but the dusting of freckles on the apples of her cheeks and her smooth ginger hair gave her a youthful, friendly quality.
“I want ye to meet Malcolm Slayter, the man I told ye aboot.”
She smiled at him, crescents of cheek forming under her blue eyes. “Welcome to oor home, Mr. Slayter.”
“And he’s brought this beautiful young thing that he intends to share with his host.”
“Wheesht now, ye peppery auld sod.” She clouted him on the arm. “Where are yer manners? He isna always a boorish lout, my dear. Only on days that end in day.”
Serena smiled. “You’ll have to forgive the state I’m in,” she said, clutching the panels of her skirt together. “I’m afraid Malcolm has taken up elementary dressmaking.”
Una blinked. “Ye’re English?”
Serena glanced uncertainly at Malcolm before returning her attention to Una. “I hope that’s all right.”
“O’ course, o’ course. It’s just that we don’t see many English up oor way unless—” Now it was Una’s turn to look uncomfortably at her husband. “It’s a verra pretty frock.”
Serena shrugged nervously. “Just something I threw on.”
McLeish stroked his beard. “I should throw it off again.”
“McLeish!” cried his wife in mock despair. “Ye’ll get yer head in yer hands to play with!”
“I only meant that ye should offer her somethin’ to change into, ma dear heart.” As soon as Una looked away, he turned to Malcolm and shook his head. He meant what he had said.
Una nodded suspiciously. “Ye’ll have to overlook ma husband’s randy mooth, Miss Marsh. He’s as harmless as a dead bee. Come along. I’ll show ye where ye kin freshen up from yer journey.”
“Noo then. Ye come wi’ me, Malcolm Slayter,” said McLeish. “I’m sure I kin find a dram of whiskey for us to share.”
“So long as ye don’t tell me where ye got it from.” Malcolm pulled up a chair at the long kitchen table. Una seemed to have been plucking a chicken for white feathers billowed across the wooden tabletop.
“So,” he began, pouring the amber liquid into two small glasses. “Where did ye find that English filly?”
Malcolm gave a sidewise smile. “She’s my current job. I’m her seastnán.”
McLeish’s bushy eyebrows knit together. “Why would she need one? Who would want to hurt a pretty thing like her?”
“There are wicked people about. As well ye know.”
“Aye, I do. So …” A naughty gleam illuminated McLeish’s eyes. “Have ye plowed that field yet? Eh? Shaped the passage to yer measure?” McLeish jabbed an elbow into Malcolm’s side.
For the first time in all the years since he’d been a boy, Malcolm blushed. “Not yet.”
“Come on, man! Dinna spare the details. I saw how ye ripped open her dress. Give me a little image to rest ma head on. Una’s fair boilin’ at me for no’ fixing the roof, and she won’t let me in oor bed. D’ye knoo how desperate I am? Ye know me—I live for only two things. A pail full of ale—”
“—and lasses with fine asses. I remember.” Malcolm laughed, and then his face sobered. “McLeish, I’m after ye on another matter. A matter I hope ye can aim some light on. There’s been angry words against the English. I hear tell about war for independence. And to draw first blood, someone’s taken the English ambassador hostage.”
“Aye. I heard the whisperings.”
“Do ye also know who took him?”
McLeish nodded. “Some Sassenach expatriate named Neville. Bad seed, even among us colorful folk. A real brutal sort. No honor in him.”
“Who hired him?”
“I hear tell it’s the McCullough. The son of Duncan McCullough.”
“The one they call Brandubh?”
“That’s the one.”
“Where have they taken him?”
McLeish leaned back in his chair. “What is this aboot? Why all the interest in the McCullough? And what’s the connection with the Sassenach lass?”
Malcolm leaned his elbows on the table. “I know ye’re not in the game anymore. And I don’t want to put ye in harm’s way. Let’s just say ye don’t need to know what ye don’t need to know.”
“Dammit, Malcolm. If ye’re asking me to put ma family’s life in danger, then give me the truth of the matter.”
Malcolm thought quickly. A partial truth was better than none. “I’m no’ after the McCullough. I just want to get the ambassador back.”
“Why?”
“I don’t care about the politics. War, no war … it matters not to me. I want to rescue the man … for the sake of his daughter.” Malcolm’s head jerked in the direction Serena was taken.
Illumination dawned on McLeish’s florid face. “I see. So ye’re willing to go and