Secrets to Seducing a Scot

FOUR

The Thorn & Thistle was bursting that evening. Each of the twelve or so tables in the pub was spilling over with men, and those for whom there was no seat packed themselves in front of the bar. The air was thick with the smells of roasting meat and unwashed bodies. Though the din of their combined voices was deafening, they were all speaking of the very same thing.

Malcolm Slayter had just left his capture at the Inverness courthouse and had collected his reward. He was bruised, exhausted, and thirsty, and he desperately wanted to wash McInnes’s blood off his hands. A meal and a bed at the Thorn & Thistle would be just the thing to restore his depleted vigor. He tossed a coin to the stable lad with strict instructions to give his gray, Old Man, as much hay and oats as he could eat, and then opened the door to the pub.

There was hardly any room to walk around, dense as it was with men. Malcolm shouldered his way to the bar. At six and a half feet tall, no one impeded him. Still, the room got progressively quieter as he ordered a pint of ale and some stew and bread. By the time he made it to an empty bench in the back, the pub had silenced altogether.

A man wearing a Cameron tartan walked up to Malcolm. “What’re ye doing here? We’ll have no slaighteurs here.”

Malcolm hung his head, fighting to control his temper. He had forgotten to put on his gloves, which hid the scar that betrayed his dishonor. “I’m here for a meal and a bed, friend. I’ve no quarrel with ye.”

“I’m not yer friend. And ye’ll get no hospitality from any of us.”

A Dundas man spoke next. “Leave him be, Charlie. The cause can use all the men it can get.”

Charlie waved a hand at Malcolm. “Bah! Ye’ll no’ get help from the likes of him. He’s a villainous slaighteur. Him and his kind are naught but rogues and knaves. They’re traitorous all, to a man. Look at him! Why do ye think he wears a black kilt? ’Tis because he’ll claim no clan … and no clan will claim him.”

“Let the man speak his own mind.” Dundas was a huge Clydesdale of a man, with shoulders heavy with muscle and a head of copper-tinged hair. “My name’s Will. Ye’ve come opportunely. This here’s a meeting to come to an accord about the tax. We’re going to take a stand against the English. Are ye with us?”

Malcolm ran his right hand down his tired eyes. “I’ve come for a meal and a bed. If I can’t get them here, I’ll be back on my way.”

“There. D’ye see?” exclaimed Charlie, loud enough for all to hear. “Weak as water! Go on with ye. Piss off.”

Will looked Malcolm up and down, his intelligent eyes sizing him up. He pointed down at Malcolm’s crimson-stained left hand.

“How bad are ye hurt?”

Malcolm looked down at the dried, rust-colored layer coating his fist. “It’s no’ my blood. It’s someone else’s.”

A smile lifted the corners of Will’s blue eyes. “Not so weak as ye think, Charlie. At least we know who came out the winner in that fight.”

A tide of laughter swept through the pub.

“Who lost his blood to ye?” asked Will.

Malcolm inhaled sharply. “Jock McInnes.”

Will’s auburn eyebrows flew up. Even Charlie’s mouth fell open.

“Ye killed Jock McInnes?” asked Will.

“No. More’s the pity,” Malcolm answered. “But he’ll be dead enough once he answers for his crimes.”

A rotund man sitting at the bar slammed his schooner onto the table, the contents sloshing out onto the wooden surface. “Jock McInnes was a hero to the cause!”

A thundercloud darkened Malcolm’s features. “Tell that to the mother of the bairn he killed.”

The man’s bushy beard bristled. “Freedom from the English carries a price.”

“Oh? How many of yer own children are ye willing t’exchange for it?”

The man vacillated, his jaw tensed. “I wouldna turn over my own countrymen, that’s for certain.”

Malcolm’s eyes stormed over. “Patriotism and justice are seldom compatible.”

It was a sad truth that had changed the course of Malcolm’s entire life. It was impossible for him to achieve one without forfeiting the other. Even now, at just past thirty-three years of age, he had probably amassed more enemies than most other men. He didn’t have just the English to deal with—the Scottish, too, were against him. He belonged to an outcast kinship, a bastard clan with no lands, no heritage, no honor. All his life he had struggled to reclaim what was taken from him. And now he was being asked to help the very countrymen who denied him justice. Wearily, he lifted his satchel and stood.

“Carry on with yer meeting. I’ll trouble ye no longer.”

Will dropped a heavy hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. Instinctively, Malcolm’s hand flew to his concealed dagger.

“Friend,” began Will astutely, “I’ll wager ye’ve been ill treated by yer own kind. But ye’ll get no bother from me. Let me buy ye a drop of whiskey. And if ye don’t mind turning the blood on yer hands from that of the Scots to that of the English, ye may just find the justice ye are seeking for yerself.”