Part 13 (1/2)

Fayth took Laine's empty seat. She didn't particularly want to join them for either ale or conversation.

”What's your name?” Armless Eliot asked.

”Hugh,” Fayth answered. She always went by her father's name when disguised as a lad. And it always sent a pleasant surge of pride through her.

”I'm Skelley,” the kind-eyed man said. ”And this is Eliot. We're only pa.s.sing through. It's not likely we'll buy your horse, though Eliot is always looking for a good mount, him being crippled.”

Fayth glanced at the empty sleeve and back to the black eyes, which on closer inspection proved to be very dark brown. Though he had only one arm, she didn't believe he was particularly challenged. He appeared perfectly capable of inflicting considerable harm.

”I think you might like this horse.” Fayth scratched at herself, leaning back on the bench. ”As I said, he's extremely well trained. My... father left him to me and now I find myself short of funds and must sell him. But he's not very old, maybe four years.”

”Did your father train him?” Skelley asked.

Fayth nodded.

Eliot leaned toward her, an amused light in his eye, as if this were a game to pa.s.s the time. ”Who was your father?”

Fayth hesitated. Though these men were Scots, she had yet to determine their surname. But Eliot's question gave her an idea of how to introduce the subject of Mona and Sir Patrick. ”Is. He's not dead. Sir Patrick Maxwell. He ran away with a black-haired witch, Mona Musgrave. I'm trying to find him. She bewitched him.” A foolish story, but the version Ridley spread.

The men were both silent, their faces expressionless. Skelley dug at his ear. Eliot stroked his beard.

”How old are you, lad?” Eliot asked, letting his fingers come to rest buried in the black waves.

Though Fayth was actually two and twenty, she had no trace of a beard and was very small, so she said, ”Fourteen, sir.”

Eliot looked at Skelley, who shrugged and said, ”Aye, 'tis possible.”

Excitement surged in Fayth. Perhaps they knew Sir Patrick! ”Do you know my father?”

”I might,” Eliot said. ”Do you?”

Fayth wasn't sure how far to take this farce. She didn't know how well these men knew Sir Patrick, if they did at all. Didn't know if they could catch her in the middle of a lie. So she said, ”I know some things. Things my mother told me, things he told me the few times he visited. And I know what I've heard from others.”

Skelley grinned. ”And still ye think he's worth finding?”

Fayth nodded. ”He's my father.”

Skelley's smile faded and he dropped a heavy hand on Fayth's shoulder. ”Then I know someone who can help ye.”

Laine returned. He leaned over and whispered something to Skelley. Eliot still showed no signs of emotion. He stared fixedly at Fayth, dark eyes somehow both cold and hot. She could see his mouth in the thick waves of his beard, sensual, smooth.

”We might be wantin' yer horse,” Skelley said. ”The man who knows of yer father-methinks he'll want it.” Skelley stood. ”Will ye come?”

Fayth looked at the trio hesitantly. ”I have to go with you?”

”No,” Skelley said. ”But unless ye do, no sale and no information.”

Fayth looked from one man to the next, her gaze resting longest on Laine. She could probably find someone else to buy her horse with little effort-and it would certainly be easier to purchase another here at the market. But if the intelligence on Mona proved useful it might save Fayth a great deal of time.

”Where is this man?” she asked.