Retracing his steps, he sought out the serving woman. “Fine ale,” he said. “Might I give my compliments to the tavernkeeper?”
The woman smiled. “Why, of course, sir.” Beckoning with her hand, defying balance with the tray of drinks on her other, she led the way across the floor towards a partially open door. The knowing look she tossed over her shoulder gave Martin pause. “I’d wondered when you two would get around to speaking.”
Whatever did she mean? “His name is Peter?”
“Aye, sir.”
A ridiculous question dropped from Martin’s mouth. “He reminds me of an old friend. Is he from E’Skaara?”
The woman’s open manner closed. Martin swore the temperature dropped. “Born and raised here, sir.”
“He doesn’t strike me as a local.”
The woman spun, somehow managing not to drop the drinks. Martin had once seen the same fierce protectiveness in a mother wolf defending her cubs. “I suppose I should know, him being the son of my own dear sister, may the Father bless her soul.”
Martin raised his hands, taking a step backward. “I meant no harm. I’m from a village north of here myself.” Oh, how easily the oft-repeated lie fell from Martin’s tongue, while the small ray of hope that had somehow bloomed in his chest died a brutal death. Peter was E’Skaaran.
The woman visibly deflated. “Apologies, sir. I’ve been told I’m a bit overbearing at times, her dying so young and leaving him all alone in the world.”
Overbearing at times? While she wasn’t a tyrant by any means, he’d established early on who ruled the confines of the Stone’s Throw. “Understandable. You’d get along with my gran.”
For a moment, they locked gazes, some kind of understanding passing between them. “I mean him no harm,”Martin willed her to understand.
Her own message said,“Hurt him and die.”Finally, she nodded. “You’ll do.”
Do for what? Martin reeled, playing back the conversation to better understand what just happened. One thing for sure, she’d put to rest any fantasies about Peter somehow being Petran.
The woman pushed the door open farther. “Peter. A patron would like a word.” She turned on her heel and left Martin to stare in rapt fascination at the gloriously fashioned rear in a pair of thin cotton trousers, aimed in his direction.
The man grunted and rose, tossing a cask over one brawny shoulder.
Oh, my. Martin’s mouth went dry. While wiry muscles weren’t anything new on dockworkers used to running, swimming, and climbing, this man’s biceps were nearly as firm as the cask.
Martin had seen the tavernkeeper in action many times before, but at a distance, or in passing, not close up. Not close enough to reach out and touch without having to avoid prying eyes.
The air grew nearly too thick to breathe.
“Excuse me.” The tavernkeeper strode through the door, plopped the cask on the bar, and returned. “Peter,” he said, inclining his head.
“Martin.”
Laughter erupted from the tavern. Martin winced. No having a conversation in this din. He opened his mouth to request another venue when Peter abruptly kicked the door closed, muffling the noise somewhat, but leaving enough of a crack to keep an eye on the room.
And the card game at the back table.
“Sorry about that.” Peter leaned against the far wall, impressive muscles bulging in the arms he crossed over his chest.
Martin gave a hard swallow past the dryness in his throat. What had he been about to say? Besides ample muscles, Peter’s intense brown eyes drew attention. His dark hair, which burnished red near the firelight, appeared subdued now in the light of a single lantern.
“Addie said you wished to see me.” Peter lowered himself on an upended cask, pointing to another for Martin.
Rough rock walls surrounded them, cool, and a good place to keep extra stock. A lantern hung from the wall, casting shadows upon the mountain of a man.
Wrenching his fascination from the enticing view of chest hair peeking through the open V-neck of a work-rumpled shirt, Martin recalled his purpose and sat down on a cask, politely angling away to avoid revealing his attraction.
“I told her I wished to compliment your fine ale.” Martin lifted his mug in salute.
A smile lit Peter’s face, causing squirmy feelings in Martin’s insides. Still, something about the man seemed guarded, reserved. “My uncle Mitta’s recipe and his father’s before him.”
