of Lachlan’s skull.
“’Tis how the clan has survived most of our lean years, laird,” Walter explained. “’Tis quite profitable.”
Lachlan’s thoughts immediately turned to Keevah. He could not, in good conscience, remain the owner of a brothel, when the woman he loved was a former prostitute. Lord, what would she think of me? Nay, he could not allow the clan, whether it be Chisolms or MacCulloughs, to run such a venture.
“Get rid of it,” he ground out.
Walter was so astonished that his eyes bulged as his mouth fell open. "Get rid of it?" He stammered.
"Aye,” Lachlan said. “We will nae be the owners of any establishment whereby we earn coin off the backs of women.”
Walter looked to Jamie and Fergus for help, but they were too busy looking at the floor at their feet.
“But, laird, we cannae do that.”
Lachlan scowled. “I believe we have already established the fact that I am laird. My orders are nae to be questioned or contradicted. Is that clear?”
“Aye, laird, ’tis perfectly clear,” Walter said.
Satisfied, Lachlan was just about to dismiss the man to do his bidding when he said, “But nae in this particular circumstance.”
Frustrated, Lachlan got to his feet. Before he could order the man be hanged for his insolence, Walter began to explain the why of it. “’Twas a gift from David’s grandsire.”
“David who?” Lachlan asked with a biting edge to his tone.
“King David,” Walter said before swallowing hard again. “King David’s grandsire, Robert de brus. He gifted what most people call the Tickled Pickle to Randall Chisolm, the first, some fifty years ago.”
The ache in Lachlan’s skull intensified.
Jamie and Fergus nearly fell to their knees. “The Tickled Pickle?” Jamie asked, gasping for breath.
A tic formed in Lachlan’s jaw.
Walter did his best to ignore the two men. “It will be owned by the Chisolms in perpetuity.”
“But ye are no longer Chisolms,” Jamie pointed out.
“No matter what we call ourselves, the Tickled Pickle will be owned by whomever occupies this keep.”
Fergus, always the stalwart and logical thinking of their group, couldn’t contain his laughter. His body shook as his eyes watered. Lachlan glared with the intention that his fierce scowl would quiet the man. It had the opposite effect.
“Would ye please stop callin’ it that?” Lachlan said to Walter. To his men, he said, “I dunnae ken why ye think this is so amusing.”
Neither man could answer, for they could barely catch their breath.
“Laird, as much as I would like to do yer biddin’, I cannae do it. ’Tis impossible.”
“Nothin’ is impossible,” Lachlan said derisively.
Walter had to ask him to repeat himself for he couldn’t hear over Jamie and Fergus’s belly laughs.
“For the love of Christ!” Lachlan shouted. “If ye cannae control yerselves, then leave.”
They laughed all the way out of the study. Lachlan waited until the sound of their amusement was nothing more than a faint echo before turning his attention back to Walter.
“If we cannae get rid of it, then shut it down.”
Walter’s expression changed from nervous to terrified. “I’d rather ye just hang me now, laird,” he said. “Fer I would rather that than to go to Inverness and tell Madam Euphemie that she is to shutter her doors.”
Back and forth they went for nearly half an hour. Not even the threat of death could get Walter to change his mind.
Realizing he was not going to get the weak man to acquiesce, Lachlan decided all further arguments were unnecessary. While he had absolutely no desire to go to Inverness, he had no other choice.
Chapter Eight
One of the benefits of killing whores is that they made it so damnable easy. One would think that after the brutal deaths of six of their ilk, any whore with half a mind would be a bit more cautious. But nay, they were all far too eager to earn their piece of silver or gold.
He’d been studying his next victim for weeks now. Watching, waiting in the shadows, carefully taking mental notes of where she went and when. Number seven rarely left the confines of the filthy brothel where she lived and worked. Madame Euphemie’s. Bah!
No matter what they called it or what kind of expensive and pretty draperies they hung in the windows, no matter the type of clientele who visited - earls, dukes, merchantmen - ’twas still a den of iniquity. A house of ill-repute. A home for whores.
Forveleth.
He only knew her name because he’d heard someone call her that a sennight ago. Whores never paid attention to the shadows, or what lurked within.
If