But as quickly as the thought appeared, it was gone, leaving him looking over the four faces of drunken patrons at two of the tables.
Constantine ignored them and pulled out a chair at anempty table. Lachlan sat next, offering the strangers an amiable smile. They ordered their drinks from Bea, one of the friendly servers and waited for the others.
When the door opened a few moments later, Constantine expected to see Lewis or the brothers, Geoffry and Fionn, but a lass hurried in from rain. It was a lass, was it not? Her features, as well as her hands were too delicate to belong to a lad. Though she—or he—dressed in breeches and a coat at least three sizes too big, moved like a woman, with soft, hesitant steps. The hair on the stranger’s head appeared to be burnt auburn in color, though it was stuffed beneath a bonnet of dull green.
She looked around nervously, peering up the stairs where the rooms were. He understood why a lass would disguise herself as a lad. He didn’t like it. Any man in Lochaber who put his unwanted hands on a lass would have his hands removed.
Or she could be running and hiding from someone, a husband or her father. Constantine didn’t want to know or to get involved in things that didn’t concern him and went back to his bread.
His rowdy cousins arrived, pushing open the door and almost knocking the emaciated soul to his or her feet.
“I think I saw a few teeth flying before I was finished with him,” Lewis mused and the brothers laughed. “I also gave him a scar”—he motioned with his index finger down the length of his left cheek—“that will nae doubt get him more lasses. I did him a service.”
They spotted Constantine first and then the new patron.
“What will it be, then?” Lewis asked her…him.
“I need a room fer the night.”
“Pardon,” Lewis demanded impatiently. “Speak up. I need a drink.”
“A room. I require one fer the night.”
“Look,” Lewis said with distaste marring his brow. “’tisna safe fer someone such as yerself to sleep here.”
She turned to cast a withering look at the front door being pelted with rain.
Constantine left his chair and blocked her path to the exit. “Lewis, will ye turn her away in the rain? Get her a room.” He turned his fiery gaze on the other men at the tables. “From this moment onward, she falls under my protection. If anyone goes near her room—”
My lord, fergive me,” she croaked out, daring, albeit with a shaky voice, to interrupt him. “I am no’ a she.”
He bent his head to stare into her eyes for a moment. They were a clear, defiant gray, like mist over a loch, both haunting and unforgettable. He looked away for a moment, but then, as if he had no control over his own eyes, his gaze returned to hers. This time, he took in every inch of her face, with her delicate jaw, irresistibly plump lips, and a pert nose. This was most definitely a lass. But there was steel behind her soft features. He let his gaze rove over a stray, orange curl that had sprung loose from beneath her bonnet. He was mildly curious, unwantedly so, about the hair she tried to hide. Would it fall free around her shoulders like flames?
“I am corrected,” he announced to the others who were watching.
When he set his gaze on her again, the slightest trace of humor flashed across his eyes. “Fergive me, lad.”
Taking her turn, she let her wide, nervous gaze settle on him.
He felt the urge to look away, a warning to step away from her.
“Do ye remove yer protection from me then?” she asked in a voice so soft, he involuntarily moved closer to hear her.
As he looked down into her eyes, he felt an unfamiliar pull to stay close. Why should he? He began to shake his head.
“I…I need protection,” she told him. “Just fer one night. If I dinna sleep soundly one more night, I will go mad.”
Were those tears making her eyes glisten like starlight against a gray sky? She’d said for one more night. How many had she been traveling, and was she alone? All questions he didn’t needanswers to.
He broke eye contact with her and spread his gaze over the men in the tavern. “He is still under my protection.”
“Yer word, my lord?” She shifted on her feet at the weight of his stare. Then, “My father always said a man who gave his word and kept it could be trusted.
He only gave his word to his men and only when he meant what he said. “What do I care if ye trust me or not?” he asked coolly.
“If I trust ye, I can finally sleep.”
Damn her, Constantine thought, searching her gaze for deceit. Why did shadows, like ghosts of things she had survived, fill her gaze? Why did she have to appear so pitiful in her filthy, oversized clothes?
