“And what work is that?” Gavin asked. He tucked his thumbs in his braces and widened his stance.
“Yes.” Winnifred frowned. In all their conversations, he’d never said what his work was now. “What is your occupation?”
Donald drew his shoulders back. “I do a little of this, some o’ that. Important men trust me to see to their affairs.”
“You never went into business with your father?” she asked. “Didn’t he want you to become a cobbler, as well?”
“My da turned to shoemaking only after we were evicted from our farm.” Donald gripped his reins tightly, and the donkey shifted uneasily beneath him. “He never made enough to support himself, much less a family. I don’t know why I should follow the same shabby path as that witless idler.”
“It’s an honest trade.” She tilted her head. Had he always looked down on his father so? Winnifred couldn’t remember.
“Honest?” Donald snorted. “Aye. My da is an honest serf, bowing and scraping and content to always serve others. We’re tired of obliging others; we want to serve ourselves.”
“We?” Gavin asked.
Donald didn’t respond.
Winnifred worked through his words, weighing each one. “You used to speak plainly. Did that quality disappear at the same time as your respect for your father?”
A brick red flush stained his cheeks. “I came to speak with Mr. Fraser. Perhaps I’ll come back another time when his time isn’t otherwise occupied.”
“I’m always busy.” Gavin stepped forward and stroked the donkey’s nose. “Tell me what you’ve come to say and be done with it.”
Donald raised his chin. “I’ve come with a warning for all right-minded Scots. Times are changing, and ye’d best get right with your fellow man. Memories are long in these parts. Ye want to be remembered well, don’t ye, Mr. Fraser?”
Gavin inhaled sharply.
“That sounds like a threat.” Winnifred shaded her eyes as she looked up at the man she’d once thought might be her husband. “You used to speak kindly, too. What has happened to the boy I knew?”
The donkey tossed his head and took a step back. Donald loosened his grip on the reins. “As I said, times are changing, and I with them.”
Winnifred gripped the handle of her satchel. “I’m quite familiar with your changes. I was near killed in one of them – a riot at the University of Glasgow.” Her blasted ankle still ached. Only Sheena’s skill in wrapping a bandage tightly about it prevented her from limping. “Is that what you want for your country? Mob rule over reasoned debate? Sparring with stones instead of words? Anger instead of cooperation? Surely what I saw in Glasgow is not what you want for your beloved Scotland.”
His hands jerked, and the animal beneath him whinnied.
“Yer hurting the mouth of that poor cuddie.” Gavin pressed his lips together. “Besides, she dunnae seem large enough to be carrying a full-grown man. Why don’t you climb down off yer ass?”
Winnifred snorted, the burst of laughter escaping her before she covered her mouth with her hand. An ass for an ass. Fitting.
“Not everyone can afford a fine piece of horseflesh. The working man must make do.” Donald peered down his nose at Winnifred. “I’m saddened that you were caught up in any high feelings of the crowd. And that any violence is ever necessary. But as the French say, ye can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs.” He sniffed. “Besides, it’s a husband’s job to protect his wife. Perhaps Dunkeld should attend to his duties and not allow his wife to traipse about when emotions are running high.”
Every inch of Winnifred’s spine snapped to attention. If she could have reduced Donald to ashes with the heat of her glare, she would have. “Pardon me? Are you insinuating that it is my husband’s job to proscribe my movements? That I am in need of being contained?” Good Lord, how could she have contemplated marriage to this pompous sap skull for one moment?
She shifted her satchel to her other arm, the bag feeling unbearably heavy. Her entire body felt heavy. Donald was right; most husbands did control their wives. Winnifred was one of the fortunate ones. She’d moved from the house of a permissive father to that of her husband’s, a man who showed no interest in being her manager, her gaoler. All Sin wanted was for her to speak her mind. And for her love to him.
Her heart clenched. He’d given her so much. Not only a wild kind of freedom that tolerated no restraints when they were alone together, but a freedom in her daily life most wives could only dream of.
Why couldn’t she love such a man?
Donald huffed out a laugh. “If the cap fits ….” His lips curved into a brittle smile. “And with a woman like you in particular, well, let’s just say yer father should have married you to a man with a stronger sense of right and wrong.”
Fury propelled Winnifred forward, but Gavin slid between her and the ass. “It’s time ye were on your way,” he said to Donald. “Your sly tongue isn’t welcome here.”
Winnifred scuttled to one side of Gavin’s body only to meet his outstretched arm. She circled to the other, and he side-stepped in front of her. Well, really. Poking her face over Gavin’s shoulder, she glared at Donald. “You right sot. I remember when you were but a pimple-faced nuisance. When you cried like a babe after tripping over my father’s stepstool. Don’t try to act commanding now you .. you… cretin!. I know the truth. And if you were even half the man my husband is, you would be fortunate indeed.”
Face red, Donald leaned forward in the saddle, his glare never leaving her face. “It seems my mother was right about Sassenach women. You should be careful with that tongue of yers. In times of old, the penalty for insulting a man would be cutting it out.”
“Show me a man to insult,” she sneered
