Riley hopped down from the wall, cackling. “Oh, come on, don’t tell me you weren’t thinking of it.”
“I was,” Emma admitted.
“I’ve got to go now, but I’ll see you again soon. Be careful, Emma. And no more midnight excursions to get herbs!”
Riley gave Emma a last wave and hurried back across the courtyard towards the laundry. Her shoes clattered on the cobbles, the noise gradually receding. The laundress and Riley disappeared inside, and Emma was left alone with the flapping sheets.
She sat where she was for a minute or two, thinking.
She could still feel hands on her. It was an awful sensation. But the memory of that was all tied to the appearance of Laird MacPherson.
Thomas.
Try as she might, Emma had never been able to tamp down the churning in her stomach when she saw him. It was as if he sucked the air out of the room when he came in, and she hated him for it.
After all, how many other women got breathless around Laird Thomas MacPherson? She had no intention of being another conquest.
The wind was getting cold, so she hopped down from the wall and scurried inside.
Keeping busy would keep her mind off her recent attack.
And, of course, it would keep her mind off the ever-dangerous Thomas.
6
The McCade Pub
Lachlan McCade ran his eyes over the line of employees—three men and five women—his temper souring further with each one.
He didn’t have time for this. The pub would open in a few hours, and they weren’t ready. The sticky floors had to be swept, the windows shuttered so no gawkers could peer inside—discretion was all part of the price, as Lachlan liked to say—and his human stables had to ready themselves. They’d be in great demand tonight. Yesterday was Sunday, and a lot of penitents were eager to rack up fresh sins for the next week.
And, as always, Lachlan of the McCade pub would give it to them, along with watery spirits, weak ale, and a license to do and say whatever they liked.
So long as the money kept coming, of course.
His gaze fell on Flora, who was cowering at the end of the line, and he scowled harder. He’d paid a pretty penny for her to buy a good-looking little healer to replace the wretched lass that had run off. Flora was eighteen years old, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and altogether delicious.
He thought that he’d gotten a bargain, too, until it had become clear that aside from dabbing the fevered brow of her mother, the girl had no medical experience at all.
Certainly not ofhealing,because her mother had died anyway. Apparently, her father was just a liar, who’d just said that she could work as a healer to get more money for her. So, the wretched girl wasuseless.
He had to get his money back on her somehow. The perfect opportunity had presented itself a few weeks ago, when he’d caught her trying to send a tearful, begging letter back to her father, asking to come home. He’d torn up the letter right in front of her and told her that this was her home now.
And now here she was, hollow-eyed and pasty, her eyes all red-rimmed and ugly, her pretty hair tangled and lanky. She was losing weight hand over fist and cringed and shook whenever somebody spoke to her. Lachlan had the urge to strike her. He doubted she’d last long, which would be a real waste of money. Besides, hestilldidn’t have a decent healer.
“Anyone care to explain these figures?” he asked, his scratchy voice the only sound in the dead silent room. He tapped a stubby, fat finger underneath the ledger total, and the line of employees dropped their gazes.
“Speak up,” he demanded.
No one did, of course, and his temper was only getting worse by the minute.
“Last night, the eight of ye were working the floor. Busy, busy, busy, I hope. Light skirts and unbuttoned trousers, that’s what I want to see. And yet, our takings are a disgrace. We’ve barely raked in half of what we did last month, and I want to know who’s been slacking.”
The barkeep, Simon, who was somewhat less replaceable than the scrawny men and women that Lachlan sold in his pub, lounged in the corner. “They’re not slacking,” he spoke up, picking at his nails. “We had fewer customers in. Fewer and fewer every week.”
Lachlan narrowed his eyes at him. “Yer sure?”
“Dead sure. They all go to the Sinner now.”
