Chapter One
Kincardine, Scotland
1816
Gunn Burnett’s eyesscanned the sparse clientele at the Thistle & Pig, and wondered how he could turn things around. He’d owned the pub for years, but it was bleeding money now and had been for months. And he had no idea why.
Ever since he’d returned from the war over a year ago, he’d been less and less profitable until now where he was nearly in the negative on a daily basis, bringing in just a pittance of income compared to before when the pub thrived. He just didn’t understand what had caused everyone to turn away.
For the most part, patrons had slowly stopped coming. A person here. A person there. Until soon he was lucky to see a handful of people walk through the door. His connected inn wasn’t faring much better.
“Do ye need me to stay?” his barkeep Thomas asked. The man had been tending the bar for him since he’d taken ownership of the Thistle & Pig and Gunn felt a twinge of guilt kenning he would need to cut his employment in the near future.
“Nay. Go home to your wife and enjoy your evening,” Gunn offered, trying to keep his demeanor upbeat even though he felt the blanket of defeat beginning to cover him and block out the sun.
Thomas smiled, the gesture showing a crooked front tooth, and his face lit up at the mention of his wife. “She will verra much like to see me home early.”
Gunn nodded and gave him a half-hearted smile. “Have a good night, Thomas.”
Surely the man had to ken something was amiss. He’d seen how the Thistle & Pig went from thriving where every chair and table would be filled each night to now being barely able to seat a person at the bar.
“Hell,” Gunn mumbled, pushing his hand though his short hair, and slapped the towel that he’d just used to wipe down the bar against his leg with enough force he felt the pinch through his breeches.
He hadn’t always owned this business, but he’d kenned of it since his younger years, when his father would bring him along on his business deals. Those consisted of how he could figure out a way to divest whoever he was meeting with from his coin. The man would have rather spent his days scheming than doing an honest day’s work. Gunn never understood it.
When his father passed, and Gunn became Laird of Leys, at the too young age of 16, he’d made a vow to restore the name of Burnett. It had been a prideful, good name before his father had tarnished it over time with his shady deals and dishonest bartering.
It took years, but Gunn was able to salvage the name and their reputation and soon they were thriving once again. One thing his father taught him was a keen business sense. Only Gunn used that for good. He wasn’t out to swindle anyone.
The previous owner of the pub and inn was someone Gunn looked up to. He was the one person that didn’t seem to fall for his father’s schemes and Gunn admired him for that. When he took ill and was unable to maintain the upkeep required to stay in business, Gunn saw it as a good investment opportunity.Gunn also didn’t want to see it fall into disrepair, not when the owner had worked so hard to make it a place where the townsfolk could gather and enjoy a drink and visitors could eat a hearty meal and relax while traveling. He offered to purchase it and the Thistle & Pig had been his ever since.
“Good eve, Burnett,” his last remaining customer said with a wave.
Gunn gave him a nod. “Smythe. Have a good e’ening.”
Once Smythe exited the door, Gunn looked around his now empty pub and not expecting anyone else to enter, he began wiping down tables and putting up chairs.
As he worked, he focused on his failing business. He needed to do something. A new cook, mayhap? Nay. His cook was one of the best. A redesign of the space? Just the thought gave Gunn a headache. The cost of that would entail more than he could afford.
The door whisked open.
“We’re closed,” Gunn announced without turning.Damn it.He should have locked the door and turned the open sign to closed when he had the chance. He had no desire to prolong this miserable night.
“Oh,” a feminine voice responded. “I apologize,” she said quietly from the doorway.
Gunn spun at the unfamiliar voice and his eyes widened. A waif of a woman stood there, nervously fidgeting with the dainty pendant hanging from her slim neck. She was much too thin. Much too pale. And were those fading bruises darkening her delicate skin?
Immediately he called out to her. “Wait.”
She paused, one hand reaching out to clench the door handle so tightly her knuckles turned white.
“Ye needna leave.”
The woman shook her head, causing the wisps of blonde hair peeking out from her gray bonnet to fly in the air. “If you are closed, I can find another place.”
English.
The lass was English. It had been some time since an English woman had graced his pub. “What is it that ye need?” He asked, his voice sounding gruffer than he intended.
