The Sinner. Now,therewas a name to reckon with.
Lachlan made a brief, dismissive gesture. “Get lost, all of ye.”
They scattered, obviously relieved. When the door closed behind them, Lachlan settled himself in his chair.
His bulk was growing steadily, and the chair creaked under his weight. He didn’t care. He didn’t need to care about his looks these days. He was powerful and rich enough to have transcended that. He might be tramping towards forty-five, and his hair was all but gone, but he could afford the most beautiful women around if he wanted.
Everyone had their price, after all.
Here, in the sticky, grimy, smoky interior of the McCade pub, you would buy whatever you liked, assuming you had the coin to pay for it. Personally, Lachlan thought that he was offering a fabulous opportunity that few other pub owners did.
And he’d made himself a small fortune in doing it.
He waved a hand at Simon. “Go on. Talk.”
Simon was a lanky, cadaverous sort of man who could have been anywhere between twenty and thirty. He had grey hair, sure, but a strangely young face. He’d worked in the McCade pub for years, and Lachlan had something approaching respect for him.
“The Sinner is a more popular pub,” Simon said, shrugging. “It’s cheaper, cleaner, the alcohol is better, the women are prettier and more willing, and there’s a good atmosphere in there. That’swhat I’ve heard. People are traveling further than usual to go there.”
Lachlan pushed out his bottom lip. “Thisis a good place. A good atmosphere. We have all of those things.”
Simon didn’t say anything. He didn’t really need to. Lachlan thought of Flora’s haggard, miserable face. What man wanted to look at that? She went through all the motions because she was made to do it, but her heart wasn’t in it. She couldn’t—or wouldn’t—pretend, damn her.
If they were all like that, all his men and women for sale, no wonder people wanted to go elsewhere.
“We’ll crack down on them,” Lachlan said decisively. “No more sour faces. No more tears. They’ll pretend they like it, or else…”
“That won’t work,” Simon said. “They’re used to the Sinner now.”
“Hmm. Who owns it?”
Simon thought for a moment. “It’s owned jointly by a few men. Colby Ferguson, who got married not so long ago, and Dominic Sutherford. Oh, and Thomas MacPherson.”
Lachlan missed a beat. “Do ye meanLairdThomas MacPherson?”
“Aye, I suppose I do.”
“What’s a laird got to do with running a pub?”
Simon shrugged disinterestedly. “Couldn’t tell ye. But if ye could get to him, ye might be able to—”
“Aye, all right, leave the planning to me. But how can we get to him? He lives in a damn keep, for God’s sake.”
Simon leaned forward, grinning. “Ah, well, that’s the clever part. Ye wanted me to find Emma Gallagher, did ye not?”
It took Lachlan a moment to recognize the name. Ofcourse. That wretched healer lass, who’d run off and left him to make do with Flora.
“And ye found her?” Lachlan asked breathlessly.
He hadn’t decided whether he wanted to kill the girl or put her to work. Either way, he had grand plans for when he finally caught her. He hadn’t imagined that she’d be found. He’d get his hands on her first, and then he’d decide. Revenge was a dish best served cold, wasn’t it?
Simon shrugged idly. “Well, before I tell ye, I have a condition.”
“Careful, Simon.”
Simon was, as always, unbothered by Lachlan’s thinly veiled threats. “Ye’ll want to send a scout once I tell ye where she is. I want ye to send Flora.”
Lachlan blinked. He hadn’t expected that. “What for?”
