Lizzie could not shake the nagging feeling that this time had been different. Patrick had roused all the same feelings in her, but so much more. Kissing him, with her body pressed up against his, had felt amazing. Perfect. Right.
A wry smile turned her mouth. Apparently, not all of her naïve wishful thinking had been lost two years ago.
After the maid had finished helping her dress and arrange her hair, she made her way down to the great hall for the evening meal. Although it was less involved and substantial than the midday meal, Lizzie made sure it was prepared and presented with equal aplomb. The tables were festively decorated with colorful cloths, flowers, and candelabra. A harpist sat before the fireplace, infusing music throughout the peat smoke-filled room. A handful of maids circled the tables with pitchers of the potentcuirmand claret, and platters stacked high with cheese, bread, and beef. The room was cozy, warm, and full of life.
Everything was as it should be, yet something was missing. Her eyes went to the dais. For a moment, she could picture Patrick sitting at the head of the table, glancing up to catch her eye and smiling to see her. The image was so strong, she felt a wave of disappointment when it was gone. He wouldn't be at the dais. He was only a guardsman. Hadn't she just told him as much? One kiss and she was imagining things that could never be.
Perhaps it was because she'd just been thinking about Alys and her family, but Lizzie suddenly felt very alone. The cozy atmosphere she worked so hard to create was only a thin veneer to mask her loneliness.
As she approached the dais, she noticed that the room seemed quieter than usual. A quick glance around told her why. Neither Patrick nor any of his men were here.
Dread coiled in her belly like spoiled milk.
Had she driven him away?
No.He wouldn't leave, she told herself. Not when he'd promised to stay. Not without saying goodbye.
She took her seat beside the bailiff and Finlay, both men offering her a pleasant greeting. As they'd been waiting for her to start the meal, she raised her hand and the merrymaking began.
She made small talk with the bailiff for a bit before broaching the question foremost on her mind.
“I don't see the Murray guardsmen in the hall. Were they called to duty for some reason?”
The bailiff frowned, his eyes flickering over the tables crowded with clansmen. “Not to my knowledge, my lady.”
She heard Finlay snicker beside her; he'd obviously overheard—or been listening to—their conversation. “ ’Twas not duty that called them away, my lady.” He had a smug smile on his face, as though he were thinking about a naughty joke. “But a call of an entirely different kind.”
“I'm afraid I don't understand.”
Finlay sobered, but Lizzie caught the gleam in his eyes. “They went to the village to do a wee bit of celebrating.”
Her brows knit together. “But why would they do that? We've food and drink aplenty here.”
Finlay put on a show of looking uncomfortable, but Lizzie could tell that he was anxious to tell her what he knew. “We've not everything here that they have in the village.”
Oh God.Lizzie sucked in her breath, feeling suddenly ill. Women. They went to find women.
A slim dagger slid between her ribs, pricking a tiny corner of her heart—the part that had believed for a moment that there was something special in the kiss she and Patrick had shared. She swallowed. “I see.”
It shouldn't matter. Even if she had some claim on him— which she didn't—men often availed themselves of other women.
But knowing didn't lessen the kernel of disappointment aching inside her. Or the feeling that once again she'd seen something special where there was only lust. Lust that any willing arms would sate.
The comely, buxom lass perched on his lap did nothing to ease Patrick's restlessness. Still, cognizant of the tavern's patrons, he made a good show of enjoying himself as he tossed back another tankard ofcuirm,letting the maid fondle him.
The needs of the flesh had provided as good an excuse as any for why he and his men sought to avail themselves of the village's offerings this night. Maybe a wee tumble was just what he needed.
But the smell of stale ale was not lavender. When her wet kisses on his ear and the press of her breasts against his arms did nothing to get a rise out of him, he gave her a pat on her round rump and ushered her away with vague promises that he had no intention of keeping.
He had business to take care of, and his reason for being here had just ducked through the front door.
Patrick almost didn't recognize him. Gregor had gone to great lengths to change his appearance from that day in the forest. His tatteredbreacan feileandleinehad been exchanged for a leather jerkin and trews—no doubt obtained the way Patrick had secured his own new clothing.
It was the first time Patrick had seen his brother cleanshaven since Gregor was old enough to grow a beard. He'd trimmed his hair as well, and had it tied back in a short queue at his neck. Though Gregor's hair was lighter brown and his eyes dark blue, the resemblance between the two brothers had never seemed more marked. Patrick hoped to hell no one from the castle was around to take note.
He caught his brother's eye but gave no indication that he knew him. After a few moments, he moved back into one of the private “rooms”—a table and benches separated with a canvas curtain—offered by the alehouse for privacy in the back. Though the village of Dollar was small, it boasted a fine alehouse and lodging. If not as well maintained as a drover's inn, it would do for their meeting.
A short while later, Gregor slid onto a bench opposite him. Robbie and his other men would ensure that they were not interrupted and that no one drew close enough to overhear.
