He sighed. “Ye are very beautiful, lassie, but I’m just too tired. Besides, Dominic would never forgive me if I whisked away his barmaid for too long.”
Astrid’s perfectly coy smile wavered a little. “Oh. I see. I’m sorry, Me Laird.”
Color rushed to Thomas’s cheeks.
“Don’t be sorry, lass. Ye haven’t done anything wrong, I just… well, I’ve got a bit of a headache coming on, to tell ye the truth.”
Astrid smiled sympathetically at that, seeming to reassure herself that his rejection wasn’t her fault. “Another time, then?”
Thomas forced a smile, wondering what on earth was wrong with him. Maybe he really was tired, even if the headache was a lie.
“Aye, another time, then.”
He drained his tankard to the bottom, wincing at the bitter taste. For all the Sinner was a famous pub, the hub of all activity around here, their alcohol wasn’t up to much.
He slammed it down and tossed a few coins across the counter to pay for it.
Dominic glanced down at them, frowning. “Off so soon, Thomas?”
Thomas forced another smile. His cheeks were starting to hurt, and it was too loud. “Aye, Dom. I’m off. See ye later.”
He pushed his way through the crowd, feeling Dominic and Astrid’s eyes burning into his shoulder blades all the way. He would have to avoid them as much as he had to avoid his own thoughts.
4
Thomas took his time heading home.
It almost felt embarrassing to come home so early. Tabitha would comment on it soon enough,—nothing got past her sharp eyes.
Was something wrong with him? Was he ill?
Don’t be a fool.Ye are just tired. Tired, that’s it. So, what if ye don’t feel like bedding every woman ye come across? Tabitha’s right,—if ye get one with child, and she kicks up a fuss, ye might find yourself with a Lady MacPherson, after all.
He immediately thought of Astrid. She was beautiful, of course, and just the right amount of interested, but there was something about her. A little too eager, perhaps?
Maybe it wasn’t just him she was interested in, but the empty throne next to his on his dais.
He shivered. He didn’t even use that wretched throne very often. The people didn’t want to see their laird looming above them like some narcissistic English king.
The blocky shape of the Keep loomed into view, and Thomas sped up. He’d ordered the gates locked early, since there were rumors of bandits roaming the hills. He would get in through a side door, which was mostly unknown and kept guarded at all times in case of emergencies. He knew his decision to close the gates early wasn’t popular, but he stuck by it. Plus, wolf packs were coming closer and closer to the Keep. There wasn’t enough food in the hills for them right now, which didn’t help the rumors of a famine.
He hunched over his horse’s neck, lost in thoughts about his problems, current, past, and future.
Next to the Keep walls, the stone was cold and damp, casting a long, dark shadow. Thomas’s skin crawled as if he were being watched, but of course, he could see nothing in the shadows. He rounded the corner and spotted the door on the side of the wall.
It was open.
He froze. He slid down from his horse’s back and peered through the doorway. There was no sign of anyone in the courtyard. There was no sign of the guard, either.
He hesitated, glancing around. What if the guard had run off into the forest to answer the call of nature?
A faint rabbit track led from the door into the forest, which stood only twenty feet or so from the side of the Keep wall. The trees parted a little as if to let the path inside, and the depths of the forest were dark and gloomy.
Thomas could hear nothing but the rustle of the wind in the foliage, the chitter of insects, and the occasional hoot of a hunting owl. He was about to step inside and lock the gate after him—the sentry shouldn’t have left it unguarded, so spending a night outside the walls was a better punishment than whatever the captain of the guard would think up for him ifhefound out—when he heard something.
He paused, his ears straining.
There was a clatter and rustle in the forest as if twigs were breaking and leaves were being crunched underfoot.
