Ian’s tension eased as the inn’s thatched roof came into view. “Do you see it, Prometheus?” He dismounted and walked his gelding the short distance through the mix of cold, pelting rain and hailstones. The temperature had dropped even more precipitously, and the courtyard would soon be a treacherous expanse of ice.
“Yer Grace! I’ll see ta yer rooms at once,” the proprietor said, bustling out of the inn and walking precariously on the slick ground to greet him. “Good ta have ye with us again. ’Tis not a fit night for man nor beast. Haven’t seen conditions this dangerous in years.”
A stable boy hurried forward and took his horse. “I’ll take good care of ’im, Yer Grace. Never ye worry. Gaw! He’s a big one. What’s ’is name?”
“Prometheus. He looks fierce, but he’s a lamb to handle. Just give him a few gentle strokes and some soft praises.”
“Gaw! Just like a woman.”
Ian let out a startled laugh. “Aren’t you a little young to know about such things?”
The boy tossed him a smug grin. “I’ve seen things. And I’m almost fourteen.”
“That old? My, my.” Ian slipped the pouches off the saddle and hurriedly carried them in while the boy took Prometheus to the stables.
The proprietor, a portly man by the name of Gwynne, began to fuss over him the moment they were inside. He summoned several servants, and with the quick clap of his hands ordered one to ready Ian’s bedchamber and another to carry wood upstairs to light a fire in his hearth. He then ordered another two servants to heat water for Ian’s bath. A tub was already in his chamber, Mr. Gwynne explained. “’Tis our finest room, and why shouldn’t I offer m’best guests every modern comfort?”
Ian nodded. “You’ll find no argument from me. My stays here are always pleasant. In truth, I made for your inn the moment I saw the darkening sky.”
Mr. Gwynne puffed out his chest with pride. “Will you be dining downstairs, Yer Grace?”
Ian was cold and wet, and his back was stiff from the long ride. “I’ll come down for a drink later, but have my meal brought upstairs.”
With another efficient clap of his hands, Mr. Gwynne called to one of the serving maids. “Elsie, His Grace is in need of a tankard of ale and a hearty chicken stew. Bring a tray up to him at once.”
Elsie was a young, attractive girl who had warmed Ian’s bed a time or two on past visits. She cast him a look that indicated she was eager to do so again. “I’m always at yer service, Yer Grace.”
“Stew and ale is all I’ll need tonight,” he said, politely refusing her offer.
“I’m available if ye change yer mind.” She purposely grazed her breasts against his arm as she left to obey the innkeeper’s instructions. A year ago, he wouldn’t have needed any encouragement, for that had been his way of life. Wherever he went, whenever the urge struck, there were always women eager to share his bed.
He no longer found these meaningless encounters appealing. Dillie made him hunger for something more. He wasn’t certain what that “more” was, but he knew it would be something more substantial than the casual satisfaction of a tumble in the sack.
Ian slung the pouches over his shoulder and turned for the stairs. He was eager to get out of his wet clothes and didn’t care to wait for the servants to ready his quarters or offer to carry his bags upstairs. The pouches were light in weight, containing only a change of travel clothes and some private business papers.
He strode past the common room, which was purposely situated near the stairs so thirsty travelers would be enticed as they walked to and from their sleeping quarters. Ian heard the sound of clinking tankards and laughter. He glanced into the room and noticed the rows of empty tables. There were no more than a dozen stray travelers who had sought shelter from the storm.
A few locals also appeared to be enjoying the usually crowded tap room. Mr. Gwynne shook his head and sighed. “The storm’s bad for my regular business. Hope it passes quick.”
“I’m certain it will.” A fire blazed in the common room’s massive fireplace. Wisps of smoke drifted toward Ian, carrying the scent of burning wood and a pork roast that must have been glazed with honey as it cooked over the flames earlier in the day. His stomach growled. He was hungry, not only for Dillie but for actual food.
The other guests didn’t seem to notice him, for their backs were turned. In any event, Ian had no wish to engage in pleasantries this evening. The common room was inviting enough, but he was spent. He ran his fingers through his wet hair. Pieces of ice slipped through his fingers. Ice in April? These late storms were particularly treacherous, for travelers were often ill prepared for them.