right at a cross street and another left at the next intersection, until they reached a barnlike structure. This was not the way Bannon remembered to the seamstress’s shoppe.
Ciaran stopped in front of the barn and got off Horace.
Bannon followed and caught up to him as he reached a small door on the side of the building. “Where are we?”
“The public stables.”
Oh. Well, that made sense. Stuart would need to leave his horse and wagon somewhere. “It seems like an awful lot of trouble for a piece of arse.” Oops! Timothy’s words flew right out his mouth.
Ciaran’s lip twitched at the statement, but he did not smile. In fact, he looked more tense. “Aye, it certainly does.”
They walked into a dimly lit stable. This was nothing like the stables at Lochwood Castle. It was small with only six stalls. There was a space for a wagon or a carriage, but there was nothing in that space. All six stalls were filled, though.
Ciaran walked down the aisle of stalls, looking into each one. When he got to the last, he turned back toward Bannon. “His horse is nae here.”
“Well, neither is his wagon.”
Ciaran raised a brow.
“Just saying….” Bannon shrugged. “Is there another stable house?”
“Nae, nae in the village.” They left the stables and got back on their horses. Reversing their route, they got back to the main road and turned right. They passed the furrier and the tavern and stopped in front of the seamstress’s shoppe. They rode all around the shoppe, but there was no sign of a horse or a wagon. All the windows were dark.
“Perhaps it isn’t the seamstress he’s seeing?” Bannon asked as he stopped Flùr next to Ciaran and Horace.
Ciaran shook his head, staring at the shoppe as though he could see through the walls. “The Widow Goodwin is the only single woman in the middle of the village.”
“Maybe he’s not seeing a woman? Maybe he’s seeing a man.”
“Why would he lie?”
“Why do people do anything?” Bannon shrugged. “Maybe they went somewhere together?” There was only one way to find out. The sooner they solved this mystery, the sooner they could go back to Lochwood Castle and…. Heat raced up Bannon’s neck into his face. He definitely wanted to go back to Lochwood Castle.
If you hadn’t been so focused on talking to Marcus and Patrick about the plan to get into the base, you’d still be at the castle and likely naked, Timothy pointed out.
Bannon got off Flùr and walked right up to the door.
“What are ye doing?” Ciaran asked.
Bannon handed his reins to Ciaran and grinned. “I’m going to find out if he’s here.”
“But….”
Bannon strode up to the cottage door and knocked on it.
Some rustling sounded from inside. A light flared to life in the window as though someone lit a match. Did they have matches? Bannon didn’t think so. Perhaps flint. He added matches or a lighter to his mental list of things he needed to get from Regelence. After a few more thumps and some creaking, the door opened.
An older woman stood there with a candle in an old-fashioned brass holder. She held a plaid over her shoulders and her hair was all pulled up into a white cap. One of those that looked like a muffin top. Louie’s mom wore one like it to bed, but her cap was a lot lumpier because she wore curlers under it. This woman did not appear to be wearing curlers. “Can I help ye?” she asked in a soft, much too pleasant voice for someone who’d been awakened from sleep.
“Is Stuart….” Bannon glanced back at Ciaran, who was staring at him incredulously. “What’s Stuart’s surname?”
Ciaran’s mouth dropped open, then snapped back shut. “MacKay.”
“MacKay? Is everyone in the clan named MacKay?” He’d never thought about it, but they were the clan MacKay, so maybe all of them did have the same surname. Probably something he should find out if he was going to live here.
Ciaran shook his head. “Nae, but Stuart is my great uncle or fourth cousin or something.”
“Oh.” Bannon nodded. “Okay, that makes sense.”
Ciaran’s incredulousness turned to amusement. His lips turned up at the corners, and wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes.
Bannon turned back to the woman. “Is Stuart MacKay here?”
The seamstress looked almost as humored as Ciaran. “Nae, lad, why would Stuart MacKay be here?”
“Aren’t you… I mean isn’t he…? Aren’t the two of you courting?”
The widow’s eyes widened, and then she smiled. “Och, lad, he must be eighty.”