Page 125 of Edge of Yesterday

“When fighting a man of Lawren’s skill, a man hopes for a little luck.”

He had a point.

“Ye didnae try to stop him,” Cailean said.

“If ye cannae hold your own, you will no’ live long in Heatheredge.”

“You weren’t worried that Julianna might have been angry if ye came home with the news that I died in a swordfight?” he asked.

“That would have been a problem.” Lennox drank his whisky in a flourish. “Cider,” he called to the innkeeper.

The man brought brimming mugs, then started to turn away. Lennox grasped his arm. “Bring us the jug.”

He did as instructed, and Lennox said to Cailean, “It might have been better if ye had killed him, though.”

“Aye, but he’s just a man protecting what he thought was his.”

Lennox regarded him. “Most men wouldnae see it that way.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” he said.

Lennox drank his cider then refilled his mug.

“Ye drink enough of that and you won’t be able to get on your horse,” Cailean said.

“I think ye are speaking of yourself.” Lennox took a long draw on his cider.

The room blurred, but Cailean followed suit and gulped his cider. He glanced about the low, dark-raftered room as Lennox topped off both their mugs. He should be drinking in the medieval atmosphere—instead of the whisky—savoring the thick haze of burning peat, maybe fingering the ‘ancient’ silver coins, sillers, that Lennox had dropped on the scarred tabletop. Later, once back in modern day Scotland, he’d be glad if he now branded every detail into his memory.

Instead, he said, “Tell me, brother-in-law,” Cailean leaned toward Lennox, “how many more of Julianna’s suitors will I have to fight?”

“I think ye are no’ finished with Crowe.”

His grip on his mug tightened. “Nae, I am not.”