That didn’t stop him from swirling his tongue along his gums over and over again, trying to rekindle the taste. Stupid, really.
He’d had that tea often before to cure all sorts of hangovers and headaches, and could probably make up the medicine himself. He knew that Delphine always added a dollop of honey to sweeten the bitterness, but Emma hadn’t bothered.
He smiled to himself, saddling up his horse with absent, mechanical movements.
Emma was so refreshing to be around, after all the yes-men and flirtatious women in Keep MacPherson. But Emma was something else. She didn’t like him, and of course, that was just a challenge. Thomas was used to being liked.
He hadn’t quite figured out what made her dislike him so much. He’d never been unpleasant to her, and he allowed his chief healer and her apprentice whatever license they wanted in the Keep and the surrounding lands.
Yes, Emma was a puzzle, but one Thomas didn’t have the time or right to solve. He reminded himself that he was the Laird of MacPherson Keep, and she ought to be more respectful. She didn’t have to like him, but making jokes about putting hemlock in his medicine—assuming theywerejokes, of course—really wouldn’t do. He’d have to do something about the young healer sooner or later, as it seemed that Delphine couldn’t keep her under control.
Ten years ago, or even five, Delphine would have whipped her into shape in no time.Poor Del is getting old, and no mistake.
He finished saddling up his horse, a monstrous grey stallion, and swung himself up.
“Me Laird?”
One of the grooms poked his head through the open stable doors, squinting in the gloom. The stable was all wood and so had hardly any lanterns to light it up. Thomas couldn’t bear the thought of burning down the stables with his precious horses inside.
“Don’t mind me, Malcolm. I’m just going out. I may be back late,” Thomas said briskly. “Get yourself to bed, lad.”
Malcolm chewed on his lip, shifting from foot to foot in the doorway. “But Lady Urquhart said that ye ought not to go out without a guard.”
Thomas sighed.
Typical Tabitha.
Now that her husband was too ill to sit on the council of advisers, Tabitha Urquhart had taken his place. When the other councilors had kicked up a fuss, Tabitha had petitioned to be elected to the council in her own right.
To everyone’s horror, Thomas had agreed.
Well, what else could he do? Tabitha was a formidable woman. She was nearly sixty years old, outspoken, terrifyingly intelligent, and single-minded. Besides, she was the only one of his advisers who would look him in the eye and tell him the truth, whether he wanted to hear it or not.
Thomasneededher.
Unfortunately, that meant hearing things he didn’t want to hear, including, but not limited to, the fact that he ought not to go out unaccompanied to pubs and alehouses at night.
But Tabitha was not here, and the nervy Malcolm was not exactly a formidable replacement.
“I’ll be fine, Mal,” Thomas said, grinning. “Tell her I’ll be back before dawn.”
“But, Me Laird…”
Thomas spurred his horse forward, thundering past poor stammering Malcolm and into the night. He knew exactly where he was going, and so did the horse. The two of them could find their way there in the dark, which was, of course, very convenient.
Above, the stars twinkled into life, one by one. The moon, a glowing crescent in the velvet sky, washed the hills and forests below in an ethereal, silvery light, easily illuminating the way for a single horse and rider to find their way towards the distant glow of a town.
The Sinner’s Pub was a popular one. It was barely two miles from the Keep and always packed to the rafters.
The familiar sound and smell washed over Thomas when he pushed open the door. Chatter, laughter, strains of music, and the clink of glasses and mugs. The smell was less pleasant but a familiar one, nonetheless.
The rushes under his feet were long since trodden down, little more than dried strips of green under his feet stuck to the stonefloor with dried, spilled ale. He shouldered his way through, heading for the bar.
He couldn’t seethe bar, not with all the people, but he knew it was there.
Elbowing his way through a knot of chatty drunkards, he finally reached it and leaned his elbows on it, craning his neck for the barkeep. His linen shirt stuck to the counter, which was in great need of a wipe. He tried not to think about it.
“Dom!” he called, seeing a familiar shock of chestnut-brown hair. “Dominic, over here!”
