Highland Conqueror by Hannah Howell Page A

glared at his back as he rode away, taking the lead next to Liam. The man was going to drive her utterly mad. One moment she was feeling all soft and warm toward him; the next she wished she was a big, hulking brute so that she could pound him into the mud.
     
    The Twa Corbies Inn was indeed a clean one, and rather pretty despite its odd name. A very tempting smell was wafting through the inn from the kitchens and Jolene felt her stomach clench with anticipation. The only thing wrong that she could see was that everyone was staring at her with a mixture of horror and amazement. It might have been better if she had remained silent and let Sigimor request a bath for her.
    “By the saints, ’tis an Englishwoman,” muttered the innkeeper before he scowled at Sigimor. “What are ye thinking to bring a bloody Sassenach into my inn? And where did ye come by her, eh?”
    Sigimor crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at the much shorter, much rounder innkeeper. Jolene could almost feel sorry for the innkeeper, but he was being excessively rude. Glancing at the other four big, strong men with her, she did wonder how Master Dunbar could remain so obstinate. The strength of those frowns should have turned Dunbar into a quivering puddle of obsequiousness. Master Dunbar had obviously not noticed how thin the ice was that he was treading on. Although the others in the inn were still looking at her with a distinct lack of welcome, they at least had the sense to remain quiet. Jolene felt a little hurt by this reaction to her mere presence and hoped Sigimor would not take too long in putting Master Dunbar into a more accommodating mood.
    “Aye, she is English,” drawled Sigimor. “A wee, too thin, puling Sassenach lass.”
    Then again, Jolene mused, maybe she would just kick him.
    “I hadnae realized so many braw laddies would be set to quivering with fear by her presence.” Sigimor shrugged. “Howbeit, since she has set all your bowels to clenching—”
    “Of course she hasnae,” snapped Master Dunbar, speaking loudly so as to be heard over the angry grumbling of his patrons. “A wee thing like her be no threat to a mon. Be she yours then?”
    “Aye.” Sigimor was torn between the urge to grin at the cross look Jolene wore and to slap some courtesy into the innkeeper. Unfortunately, satisfying though such actions would be, neither would get him the soft bed and hot bath he wanted.
    “Couldnae ye find a nice Scottish lass? Ye look a braw lad.”
    “I am, but I was bound by a blood debt. Her brother saved my life.”
    “He asked a high price.”
    “Aye, he did.” Sigimor kept a subtle watch on Jolene as he continued, “Tisnae all bad. The English train their lasses weel. They train them to be sweet of tongue and disposition, kind to all, skilled at loom and needle, firm and alert in the management of a household, frugal, obedient, and a faithful companion to her lord, giving him peace and comfort in his home.”
    “Saints! Do the fools think they are training hounds?”
    “One does wonder.”
    Jolene gave into the urge to kick Sigimor in the shin and ignored his exaggerated grimace. It only added to her annoyance to catch everyone in the inn grinning at her. She hoped it was because she had shown some spirit, but had the lowering feeling it was because a perfect English lady had just been compared to a hound—again.
    “I dinnae think she learned all her lessons,” murmured Master Dunbar.
    Sigimor bit back a laugh over the way Jolene was eyeing Master Dunbar’s shins. He draped his arm around her slim shoulders and kept her close by his side as he and the innkeeper settled the matter of rooms, baths, and price. As they followed a plump maid to their rooms, he idly wondered when Jolene would realize he would be sharing her room.
    After checking the bed to see if it was as clean as it looked, Jolene settled a drowsy Reynard on top of the thick coverlet. It was going to be nice to spend a night under a proper