Ropes firm in hand, she turned the sail a touch and with her booted feet braced along one side, crested the waves rolling into shore. She’d seek shelter at the inn for the night. She could do little more this day with the encroaching dark.
As her skiff cruised into shore, she dropped the sail and bounded into the knee-deep waves. With her breeches plastered to her legs, she pulled her boat up onto the curve of the bay and secured it to the closest boulder where it would remain out of reach of any incoming high tide.
The wind blasted through swifter and stronger. Thunder rumbled and lightning speared the sky, a jagged bolt of sizzling yellow. The ever-darkening clouds burst open. Rain pummeled down, pinged off the boulders and slammed into the sand.
Bag in hand, she raced up the broken-shell trail as a lad darted from the inn’s side door and bounded over a rail into the corral. He caught the reins of a horse and urged the big black beast inside the stables. The rain beat down harder and drenched, she halted under the protection of the inn’s overhanging eaves and dripped water everywhere.
Candlelight danced from behind the latticed windows to one side and the planked front door with its cast iron door knocker, beckoned. She lifted the rapper and knocked.
The front door swung open and a crinkly-eyed man wearing brown trews and suspenders over his cuffed shirt waved her in. “Come inside out of the wet, lass. The wife has mutton stew cooking if ye wish some.”
“Thank you.” Mutton stew. Her mouth watered and she licked her lips. “The storm hit so fast.”
“Aye, storms blow in quickly in these parts. We’ve travelers aplenty who’ve sought shelter here this night, so join in the merriness.”
“I’m looking for my brother, Ethan Matheson. Might you have seen him?” She stepped inside, stamped the sand from her boots on the thick matting of rushes. “He’s been sailing with Gavin MacDonald and his men.”
“My wife is the one ye need to ask since she tends to the guests, but I’ve no’ seen any Mathesons or MacDonalds in a good week or two if that’s of any help.”
“Oh my, the lass is wet through.” A flush-faced woman with strands of gray hair trickling free of the knot atop her head, bustled past the man and wiped her hands on the loosely-tied brown apron covering her ample waist. “I’ll secure ye a chamber and find ye something dry and warm to wear, lass.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.” She followed the woman up the stairwell leading to the top landing. Doors led off either side of the darkened corridor lit only by the odd candle in an iron wall sconce. At the far end, a young maid of mayhap two and ten swept the floorboards, her brown kirtle too long by an inch and almost tripping her up.
“Lizzie,” the matronly woman called. “Did ye change the linens in the burgundy chamber?”
“Aye, Mama.”
“Good, lass. Fetch me the lacy blue gown from the spare trunk in my chamber, the matching slippers too, then come and light the fire. Hurry, child.” The woman opened a door halfway down the hallway and Ella followed her inside. “This burgundy chamber is all yours, for as long as ye need it. It overlooks the sea and the mainland in the distance.” The woman ambled across to a chunky trunk sitting at the end of a large four-poster bed, the burgundy canopy sweeping down to the floor. She pulled out a drying cloth and a clean shift, nodded at her. “I’m Miriam. Do ye wish for aid in undressing?”
“Aye, Miriam, please. I’m Ella, from the House of Clan Matheson.” She shrugged off her wet coat and draped it over the wooden rack near the hearth.
“Did I hear ye say to my husband that ye were looking for your brother?” Miriam hunkered down, unlaced and plucked her boots free then propped them to one side.
“Aye, his name is Ethan and he’s been sailing with Gavin MacDonald and his men. Seven of them altogether. Have you seen either him or Gavin by chance?” Shivering, she eased her damp cream shirt over her head and laid it over top of her coat.
“I’ve no’ seen those whom you speak of, but I’ll keep an eye out and be sure to holler if they arrive. Let me get your breeches for ye.” Miriam loosened the ties of her breeches and helped shimmy them down her legs before adding them to the rack. “Being a Matheson, do ye hold the skills of the fae?”
“I’m a compeller.”
“Oh, ye dinnae say.” Eyes wide, she beamed as she flapped out the drying cloth and wrapped it around her. “Then ye must be the lass we’ve heard about, the one that’s said halted the last battle between the MacDonalds and the MacKenzies at Dunscaith Castle.”
“Aye, I did.”