The tousle-haired maid curtsied and stared wide-eyed at Rose as she walked into the small bedroom. And it was no wonder. Bruce’s black jacket didn’t hide much of her sheer, colourful dancing costume. Her face and hair were still veiled, and after over an hour riding in the cold night, her kohl eye make-up had run all over her face. Like the landlord who’d finally opened the inn’s front door after Bruce pounded on it for over five minutes, the girl probably wondered if she was dreaming. Or more likely, perhaps she believed her to be a woman of loose morals. Right now, it didn’t matter what they thought. They had been lucky to find the Kirkhouse Inn on the road to Wick, and luckier still that the landlord had given them a room, despite Rose’s bizarre clothing and the unusual timing of their arrival. ‘It’s surprisingly nice, isn’t it?’ Bruce remarked as he dropped Rose’s bag on the floor and walked across the room, bending down to avoid a low ceiling beam. Rose looked around the room.
