A Very Highland Holiday - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,116
our damnedest,” Boyd said as Carrie delivered their ale. “We’re fortunate to be able to go home since you heathens don’t even celebrate the season.” He snorted.
Fowler nodded in agreement. “We’ll make it. Unless we find any fugitives.”
“You’re on the hunt for Jacobites?” Tavish asked casually before taking a sip of ale.
Boyd spat on the floor. “Bloody criminals. We’ll catch every last one and see ’em hang.”
“Or in jail,” Fowler said with more restraint. But then his lip curled and a feral gleam blistered his gaze.
Tavish tensed. He hoped they could leave tomorrow. He didn’t need them hanging about, not when he was also on the hunt for Jacobites. But for a wholly different purpose. He didn’t think there was anyone in Calvine who needed his help, but he was ever mindful and would offer assistance where it was wanted.
“You’re looking for someone in particular, then?” Tavish asked.
Fowler nodded. “Several someones. Know anyone named McCloud or Williams? Those are the two I’d most like to find. McCloud’s a skinny fellow with black hair and a jagged scar across his brow. Williams is larger—about your size, I’d say—with long hair and a thick beard.”
“Can’t say I do,” Tavish lied. “But I’ll keep an ear out.” McCloud was a friend and currently in hiding. His injuries had been extensive. Tavish had recovered more quickly—after shaving his beard and lopping his hair off. He was, most likely, the Williams they wanted.
“There you are.”
The feminine voice drew all three men to turn their heads. Standing next to the table, her dusky green eyes flashing with ire, was Elspeth Marshall.
She’d wound her red-blonde hair atop her head, save a few wispy curls that grazed her cheeks. She wore a dark green gown that laced across the front of her bodice beneath a square neckline. Putting one hand on her slender waist, she fixed her angry stare on Tavish.
He swallowed. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.” This could go very, very badly.
Her lips parted. “You really don’t remember me?”
Tavish allowed a lazy smile as he glanced toward the soldiers. “I think I would. Ergo, you must be mistaken. No matter, I’m delighted to meet you now.” Before he could say his name and show her it wasn’t Williams, she spoke.
“Oh, I know you already, Mr. Williams. And you know me. What I’d like to know is why—”
Tavish couldn’t let her continue. “My name is not Williams. You are mistaken, miss.” He hardened his gaze and prayed she would go.
“Williams?” Fowler asked, his eyes focusing—and narrowing—on Tavish.
“As I said, I’m MacLean.” Tavish looked directly at Miss Marshall. “John MacLean. Now, if you’ll excuse us, miss, we are drinking ale and discussing things that don’t involve a young lady such as yourself.” He turned his attention to his tablemates even as he heard her sharp intake of breath.
Miss Marshall didn’t immediately leave. Tavish felt her presence and her outrage like a stiff, cold wind. Still, he refused to be buffeted.
With a small sound of indignation, she spun on her heel and left. Inwardly, Tavish winced. Outwardly, he lifted his ale and muttered, “Good riddance.”
Fowler scrutinized him across the table. “You really aren’t Williams?”
“A Jacobite?” Tavish snorted in disdain. “No. But I’d be happy to help you find him. He ought to be strung up with the rest of the traitors.”
“Hear, hear!” Boyd banged his tankard on the table before taking a long drink.
Fowler hesitated, but eventually did the same. Then he leaned back in his chair, still holding the mug. “Good, because I’m not in the mood for a fight tonight. I just want to get home to my family. Is that too much to ask?” He sounded weary. Tavish could understand that. They all wanted comfort after the nightmare of Culloden.
“Amen to that,” Tavish said.
“What do you make of that silly story about a flaming sword?” Boyd sniggered. “These bloody Highlanders will believe anything.”
Today wasn’t the first time Tavish had heard rumors about the sword. He knew they weren’t rumors, of course. The sword had been used at Culloden, and he needed to find it. While he was always looking for Jacobite survivors of Culloden, his primary concern at the moment was locating Lann Dhearg before it fell into the wrong hands. And if it already had, well, he’d have to get it back.
“They particularly appreciate legend and fantasy,” Tavish said derisively.
Fowler pressed his lips together. “I’ve heard about this fiery sword before. For a fallacy, it is remarkably persistent.”