The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,51
the food on the table. It smelled nutty, and the heat of it warmed her face. “We’ll have to live with this simple fare until Livingstone arrives. Two oatcakes or three?”
“Two should suffice, thank you.”
“Would you like a slice of apple as well?”
“Please.”
Her mouth watered as he cut into the aromatic fruit and put it on her plate.
The oatcake was bland and rather tasteless, but a bite of apple helped to make it more palatable. “This is delicious.”
His knife tapped the plate as he snorted. “And here I thought you weren’t one to tell tall tales.”
She slipped a morsel of food down for Albert. “’Tis better than going hungry.”
“Aye.”
“Hello inside!” bellowed a deep voice.
Albert launched into a maelstrom of barking.
Emma snapped her fingers. “Come behind.”
As the dog obeyed, Ciar’s chair scraped the floor. “Livingstone, ’tis so late I didn’t think you’d come until the morrow.”
“Had to wait until dark, and then I made like I was sailing to Mull and tacked around behind Kerrera. The mainland is crawling with redcoated bastards. Uh…pardon me, Miss Emma.”
She held out her fingers. “No apology necessary. They are bastards.”
The gentleman gave the back of her hand a rough peck. “Beg your pardon, but how the blazes did a wee lassie end up rescuing this enormous bull of a man from a fortress like Fort William?”
Heat rushed to her face while she considered the utter incredulity in his tone. “It seems Robert’s lessons in lock picking finally came of some use.”
“Truth?” asked Livingstone as if he still had difficulty believing it. “Leave it to Grant to teach his sister to pick locks.”
“She risked a great deal,” said Ciar. “More than I would expect of any man.”
“Well, I’m glad of it. Needless to say, somehow or other we would have found a way to slip inside, mark me.”
“Pull up a wine cask and join us.” Ciar’s chair creaked. “And what news aside from the redcoats infesting my lands?”
“Nothing new, I suppose.” A barrel made a hollow echo through the vault. “The kingdom is up in arms about the succession of the Hanoverian king.”
“And are there murmurs of civil war?”
“Clans from Glasgow to Skye are ready to take up arms.”
“’Tis as I thought.” Ciar heaved an enormous sigh. “Will you join me in a dram of whisky?”
The cork popped from the bottle. “Don’t mind if I do. Would you like a spot, Miss Emma?”
“Of whisky?”
“Why not?” asked Ciar. “You’re a fugitive as am I and on your greatest adventure. A dollop in your water might do the trick.”
Before she uttered an objection, the spirit plopped into her glass. Robert enjoyed the drink, why not give it a try? She raised the cup and sniffed and then took a timid taste. “Mm. It has a rich, peaty essence.”
“Exactly how I like it,” said Braemar. “Though it burns like hellfire when ye drink it straight.”
She sipped and swirled it in her mouth. “If it burns, then why not always mix it with water?”
“Once one grows accustomed to the fire, diluting such a delicacy seems like a sacrilege,” said Ciar. “Livingstone, did Archie tell you to bring my weapons?”
“Aye, and food as well. A dirk and sword are wrapped in the leather parcel, and food stores are still in the boat.”
Emma leaned forward on her elbow. “You didn’t happen to bring along a skein of wool and some knitting needles…or a harp perchance?” Of course she didn’t expect a positive response, but it would be nice to have some things to occupy her thoughts. Especially after today.
“Are you weary from the tedium already?” asked Ciar.
“Nay, but I like having something to occupy my hands.”
“Ye could practice picking the locks on the cellar doors,” said Livingstone. “It seems it is an indispensable skill—one which may come in handy should we need to march on Kensington palace.”
Laughter resounded through the cellar accompanied by a raucous yip from Albert. But the joviality gradually faded until the chamber was filled with slight hisses from the coal fire. A chill coursed down the outsides of Emma’s arms. It was as if the three of them suddenly realized the gravity of their situation.
The whisky cork popped again on Ciar’s side of the table this time. He poured thrice—even adding another dollop to her cup. “Three red-coated dragoons ambushed Tommy MacIntyre on the Inverlochy-Spean Bridge Road. The poor man hadn’t a chance—dirked in the back he was.”
Livingstone’s cup thudded on the table. “The murdering asps.”