MacKenzie gave a nonchalant little sniff as if she had comprehended this all along.
“Mr. Khoury’s people date back to the days when the different branches of the faith first formed, and they didn’t adopt the Arabic language until the ninth century, when it was clear that the Muslim conquest was there to stay and Arabic became the lingua franca,” Catriona said, warming to the topic. “They still kept speaking a form of Aramaic, called Syriac, which . . .”
The flicker of alarm in MacKenzie’s eyes was impossible to miss—an unsolicited linguistics lecture while trapped in a carriage wasn’t her idea of a grand pastime.
“. . . which means, Mr. Khoury may drink however much wine he likes,” Catriona concluded lamely.
“I’ll take a wee nap,” said MacKenzie.
Catriona opened the upper part of the carriage window, letting fresh, wet air stream into the compartment. For a few miles, they rattled along the pass in silence, climbing up the only way out of Applecross, a narrow road winding through a vast, green sweep of land. Sheep dotted the surrounding slopes. Occasionally, the silver surface of a loch sparkled in a dip between the hills. One day, much of this land would have been hers. Now they were preparing a sale to the Middletons.
When they reached the high point of the pass, MacKenzie woke from her snooze. “It’s been almost ten years,” she said after a bleary look outside. “More like nine years I suppose, that Wester Ross sent us away the first time, in this weather.”
Catriona tightened her shawl. “I remember.”
Wester Ross had sent her away from Applecross because of her foolish behavior over Charles Middleton, romantic failure number one.
MacKenzie reached for the tea flask in the provision basket. “I heard he’s newly engaged.”
“He is, yes.”
He had flaunted the announcement in the Glasgow Herald a month ago. Accompanying Mr. Khoury to Oxford was preferable over negotiating land deals with Charles, because that would require facing him, and she’d be left in no doubt that he had grown into a perfectly happy, well-adjusted young man, while she, well, she was still herself.
They reached the coaching inn in Glasgow during sunset, after a long train ride on a crooked railway route. If Mr. Khoury held a grudge over his various al fresco rides, he hid it well—he climbed off the shuttle carriage looking remarkably bright-eyed and unrumpled. He helped both Catriona and MacKenzie descend, and he stayed back to oversee the handling of their luggage. Catriona and MacKenzie went ahead to secure accommodation. Inside the old inn, the air hung heavy and stale like cheap cigarette smoke. The reception desk was located halfway down the narrow corridor, beleaguered by a queue. Off-key singing and braying laughter came from the taproom; a frantic atmosphere poured through the open wing doors that revealed an intoxicated crowd of locals. The queue at the reception desk was moving slowly; they would be trapped in the noise for a while.
“All upper-floor rooms are booked,” the lass behind the desk told the couple first in line.
MacKenzie made a disgruntled sound. “A room upstairs would be better,” she muttered.
It would have certainly been safer. They should have stayed at a hotel in town.
The entrance door opened again, and Mr. Khoury appeared. Just then, the noise from the taproom swelled, and three men stumbled out into the corridor, thick-necked fellows, rolled-up sleeves, gaslight glancing off their bald heads. They approached the reception desk. Catriona looked straight back at the counter. Intent gazes still roamed up and down the length of her body, making her skin contract uncomfortably. The men squeezed past behind her back in meaningful silence. Until one of them smacked his lips. Rude. Her right hand made a fist in the fabric of her skirt. It was so loathsome, being selected for casual entertainment, but the harassment was too subtle to address outright, they’d say she had imagined it. A movement in the corner of her eye drew her attention back to Mr. Khoury. He was stalking along with the predatory deliberation of a big cat, his narrowed gaze singularly focused on the men as they disappeared down the other end of the corridor. A chill spread up her neck. He seemed like a very different man to her now, all charm gone. He must have sensed her staring, for his gaze met hers and his black expression vanished.
“Demoiselle,” he said, his mouth smiling. “The luggage will be brought straight to our rooms.”
He positioned himself next to her, his shoulders effectively blocking any lewd backward glances. A tension in her neck loosened, as if her body knew that it was safe in the shelter of his.
She was breathing again, inevitably inhaling his pleasant scent.
Judging by the escalating noise, the taproom was in for a brawl. The woman in front of them finally received her keys.
Mr. Khoury lowered his head, closer to her ear, and said: “Ask for two adjacent rooms.”
At once, MacKenzie’s round shoulder budged between them. “And why should milady do any such thing, young sir,” she demanded to know.
He straightened and looked back and forth between them. “In case there is any trouble,” he said. “You knock on the shared wall to alert me.”
“Trouble,” MacKenzie drawled. “What trouble? This is a proper, civilized, Scottish establishment.”
A roar and the sound of breaking glass burst into the corridor, followed by a cheer. Shouting ensued. Something or someone had been tossed through a window. MacKenzie looked on stoically, pretending to not have heard a thing.
An ironic gleam lit Mr. Khoury’s eyes. “Well, then,” he said. “Should any civilized gentlemen show at your door, I’m at your service.”
Catriona gave a vague nod, her knees a little soft. The way he peered down at her was ambiguous, as if he was contemplating a flirtation. The inky double rows of his long lashes framed his eyes like a lining of kohl. It could have looked feminine, but in his face, it didn’t. A moment ago, when he had fixated on the three men, his right hand had moved to his left hip with instinctual ease. He was almost certainly armed under his coat. She requested two adjacent rooms.
The chamber was cold, and the bed linen might or might not have been fresh. Now and then the floorboards shivered when people stomped past in the corridor, jerking Catriona back to being wide awake. She had locked and bolted the door, but the bolt fittings were a little loose. Perhaps she should start carrying a pistol like Lucie.
MacKenzie rolled over, making the mattress shake. “Verra cheeky of Mr. Khoury to request his room to be next to ours, just like that,” she said.
“His intentions were honorable,” Catriona said to the wall.
“Fat good would it do us, though,” MacKenzie grumbled behind her.
“What can you mean?”
“Would he know how to brawl with a Glaswegian? He’s a scholar. The heaviest thing he lifts are big auld books.”