PROLOGUE
Iona Pearson had always known her life would end badly. She simply had not expected it to feel so ordinary while it crept toward her.
Rain plastered her ginger curls against her cheeks as she stood across from the inn, water dripping from the hem of her sodden skirts. The sign above the door swung and groaned in the wind. Laughter spilled from within each time someone entered or left. Warmth. Food. Shelter. Everything she should avoid if she wished to remain unseen.
She was going to die. She felt it in the tightness between her ribs, in the way shadows seemed to lengthen when she walked alone. After what she had done, there was no other ending for her. Yet death did not quiet the gnawing in her belly or the tremble in her limbs. She had been running for hours. The rain had soaked through her thin shawl. Her boots squelched.
“I cannae keep standing here,” she muttered to herself, lifting her chin.
Iona had survived worse than a crowded inn.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Heat struck her first, thick and almost suffocating. The air smelled of ale, damp wool, and roasting meat. The place was packed. Men crowded every bench, boots propped on stools, laughter loud and careless. No one spared her more than a passing glance at first.
Until they did.
The dining area was full, every table claimed, save one near the hearth. The flames licked high and bright, throwing gold across the room. At that table sat a single man.
He occupied the space as if it belonged to him.
Tall even while seated. Broad shoulders straining against a dark tunic, damp at the seams. Black hair fell to his collar, one pale streak near his temple catching the firelight. A beard shadowed his jaw. His gaze remained fixed on the tankard in his hand as if it had offended him.
He did not look like a man who welcomed company.
Still, Iona made straight for him.
Each step toward that table tightened a churning low in her stomach. She could feel eyes following her now. Curiosity. Amusement. Pity.
When she reached the hearth, she folded her hands before her and said, “May I sit at the corner? I willnae trouble ye.”
The man took another swallow, set the tankard down with a muted thud, then lifted his eyes.
Brown. Deep and sharp as wet earth.
He watched her for a moment that strained uncomfortably long. Then he grunted once.
It was permission.
She slid onto the far edge of the bench, careful to keep distance between them. Heat from the fire seeped into her chilled bones. For a moment, she allowed herself to close her eyes.
Around them, murmurs rose. A few men shook their heads. One laughed under his breath as if she were a fool walking into a lion’s den.
Let them think it.
The innkeeper lumbered over, wiping his hands on a stained cloth. “What will ye have, lass?”
Iona’s throat tightened. “Bread. Stew if ye have it. And a bed for the night.”
The innkeeper’s brows lifted. “Coin first.”
She held his gaze, steady though her palms dampened. “I havenae any. But I can scrub floors. Wash dishes. Mend linens. I will work till dawn if I must.”
The innkeeper snorted. “I arenae running a charity. Out with ye.”
She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Please! I will do any task ye set me.”
“Nay.”