I am safe,Paisley told herself, giving her reflection one last cursory glance.Iamsafe here.
And then it was time to go.
I am safe. They can't find me. There is no need to worry. No need at all.
"Ye are late." Brodie said brusquely, without looking up.
"I'm sorry." Paisley winced, tying her apron around her waist and snatching up the broom.
"How is yer head?"
"Hm? Oh, better, thank you. Much better. Did Dominic come down last night?"
"He did, aye, eventually. Just in time to deal with..." Brodie paused, frowning and peering over Paisley's shoulder. "That man doesnae look like a local."
Paisley turned to see a tall, rake-thin man staggering towards the open door of the pub. He seemed to be about thirty, with thinning brown hair, a hooked nose, and gaunt cheekbones. He was walking with difficulty, staggering and tripping over his own feet, and even paused to lean against the doorframe before coming inside.
"Looks like he's already had a skinful." Brodie observed.
Paisley frowned, watching the man. "No, I don't think he's drunk."
The man was frail and clearly exhausted, arms and legs stick-thin, and had none of the wobbly bravado of a drunk. When he wobbled in the doorway for a minute or two more, wheezing, Paisley set aside her broom and moved towards him.
"Hello, sir," she said lightly, flashing a smile. "Are you all right?"
He smiled gratefully back at her. "I just got to catch me breath, lassie."
"Here, let me help you to a chair."
The man hesitated, as if about to say something foolish, such as "I can get meself to a chair, thank you."
He sagged a little and nodded.
"That would be kind, lass. Thank ye."
Brodie hovered in the background, nervously watching Paisley help the man into the pub and into an armchair by the fire.
"What are ye doin', Paisley?" he hissed.
"This man is obviously not well," she hissed back. "I'm not going to let him collapse in the courtyard."
"I came here to see the laird," the man managed, sinking lower into the chair, he held out his feet – clad in holey old boots, she noticed – towards the fire.
"The laird?" Paisley repeated, wrinkling her nose. "I don't think Thomas is here tonight, sir."
The man blinked at her, frowning. "Nae that one. I'm here to see Laird MacLennan."
"Who?"
He stared at her in a moment in consternation, then his gaze flitted past her and landed on something behind her.
Or someone, in fact.
"That would be me," came a low, familiar voice, one that sent thrills of awareness through Paisley.
She didn't need to look to know who was standing there, but she looked anyway, eyes drawn as if by magnetism.
Dominic stood there, his face impassive, iron-gray eyes fixed on her as if he could never look away. Paisley swallowed hard, aware of the ache swirling in her gut again.
