Chapter Eight

Lucian knew he’d made an error in judgment the moment he entered the Spaniards Inn.

If he had any doubts – which he didn’t – the quiet that descended as soon as he’d stepped into the cozy and popular inn was proof enough. As were the stares every patron seemed to feel obliged to aim his way. Clearly, strangers didn’t often visit the establishment, unlikely as that seemed.

Or they’d somehow guessed he was Scottish and they weren’t fond of their northern neighbors.

He strode deeper into the inn’s crowded public room, not really caring.

No, that wasn’t quite true. He did wish he’d worn his kilt. Better yet, his grandfather’s rough-spun great plaid. And that he’d strapped on a claymore.

As things were, he was dressed no differently than any London gentleman, and perhaps that was the problem. He didn’t see anyone who even remotely resembled the gentry. The smoke haze drifting about the long, low-ceilinged taproom revealed only a motley assortment of good fellows, farmers and villagers. As well, a handful of ancients who didn’t seem to have noticed him, and a few flushed and harried-looking serving wenches dashing about with trays of delicious-smelling food and brimming tankards of ale.

Several large, shaggy dogs had claimed a place before the hearth fire on the far wall, their snores making the only sound – except the rushing wind that rattled the ancient windowpanes and seemed determined to make every timber creak like the brittle bones of a two-hundred year old woman.

No matter, the English wind hadn’t been raised that could touch a good Highland gale.

And being at home in a place where, more times than not, his only companions were rocks, heather, mist, and the sea, Lucian wasn’t overly troubled if the inn’s regulars didn’t like him.

He’d conduct his business and go, leaving them to their ale and meat pies.

So he strode on past the rough-planked tables to where a gaggle of men stood at the bar, his gaze locking on the big, burly innkeeper. The man had been polishing tankards, but at Lucian’s approach, he tossed aside the cloth and greeted him with a scowl.

“We know why you’re here,” he said, slapping his hands on the bar and leaning forward, aggressively. “And you can turn around and leave now. You’ll not be finding Bagley Crumb here.”

“Bagley Crumb?” Lucian blinked.

Alan Steckles’ Frogbottom came to mind and it was all he could do not to laugh.

But Scots were known to have more courtesy than most and so he tamped down the urge and met the innkeeper’s glare with no more than the lift of an enquiring brow.

“I am no’ here seeking such a soul,” he said, not wanting to risk speaking the name aloud a second time.

He also pretended not to see the red-faced, weatherworn man in patched clothes who was tip-toeing toward the stairs in a back corner of the taproom, clearing hoping to escape to a hiding place on the floor above.

Bagley Crumb, Lucian was sure.

“Bagley’s done up and left – hours ago!” called a small, bald-pated man from his corner seat by the fire. “He won’t be going home either. Knows better, he does! We heard your lord was sending you, a fine and dandy solicitor all the way from London-town to squeeze the last coins for rent from Bagley’s empty purse.”

“And could be Bagley’s cottage will burn before your lord can rent it to another poor sod,” someone else barked. “Poof!” The man held up his hand and snapped his fingers. “There goes your lord’s chance to milk the blood from another of us.”

Lucian shook his head, the reason for his cold reception now clear.

“See here, gentleman,” he said, glancing round at them all. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else.” He turned to the innkeeper, quickly plunking a handful of coins on the bar. “Ales for everyone,” he declared. “Meat pies and some of thon thick chicken soup and brown bread I just saw one of your serving maids carry past. Large portions, for anyone who might be hungry.”

The innkeeper’s face lightened. “You’re a Scot.”

“A Highlander,” Lucian corrected with a smile. “And I dinnae have a lord, but I am a laird. Lucian MacRae of Lyongate Hall in the far north of Scotland.”

“The far north of Scotland…” Everywhere, men repeated his words, heads bobbing and stares now turning curious.

“So why are you here?” The innkeeper poured him an ale and slid it toward him across the bar. “If not to harass poor Bagley, what’s your business? Just passing through?

“Will you be needing a room?” Congenial, he glanced at the corner stairs, now with no sign of Bagley Crumb slinking through the shadows. “If so, I’ve a one left, though I should tell you that the floor slants and this strong a wind will be blowing ash from the chimney. But there’s a clean bed and-”

Lucian raised a hand, cutting him off. “I expect to be back in London before dark,” he said, hoping he spoke true. “If that changes, I’ll look in again later.”

The innkeeper nodded. “A meal? As you’re feeding my patrons, you might as well tuck into something yourself.”

“Nae, I must be on my way.”

“Expected somewhere, are you?” The innkeeper picked up his towel, resuming his task of tankard polishing. “Not much out there, back beyond Spaniards.”

He glanced at Lucian as he rubbed a shine onto a pewter tankard. “Bogland and old sandpit ponds, is about it.”

“Aye, well…” Lucian finished his ale, then looked across the taproom, studying the men at the tables, and a small group throwing darts in a corner.

He turned back to the innkeeper. “If Alan Steckles is one of thon gentlemen, I needn’t travel any farther. Is he here?”

“Alan was in, earlier. Brought milk, butter, and eggs, as he does, but he’s gone now.” The innkeeper lifted a brow. “He’s not in trouble?”

“Nae, no’ at all.” Lucian threw a glance at the rattling windows, not surprised to see the clouds darkening. “I’ve heard he’s a fine woodcarver and I have need of one,” he said, sure the gods would forgive him the twist of the truth.

Lady Melissa’s business was hers, and no one else’s.

“That he is.” The innkeeper smiled. “So you’ve not met him?”

“Nae.” Lucian shook his head. “I’d hoped to catch him here. It seemed easier. Word was I’d find his cottage by watching out for his pet badger.”

To his surprise, the innkeeper’s lips twitched. “Who told you that?”

“The friend who recommended him,” Lucian said, not missing that the entire public room had again gone silent. “Is there no such a pet then?”

“Oh, he has a badger, right enough. I’m not sure I’d call him a pet, though.”

Lucian angled his head, his ears catching a strange sound from behind him in the taproom.

A noise that could’ve been muffled sniggers.

He frowned and turned around, eyeing the men at the tables. They stared back at him, looking innocent. The few who didn’t meet his gaze were applying all their energy to meat pies or bowls of steaming chicken or potato soup.

The two serving wenches avoided his eyes.

They were also blushing, their cheeks almost as red as the cheery fire on the hearth grate.

Lucian knew when something was up. “So his badger bites, eh?”

His question earned gales of laughter from nearly everyone present. Only the innkeeper struggled to keep a straight face.

“That would be something,” the man said, shaking his head. “I’ve never heard of the beast hurting anyone.”

More laughter.

Lucian decided to leave. But before he did, he wanted clarity.

So he drew himself to his full height – which he suspected was a good deal taller than most men present – and assumed an earnest expression, which wasn’t easy with so many men dashing at a laugh tears.

“Steckles’ Frogbottom is no’ far from this inn, is that correct?” he asked of the innkeeper. “Down the road I saw winding back beyond your courtyard?”

“That’s the way.” The innkeeper nodded. “Just follow that road past a few sandpit ponds till you reach the largest. That’s where-”

“Steckles’ badger guards his bloody gate,” someone called from near the hearth fire. “You’ll see him, for sure.”

“So it seems.” Lucian nodded to the man and made for the door, almost glad for the cold wind that tore at his cloak and made his eyes burn, the moment he stepped out the inn’s door.

“A pet badger as a guard dog,” he muttered as he waited for a stable lad to fetch his horse.

The English were an odd bunch, indeed.

~*~

A short ride and only a few minutes later, or so it seemed, he saw that the joke was on him.

Farmer Steckles did have a badger.

But the creature wasn’t a pet.

He was a huge snarling beast-of-wood who somehow managed to look both ferocious and amused as he ‘guarded’ the tree-lined approach to Frogbottom Cottage.

Apparently carved into the base of a once-massive tree, the badger also kindly confirmed the location by holding up a sign that declared that this was Frogbottom.

Lucian didn’t know whether to be perturbed or to laugh, then decided on the latter.

Steckles obviously had a sense of humor.

He was also an excellent craftsman, as Lady Melissa and others had said. The badger looked so real that his eyes almost glittered. His gaze seemed to follow Lucian as he rode past toward the small stone cottage that was set well back from the heath track, close to a cluster of lichened boulders at the edge of a large sandpit pond. Clearly ancient, the cottage also indicated the farmer was at home as earthy-sweet turf smoke rose from the chimney.

Sheep bleated somewhere close by and Lucian was sure he also caught the moo’ing of a cow. A large gray cat came around the corner of the cottage and stood staring at him, but Lucian ignored the cat and didn’t bother to look for the other animals.   

The air had turned much colder, the wind was quickening, and the first large drops of rain began to fall just as he reined in and swung down from his saddle.

The cottage’s red-painted door opened at once and a bearded man with shaggy iron-gray hair smiled at him from the threshold. Over sixty, if Lucian guessed rightly, the man – he assumed Alan Steckles – had lined, leathery skin that revealed a long, hard life spent outdoors, but his blue eyes were bright, and welcoming.

“Mr. Steckles?” Lucian strode forward. “Lucian MacRae, Laird of Lyongate in Scotland,” he said, smiling.

“That I can tell.” The older man opened the door wider, gesturing him inside. “And, aye, I’m Steckles.”

Lucian hesitated before he ducked beneath the low-cut lintel. “Do you always give strangers such a welcome?”

The farmer chuckled. “If they pass old Bamber, aye.”

“The badger?”

“So it is.” Steckles moved aside so Lucian could step past him into the cozy, lantern-lit cottage.

As he’d known, a turf fire glimmered in the hearth. Simple but clean red-and-white striped curtains hung at the open windows, but the farmer went there now to close the shutters against the worsening rain. The stone-flagged floor proved well-swept, and the splendidly-made but unpretentious table and chairs, and benches, were spotlessly clean and well-scrubbed. If anything, Frogbottom Cottage could have been a Highland croft, transported to the vastness of London’s Hampstead Heath.

But one thing set Steckles’ home apart…

Shelves lined the walls and each one brimmed with wooden carvings of every imaginable woodland creature. Larger carvings crowded corners, mostly domestic animals. Life-size renditions of dogs and cats, wearing collars or bows, and like Bamber the Badger, they all looked uncannily real.

About to bark, meow, wag a tail, or start forward to saunter proudly across the room so that his or her feline grace could be duly displayed and admired.

Lucian looked back at the farmer, not surprised to see a hint of pride in his eyes.

“I am impressed,” Lucian spoke true.

“So was Badger or you wouldn’t be here.” Steckles pulled out a chair at his table, indicating Lucian should sit.

When he did, the farmer nipped into a tiny kitchen niche and busied himself preparing tea, and then returned to the table with a teapot, mugs, a small pitcher of fresh and creamy milk, and a platter of what Lucian, as a Highlander, would call thick, fresh-baked oatcakes, and cheese. All this Steckles arranged neatly before his guest before taking his own seat and encouraging Lucian to help himself.

Lucian did, pouring a cup of steaming tea. “So the locals were right. The badger is your watchdog?”

Steckles chuckled. “You were at Spaniards?”

“Aye.” Lucian tried his tea, sure he’d never tasted better.

Though, were he honest, he suspected the afternoon’s raw weather had something to do with that. Highlanders appreciated a steaming cuppa when a cold wind raced around the eaves and rain beat on the roof.

“The way I figure…” The farmer leaned back in his chair and took a long sip of tea. “I am who I am, and how I am,” he said, holding Lucian’s gaze. “Folk who come to Frogbottom are three sorts. Many hope to commission a woodcarving, or to pick up one they’ve ordered. Such folk will not be troubled by Badger’s presence at the gate.

“Indeed, they are then more likely to want my carvings.” He set down his cup. “Others are friends and they, likewise, aren’t bothered by Badger. The rest…”

He shrugged, looking amused. “Aye, well. Such folk who find it odd to have a giant badger guarding a gate? They can keep on walking or riding past my little patch of this good green earth. I wouldn’t be getting on with such souls, and they sure wouldn’t care to come spend time with me.”

“Then I am honored Bamber let me pass.” Lucian wondered what it said about him that he admired the farmer so much.

The reason was the older man could be a Highlander, he supposed.

“What made you carve him out there?” He found he wanted to know. “And so large?”

“Badgers are big animals.” The farmer spread his hands. “Have you ever seen a small one?”

Lucian chuckled this time. “No’ that I recall.”

“The truth is I liked that old tree Bamber is carved from.” Steckles leaned forward to top Lucian’s tea. “A huge old oak, it was – till a lightning strike split it in two and sent most of it crashing to the ground. I was heartsick for days, and one morning bright and early, I found a badger sitting by the stump.

“The beastie gave me such a long look that the idea came to me to honor him by doing a carving of him. So I gave new life to my favorite tree by creating Bamber from what remained of the massive trunk.

“That was the way of it.” He sat back, turning a speculative look of his own on Lucian. “And now I’m wondering what sort of visitor you are? I don’t think you’re here for a carving. Nor have we met, so you aren’t a friend coming to call.”

He paused, considering. “You’re also not local, so…?”

“I am here on a matter that regards Lady Melissa Tandy,” Lucian said. “She thinks highly of you and has told me of your assistance with her aged coach horses.”

“She is a fine young woman.” The farmer’s eyes warmed. “So she is a friend of yours?”

“Nae. She is to be my wife.”

Steckles’ brows shot upward. “I hadn’t heard she planned to marry.”

Neither has she… yet.

Lucian could hardly contain his own amazement at his oh-so-calmly stated pronouncement. But now that he’d made it, the rightness of it swelled inside him, assuring him that he wanted nothing more than to claim the lass as his bride.

No maid would suit him better.

He was certain of that, so he smiled at the farmer, his heart warming when the older man beamed and slapped the table.

“I knew there was a reason Bamber liked you,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “So what can I do for you? What is this matter concerning Mellie… er, ah… Lady Melissa?”

“She’s worried about her horses.” Lucian was blunt. “She believes they are in danger and that they need to be removed from Cranleigh at the soonest, all of them. I agree, hence coming to speak with you.”

“I will do what I can.” The farmer didn’t hesitate. “I’ll need to round up some local lads and have them act at night, getting the horses away to Crickhollow-”

“It is too late for that.” Lucian shook his head. “The beasts are to come to my home in Scotland. I want them shipped up and around the coast to Lyongate Hall.”

The farmer’s eyes rounded. “I don’t have the funds or means to do that,” he said. “Much as I’d like to help.”

“You needn’t trouble yourself with the cost.” Lucian now knew he’d gone fully mad, but another part of him was elated he had the means to help. “I’ll make all arrangements. You just need to hire men to assist you and then get the horses safely to the ship.”

Reaching beneath his cloak, he retrieved a plump coin pouch and placed it on the table between them.

“This money should take care of your costs,” he said, well aware it would do that, and more. “If anything else arises, contact my London solicitor, Mr. Henry Brentwood. He will have instructions to serve you in any way.”

The farmer stared at him. “I don’t know what to say.”

Lucian stood. “Just agree, and all will be well.”

“Oh, I will see it done.” Steckles scrambled to his feet, nodding. “I’d do anything for Lady Melissa. And for those poor coach horses she’s rescued.”

Lucian nodded. “Then you have my gratitude. She would be greatly troubled if harm came to them.”

“Oh, no, oh, no,” the farmer agreed. “We cannot allow that to happen.”

Lucian started for the door, but Steckles grabbed his arm before he could go but a few feet.

“Wait…” The farmer released him, but stood between Lucian and the door. “I am a man of honor, lord. That money bag holds more coin than I’ll need. Can I do anything else for you?”

Lucian considered.

There was something, but he feared he’d shock the farmer if he asked.

“Anything at all, sir.” Steckles glanced at his turf fire, then back to Lucian. “I owe a debt to the gel’s father,” he said. “‘Twas himself who bought me this cottage. He liked a carving I did of his favorite hound so much, he wanted me to have a place close to London where he would then encourage the gentry to purchase my carvings.”

“I see.” Lucian smiled, deciding he liked Melissa’s late father.

He also made another quick decision…

“Ah, well,” he began, “you know I stopped by the Spaniards Inn?”

The farmer bobbed his head.

Lucian leaned in to whisper his wish in the farmer’s ear.

Not surprisingly, when he straightened, he saw that Steckles’ cheeks had reddened.

“That would cause quite a stir, lord.” He pulled on his beard, uncomfortable.

Lucian set a hand on his shoulder, strove to reassure him. “Such a measure surely won’t be necessary. I’d just like your help if needed.”

“Then you shall have it,” the farmer agreed.

“You are a good man.” Lucian meant it.

He also smiled at the farmer when he opened the cottage door. Blessedly, the rain had dwindled to less than a drizzle and the wind was no longer as fierce. Lucian’s horse had kept dry beneath a lean-to and the beast trotted over to him now, ready for the ride back out of Hampstead Heath and on to London.

But just before Lucian mounted and rode away, another thought came to him and he turned, calling out to the farmer before he could nip back inside his cottage.

“Ho, Steckles,” he called. “I have one last favor.”

The farmer waited, clearly willing.

“There is a man in some trouble,” Lucian said, already swinging up into his saddle. “Mr. Bagley Crumb, a patron of Spaniards. Do you know him?”

“We all do, lord. He’s a fine man, though his luck is poor.”

“Aye, well, perhaps no more.” Lucian smiled. “Take whatever sum is needed from the money pouch and pay the man’s rent and any other debts. Better yet, after you’ve done that, tell him my solicitor will be in touch with his landlord to purchase his cottage for him.”

The farmer’s brows arced clear to his hairline. “You will do all that for Bagley?”

“Consider the gesture my thanks to you and whoever here helps you with Lady Melissa’s horses. Do you understand everything that needs to be done?”

“Right, sir, I do.” The farmer grinned.

“Then I bid you farewell,” Lucian said, and rode toward Bamber the Badger and the heath road.

He was also now quite certain that the English weren’t the only addled ones. Somewhere between Lyongate and London, he’d lost his own wits.    

Or was it his heart?