The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,65
up the promontory.
“Word is the soldiers take their respite at the Clipper Alehouse near the bend of the Leven,” said Livingstone, holding the tiller firm.
Ciar raised his spyglass. “Man the oars. We’ll cruise past.”
“You heard him, men!” bellowed the man-at-arms. “To your stations.”
Dunbarton was similar to many Scottish burghs, with a town square not far from the riverfront. Boats were moored on either side of the river, where they had easy access to the sea. “It will be easy to slip in without drawing notice.”
“Aye, and I hardly recognized you with a full beard. A man would have to look twice before he’d ken your face.”
“Crooked nose and all?” Ciar snorted. “Nonetheless, I’ll be calling into the tailor’s shop first.”
Tired and irritable from a night of hard sailing, they left the Dunollie men to watch the galley while they headed for the square.
Once he was outfitted in a pair of breeches, a buckskin coat, and a tricorn hat low on his brow, Ciar followed Livingstone into the Clipper. He ordered two pints and pushed one across the bar for his friend while panning his gaze across the alehouse patrons’ faces. There were only a dozen or so dragoons in the crowd. “He’s not here.”
“Want me to ask questions?” asked his man-at-arms.
Ciar inclined his head toward an empty table in the shadows, well away from the light of the window. “After we’ve settled in. Nothing draws attention faster than a man who’s too eager.”
He hadn’t missed the sideways glances when they’d arrived or the whispers now. Clearly, everyone was wondering who they were and if they’d cause a stir. He slid into the seat against the wall, where his back was protected. “Drink slow, my friend.”
A barmaid stopped by and bent over the table, until her wares nearly burst from her bodice. “Come in from fishing the Clyde, have you?”
“Something like that.”
She waggled her shoulders. “Would ye like some company?”
After spending so much time with Emma, this woman tempted him about as much as a hog. “Perhaps a bit of information.”
“What kind of information?”
“A friend of mine was just transferred to a regiment at Dunbarton—have you met anyone new as of late?”
“Possibly.” She held out her hand. “But it’ll cost ye a penny.”
Ciar nodded to Livingstone, who dropped a coin in her hand.
She slid it into the folds of her skirts. “What is your friend’s name?”
“Riley—was sent down from Fort William.”
The wench’s eyes flashed wide before she wiped a hand over her mouth and glanced away. “Riley? Aye, I’ve met him.”
“Does he come here often?” asked Livingstone.
“As often as the next soldier, I suppose.” She twirled her bodice laces around her finger. “Plays cards. Likes to tup as well.”
Ciar nudged Livingstone with his elbow and gave a nod. “The second penny is for your silence.”
She took the second coin and rubbed it between her fingers before it disappeared just like the first. “He don’t mean nothing to me, but you’re not planning to hurt him, are ye?”
“Nay, lassie. After all, he is an old friend.”
The woman tipped up her chin, her eyes narrowing. “What is your name?”
“Manfred.” Ciar stared the woman in the eye and drank. “If anyone asks, his old friend from Fort William, Manfred, has a wee bit o’ treasure for him.”
* * *
If Riley was out riding sorties, he wouldn’t find his way to the Clipper Alehouse until after dark—if he came at all.
At least it gave Ciar and his men time to set a trap. He had three of his crew take a table near the door. The other three stood at the bar while he and Livingstone ate a meal of lamb stew and bread at the same table where they’d met the barmaid.
She must have found a customer for the night because she was nowhere to be seen. At least that’s what Ciar thought until Riley walked through the bloody door.
As soon as he stepped inside, the vixen ran from the back. “These men are waiting for you!”
“Ballocks!” Ciar growled, pushing to his feet.
Riley’s jaw dropped with stunned recognition, and then pure terror flashed through his eyes.
As the weasel turned, the Dunollie men blocked the front door. Whipping around, the bastard pushed over a table and ran to the back. Ciar followed as he shoved chairs aside.
A dragoon caught his arm, yanking him to a halt. “Not so fast.”
Instinctively, Ciar gripped the man’s throat and stared him in the eye while Riley banged through the rear door. “This isn’t your fight.”