her?

For she’d never seen so many in one place, not even in Banff on market days. There seemed to be an ever-present hum in the air, the hum of voices and neighing horses and lowing cattle as those bringing them in for sale drove them down the street in pairs.

Laughter rang out, especially from the inn and the tavern two doors down. Her nose wrinkled at the sight of two unsteady men swaying their way from the latter, arms hooked around the other’s shoulders.

They reminded her entirely too much of her father, though he was not a pleasant man while drinking. The two swaying away from the tavern at least appeared to enjoy themselves.

Until one of them leaned into the road and emptied the contents of his stomach.

That, she recognized.

“What shall we do?” she asked Fergus. The Anderson house was less than a half-day’s ride, she remembered him telling her once.

Would he take her there?

She doubted it greatly, even though he expected a niece or nephew.

If anything, he would wish to keep her a secret from his brother and friends. He would hope to discourage her from wanting to ride with them. Otherwise, they might find it amusing that a woman had gotten the better of him.

He could not have that.

In quiet moments, she asked herself how it was possible to know him so well. She had not yet found an answer.

He leaned his arms over his saddle, then shrugged. “I suppose it means spending a night at the inn. I can afford a room for both of us.”

So long as he did not wish to share one, though the notion did not seem a terrible one in the deepest, darkest corners of her heart.

“What of riding out to Anderson land?” she asked, all innocence.

He barely concealed a grimace. “Nay. I dinna think that would be a wise decision.”

“Why not? You can have the hot bath you’ve spoken of for nearly two days.”

“I can offer a few extra pence for the bath here, as well.”

The stubborn devil.

Fergus was correct about one thing, which Moira reflected upon while lowering herself into a washtub; it was a luxury she had desperately needed.

Her garments were even being attended to downstairs, both washed with real soap and mended where need be.

Was this what it was like to be well-off? To have one’s needs taken care of, whatever they happened to be? For no one had ever filled a washtub for her since she’d lost her mother. No one had done her mending, washed her garments, prepared her meals.

She sank low in the tub, her hair floating around her while her knees stuck up in the air. It was nearly sinful to be so idle, and she had never been one to believe in sin—at least, not in the notion of a body being punished for sin after they’d died.

From what she’d seen, most sinners received their punishment while they were still alive.

Would that her father might.

Her mood darkened. Why did she think of him when she ought to be feeling happy? She had nothing to do for the rest of the evening other than bathe, comb through her hair, and have a good night’s sleep in a comfortable bed.

Her eye fell upon the straw tick with its rather flat pillow.

If not comfortable, at least clean. Which was still a sight better than sleeping on the ground for days on end.

Rather than dwell on misery, she began to ponder over what was on the other side of the wall. Just beyond the bed.

Fergus’s room for the night.

Was he bathing, as she was? Washing away the dirt and sweat?

Perhaps wishing he had not agreed to bring her along?

What of it? She scrubbed her arms a bit harder when she imagined his disappointment. That would be his problem to deal with, not hers.

She would have her adventure.

What would he do after his bath?

Her scrubbing slowed, then stopped.

He was familiar with the village, was he not?

That meant he was likely to be familiar with the establishments at the edges of the place. She’d noticed one of them on the way in, a shabby building into which men disappeared like flies into a jar of honey.

When she’d asked Fergus the nature of the place, he’d made a choking noise and flushed deep red.

She had not needed further explanation.

The water suddenly felt cold, and she sat up, drawing her legs to her chest to wrap her arms about them. Would Fergus visit one of those places? He’d been without a woman for as long as they had ridden together, and it had been many days since they’d first met in the cave.

Something about the idea brought tears to her eyes. They only made her angry with herself for being weak enough to care.

What difference did it make how the man chose to spend his time or his money? He’d seen to her comfort that night, had he not? He had only complained slightly over the sum—which she’d reminded him in a sweet tone he needn’t have spent if only they could have ridden on to the Anderson house.

That had shut his mouth.

Would he visit those women?

The question hung heavy in her heart as she finished her bath—no longer nearly as pleasant as it had been at first—and dried on a linen sheet. She was in the act of combing out her snarled hair when a knock sounded at the door.

Though she wore her chemise, she pulled a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around herself before opening the door just enough to see out.

Fergus averted his eyes when he took in her wet hair and the blanket about her shoulders. “I, ah, wanted to check on ye. To be certain of your comfort.”

“I am quite comfortable, thank you.” For some reason, rather than warming her heart—as it had begun to do as of late—the sight of him made her furious. For she’d already imagined him spending his hard-earned pence on the women who made their living pleasing men.

He caught her sharp tone, raising an eyebrow. “Ye dinna sound like you’re pleased.”

“I’m quite pleased, indeed, and I thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I enjoyed the bath very much.”

“Aye, as did I.” Yes, and he smelled wonderful, and was freshly shaven. His already dark brown hair looked darker than ever, still wet.

Her mouth went dry at the thought of the rest of him in the tub, memories of that day at the river mixing with her wounded pride and leaving her all a fright.

She had to know. “How do you plan to spend the evening?”

He frowned. “I look forward to sleeping, to tell ye the truth. It’s been a long ride, and I’ve looked forward to a bed through all of it.”

Yes. She would just wager he’d be sleeping.

“I will not keep you from it, then. Good night. I shall see you first thing in the morning.”

He made a sound, as though he wished to speak again, but the closed door cut him off. She listened, her ear pressed to the wood, until he muttered an oath under his breath.

Then, his door opened. And closed.

When she went to the wall separating the rooms, she heard the bed creak as he sat down.

Perhaps he told the truth. Perhaps she ought not to have been so unpleasant.

“I ought not to have been unpleasant at all,” she whispered, closing her eyes, touching her forehead to the wall. For she had no hold on him, no claim. No matter what he intended to do, it was none of her affair.

He had been kind to her. He had protected her, though she still refused to believe she needed it. He had even agreed to have her join him after knowing who she truly was.

He’d held her when she wept over her scars and the beating which caused them.

Oh, what a fool she was.