Humiliation burned hotter than the hearth. She opened her mouth to try again when a heavy clink cut through the noise.
Coins scattered across the table between her and the stranger.
The innkeeper’s eyes widened.
The man’s voice was low, controlled. “Food. Ale. A room for her tonight. And quiet.”
He did not raise his voice. He did not need to.
The innkeeper gathered the coins quickly, nodding. “Aye, sir.”
When he hurried away, Iona turned slowly toward her unexpected savior.
“Thank ye,” she said, meaning it. “Ye didnae have to do that.”
He shrugged once.
Up close, she noticed the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tightened around the tankard as though it were the only solid thing left in the world.
“Iona Pearson,” she offered, extending a damp hand.
His gaze dropped briefly to it, then back to her face. He did not take it.
She withdrew it without offense. “And ye are?”
He did not answer.
“Well,” she pressed lightly, because silence made her restless. “If I am to share yer fire and yer table, it seems fair I ken the name of the man who rescued me from starvation.”
His eyes narrowed faintly.
“Do ye often rescue strange lasses?” she continued, forcing brightness into her tone. “Or was I merely the most pathetic sight in the room?”
A muscle ticked in his cheek.
“Ye talk too much,” he muttered.
“I have been alone on the road for days. If I daenae speak now, I might forget how.”
He took another swallow of ale.
Her eyes assessed him openly. Strong hands. Scars along the knuckles. Grief sat on him like a cloak, heavy and unyielding.
“Are ye all right?” she asked softly before she could stop herself.
His gaze snapped to hers, sharp enough to cut.
“As if that question would make it better?” he said.
“I only meant –”
“Me father died.”
The words landed between them like a dropped stone.
Ah.
That explained the storm in his eyes.