The feeling of betrayal stung, like something tingling under her skin. It didn’t matter how fiercely Emma told herself she shouldn’t feel so angry, that Thomas owed her nothing, least of all his loyalty.
It still hurt.
She was vaguely aware of someone calling her name, although the chatter of the crowd drowned it out nicely, making it easier to pretend that she didn’t hear. For a moment, the press of bodies in the too-small space was almost overwhelming, but then she broke through and found herself with a little room to breathe.
She breathed in deeply through her nose, willing herself to calm down. She found herself near the back of the pub, near a set of rickety wooden stairs that went up to the second floor. There was a sort of long landing overlooking the rest of the pub up there, along which a few people were lounging and talking. Sheclimbed the stairs quickly, relieved to have found somewhere quiet.
Leaning on the railings, she had a good view of the floor below. She watched people crowd together for a few moments, all of them chattering, laughing, and drinking. She spotted Thomas more than once, always craning his neck with a frown, looking for someone.
Looking for her.
She always glanced away sharply before he could spot her and prayed that he wouldn’t think to look up at the landing.
“So, ye are the lady of hour, eh?”
She flinched at the unfamiliar voice and glanced up to find a young man leaning against the railing, smiling at her.
“What?”
It was a somewhat graceless reply, but he didn’t seem put off at all.
He laughed, shuffling a little closer. “Ye are all anyone can talk about. The pretty young healer who’s snared the rakish Laird MacPherson. It’s no mean feat.”
That was probably supposed to be a compliment, but Emma couldn’t find it in herself to smile. She glanced down at the sea of smiling faces again, and this time she couldn’t spot Thomas at all. Perhaps he’d gotten tired of looking for her.
“Aye, well, I’d rather be known as a healer than some man’s fiancée,” she snapped before she could stop herself.
The man blinked, taken aback, and shuffled forward a little closer. “I am sorry, I never meant any offense. People are saying that too, that ye are a fine, experienced healer.”
Emma bit her lip, aware that she was being unkind. He wasn’t to know what was going on, after all. She glanced over at the stranger, taking him in.
He seemed to be about her own age, stocky and barely taller than her, with a mop of red-gold curls, a face full of freckles, and large brown eyes. He was clean-shaven and had a boyish, handsome sort of face. He smiled hopefully as she scrutinized him, and she realized in a vague sort of way that he was trying to flirt with her.
“I dinnae mean to be so harsh,” she apologized. “It’s just that… well, all of this is a lot, ye ken.”
She gestured vaguely to everything—the pub, the crowd, the noise, the heat.
He nodded, wincing. “Aye, I can understand that. Still, for what it’s worth, ye are making a fine impression on everyone. Where is yer man, by the way?”
It took her a split second to realize that he was referring to Thomas.
“I really have no idea,” she replied, her tone frosty. He seemed to take the hint and didn’t push the matter any further.
“Ye look like ye need a cup of ale,” the man said confidently. “And so do I. Can I fetch ye one?”
Emma hesitated. She was thirsty. That first mug of ale had whetted her appetite, and she hadn’t even enjoyed that, thanks to Astrid. But getting another drink would mean struggling through the crowd again to get to the bar, and she couldn’t face that.
“There’s no sense in both of us braving that crush down there,” he said again as if he read her thoughts. “Let me fetch ye a drink.”
She was tired, so very tired, and she did want a mug of ale.
“All right, then,” she relented, flashing him a weak smile. “That would be kind of ye.”
“Wonderful. I’ll be back in a moment.”
He slipped past her, heading to the stairs, and Emma realized in annoyance that she’d forgotten to ask his name. He was almost certainly trying to flirt with her, but that meant nothing. After all, he already knew that she was betrothed to another laird. She thought he was probably a laird, too, as he carried himself with an unconscious confidence, a sort of grace and ease born from a lifetime of getting what he wanted. Not in a spoiled way, though. The man seemed decent enough.
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the wide, flat railing that ran around the landing. It was wide enough to comfortably rest a mug of ale, which some people, further along, had done.
