"How did ye know to play this hand?" one man demanded abruptly.
Paisley gritted her teeth.Would you ask that of a man?She thought angrily.
"It's a high-scoring hand," she replied patiently. "It made perfect sense to play it this way."
The men grumbled, whispering among themselves in quick, accented Gaelic. Paisley had picked up enough of the language to follow along, although she was careful not to give away this advantage.
She's cheating. She has to be.
Aye, she must have done.
How? She played it fair.
It's odd, ain't it? A lassie wanting to play cards. She's up to something.
For sure, for sure.
Wonderful. They were likely going to kick up a fuss and maybe refuse to let her take her earnings. Paisley clenched her hands into fists, hearing the material of her gloves squeak.
Cards wasn't considered a ladylike occupation, and certainly the Englishtondidn't expect to see ladies playing cards. It had been Paisley's little secret, playing games with her father with thedrawing-room curtains closed. The games were simple, and they weren'tentirelybased on chance like some people seemed to think.
Yes, a measure of skill was required – and Paisley had that in abundance – but the key component wasnumbers.
Paisley understood numbers. They madesense. A column of numbers could be trusted to behave properly and give the right answer. It all made sense to her, in a way that people never quite did.
Unfortunately, cards didn't requireonlyan understanding of numbers and a little moderate skill. There still was an element of chance, and lately, Paisley had not had much luck.
She hadn't lost much money – she was too clever for that, but she certainly hadn't earned any. In the pub she visited the previous night, one man got so angry at being beaten by a woman that she was forced to leave without her earnings.
The landlord at The Crown Inn was getting testy. He wanted his rent, and while there was time yet, Paisley knew she had to come up with the money, and soon. She didn't even have any jewelry left to sell. In desperation, she'd come here again.
The Sinnerwas not Paisley's hunting ground of choice. For one thing, Ava worked here at times, and she didn't want to run into her. For another, the stakes were never quite high enough for her liking here.
And the third problem was the barkeep. He was said to run a shockingly tight ship, and didn't approve of deep gambling, drunkenness, or lewd behavior.
It makes you wonder why he chose to run a pub,Paisley thought.Is there anything that hedoesapprove of?
The patrons all seemed to have a healthy respect – and a substantial dose of fear – for the barkeep, and from the first time Paisley set eyes on him, she understood why. He was a tall, powerfully built man, with eyes like gray flint and a face which might have been carved from marble. She'd never seen him smile, not for an instant.
He'd spotted her, too. He stared openly at her whenever she arrived, his gaze seeming to sayI know what you're about, me girl.
She shivered, pushing thoughts of the unfriendly barkeep to the back of her mind. She had more pressing concerns, namely the man who chose to reach over and prod her in the shoulder, hard.
"Ye must be cheatin'," he hissed. "I've never met a woman who plays cards as well as this."
"You must not meet many women, then," Paisley said lightly.
In lieu of anything intelligent to say in response, to man decided to mock her accent.
"Ooh, yoo must not mee-eet many wimmen, then," he echoed, sneering. "English wench."
Paisley had a hatpin in her sleeve, and briefly considered taking it out and jamming it into the man's hand. She could probably get the hatpin to go right into the wood, effectively pinning him in place while she snatched up her earnings and ran.
She immediately discarded the idea. Not because Paisley doubted that she had the stomach to pin a man's hand to the table – she was sure that she did – but because there were another four men to deal with, and she couldn't run particularly fast in the first place.
English ladies were never permitted to run. They had to take little, mincing steps, and their tight, uncomfortable shoes reinforced that. The first thing Paisley had done when she left home was buy herself a pair of comfortable, low-heeled boots.
Not that her boots would make much difference if these men decided to pursue her. And if they caught her...
