Chapter 6
The McCade Pub
Lachlan McCade ran his eyes over the line of employees—three men and five women—his temper souring further with each one.
He didn’t have time for this. The pub would open in a few hours, and they weren’t ready.
The sticky floors had to be swept, the windows shuttered so no gawkers could peer inside—discretion was all part of the price, as Lachlan liked to say—and his human stables had to ready themselves.
They’d be in great demand tonight. Yesterday was Sunday, and a lot of penitents were eager to rack up fresh sins for the next week.
And, as always, Lachlan of the McCade pub would give it to them, along with watery spirits, weak ale, and a license to do and say whatever they liked.
So long as the money kept coming, of course.
His gaze fell on Flora, who was cowering at the end of the line, and he scowled harder. He’d paid a pretty penny for her to buy a good-looking little healer to replace the wretched lass that had run off. Flora was eighteen years old, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and altogether delicious.
He thought that he’d gotten a bargain, too, until it had become clear that aside from dabbing the fevered brow of her mother, the girl had no medical experience at all.
Certainly not of healing, because her mother had died anyway. Apparently, her father was just a liar, who’d just said that she could work as a healer to get more money for her. So, the wretched girl was useless.
He had to get his money back on her somehow. The perfect opportunity had presented itself a few weeks ago, when he’d caught her trying to send a tearful, begging letter back to her father, asking to come home. He’d torn up the letter right in front of her and told her that this was her home now.
And now here she was, hollow-eyed and pasty, her eyes all red-rimmed and ugly, her pretty hair tangled and lanky.
She was losing weight hand over fist and cringed and shook whenever somebody spoke to her.
Lachlan had the urge to strike her. He doubted she’d last long, which would be a real waste of money.
Besides, he still didn’t have a decent healer.
“Anyone care to explain these figures?” he asked, his scratchy voice the only sound in the dead silent room. He tapped a stubby, fat finger underneath the ledger total, and the line of employees dropped their gazes.
“Speak up,” he demanded.
No one did, of course, and his temper was only getting worse by the minute.
“Last night, the eight of ye were working the floor. Busy, busy, busy, I hope. Light skirts and unbuttoned trousers, that’s what I want to see. And yet, our takings are a disgrace. We’ve barely raked in half of what we did last month, and I want to know who’s been slacking.”
The barkeep, Simon, who was somewhat less replaceable than the scrawny men and women that Lachlan sold in his pub, lounged in the corner. “They’re not slacking,” he spoke up, picking at his nails. “We had fewer customers in. Fewer and fewer every week.”
Lachlan narrowed his eyes at him. “Yer sure?”
“Dead sure. They all go to the Sinner now.”
The Sinner. Now, there was a name to reckon with.
Lachlan made a brief, dismissive gesture. “Get lost, all of ye.”
They scattered, obviously relieved. When the door closed behind them, Lachlan settled himself in his chair.
His bulk was growing steadily, and the chair creaked under his weight.
He didn’t care. He didn’t need to care about his looks these days.
He was powerful and rich enough to have transcended that.
He might be tramping towards forty-five, and his hair was all but gone, but he could afford the most beautiful women around if he wanted.
Everyone had their price, after all.
Here, in the sticky, grimy, smoky interior of the McCade pub, you would buy whatever you liked, assuming you had the coin to pay for it. Personally, Lachlan thought that he was offering a fabulous opportunity that few other pub owners did.
And he’d made himself a small fortune in doing it.
He waved a hand at Simon. “Go on. Talk.”
Simon was a lanky, cadaverous sort of man who could have been anywhere between twenty and thirty. He had grey hair, sure, but a strangely young face. He’d worked in the McCade pub for years, and Lachlan had something approaching respect for him.
“The Sinner is a more popular pub,” Simon said, shrugging. “It’s cheaper, cleaner, the alcohol is better, the women are prettier and more willing, and there’s a good atmosphere in there. That’s what I’ve heard. People are traveling further than usual to go there.”
Lachlan pushed out his bottom lip. “This is a good place. A good atmosphere. We have all of those things.”
Simon didn’t say anything. He didn’t really need to. Lachlan thought of Flora’s haggard, miserable face. What man wanted to look at that? She went through all the motions because she was made to do it, but her heart wasn’t in it. She couldn’t—or wouldn’t—pretend, damn her.
If they were all like that, all his men and women for sale, no wonder people wanted to go elsewhere.
“We’ll crack down on them,” Lachlan said decisively. “No more sour faces. No more tears. They’ll pretend they like it, or else…”
“That won’t work,” Simon said. “They’re used to the Sinner now.”
“Hmm. Who owns it?”
Simon thought for a moment. “It’s owned jointly by a few men. Colby Ferguson, who got married not so long ago, and Dominic Sutherford. Oh, and Thomas MacPherson.”
Lachlan missed a beat. “Do ye mean Laird Thomas MacPherson?”
“Aye, I suppose I do.”
“What’s a laird got to do with running a pub?”
Simon shrugged disinterestedly. “Couldn’t tell ye. But if ye could get to him, ye might be able to—”
“Aye, all right, leave the planning to me. But how can we get to him? He lives in a damn keep, for God’s sake.”
Simon leaned forward, grinning. “Ah, well, that’s the clever part. Ye wanted me to find Emma Gallagher, did ye not?”
It took Lachlan a moment to recognize the name. Of course. That wretched healer lass, who’d run off and left him to make do with Flora.
“And ye found her?” Lachlan asked breathlessly.
He hadn’t decided whether he wanted to kill the girl or put her to work. Either way, he had grand plans for when he finally caught her. He hadn’t imagined that she’d be found. He’d get his hands on her first, and then he’d decide. Revenge was a dish best served cold, wasn’t it?
Simon shrugged idly. “Well, before I tell ye, I have a condition.”
“Careful, Simon.”
Simon was, as always, unbothered by Lachlan’s thinly veiled threats. “Ye’ll want to send a scout once I tell ye where she is. I want ye to send Flora.”
Lachlan blinked. He hadn’t expected that. “What for?”
Simon shifted in his seat, not meeting Lachlan’s eye. “She’ll not last long here. I think she’d do a good job. She can go and make friends with Emma, and we’ll take it from there.”
The penny dropped. Lachlan let out a deep belly laugh. “Ye have a fancy for her, don’t ye? Oh, that’s ridiculous. Ye don’t have to do all this to have the lass, ye know. She works here, for heaven’s sake. The lassies here are the most attainable women in the highlands if ye have the coin for them.”
Simon had gone faintly pink in the face. “That’s not the point.”
“These lassies are all the same, Simon, ye fool. Very well, though, I’ll agree. Wee, useless Flora can go. So, where is Emma Gallagher, then?”
Simon grinned. “MacPherson Keep, of course. I’ve got a contact, and a plan, too.”
A smile spread across Lachlan’s face.
“Well, now. That’s convenient, eh?”
Busy, busy, busy. If Emma didn’t allow herself a moment to breathe, or think, or sit down, she found that she didn’t think at all about Gregor or Thomas. There were herbs to be ground up, pastes to be made, and a reviving tea for Delphine, who was getting one of her headaches.
Delphine was currently in her room, lying on the bed, with her eyes closed, and that left Emma alone in the Chamber.
A few people had come in and out—a farm laborer who needed a dressing changed on a wound, a young pregnant woman who wanted something for morning sickness, and a maid who suffered from terrible spots on her face and wanted to know if Emma could do anything about that.
Emma could, as it turned out. The relieved maid went scuttling away, the small tin of paste clutched in her hand, and Emma immediately looked around to find something else to occupy her time.
She needn’t have bothered.
A sharp rap came on the door, but before she could answer, the door pushed open.
Thomas peered inside, his smile widening when he saw her.
“Good afternoon, Emma. Working hard, I see.”
“Is it afternoon already?” Emma replied, not sure whether she was pleased or disappointed to see him.
Annoyed, she decided. That would explain the fluttering behind her ribcage and the strange tingling feeling low in her gut.
He stepped inside, exuding confidence. She sometimes wondered whether people liked to be around him because of how he made them feel. They parted ways from him feeling confident too, happy in themselves, and… and elated, somehow.
Not that she had ever felt that way, of course. She had just observed it in others.
She cleared her throat, pressing her hands flat against the cool, smooth stone of the table. “What can I do for ye, Laird MacPherson? Delphine is indisposed at the moment.”
Thomas didn’t seem disappointed. “Aye, but I came here to see ye.”
As she had expected. The words sent a silky-smooth flutter down her spine, no matter how hard she pretended they did not.
She tilted up her chin. “What for?”
Thomas eyed her for a long moment, nibbling on his lower lip. She tried not to look at his mouth, where his sharp, vulpine teeth rested on his reddened lip.
So far, it was not working.
“Ye had a nasty shock yesterday,” he said, after a moment. “I came to see if ye were all right.”
A pang of fear shot through her. She cleared her throat again, glancing at Delphine’s closed bedroom door. “I am quite able to do my work, Me Laird.”
Thomas followed the direction of her gaze, and she cursed herself for being such an obvious fool. “Did ye not tell Delphine?” he asked, frowning.
Emma let out a long breath. “No, I did not. I thought it would upset her. Besides, if I’d followed her advice, it would never have happened.”
Thomas tilted his head to one side. “Well, I understand that. Delphine cares for ye like a daughter, ye know.”
She was going red, Emma just knew it.
“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve that,” she murmured.
He shrugged. “Ye care for her as if she is yer mother. Delphine loves ye. Perhaps it’s better than she doesn’t know. She might tear Gregor’s throat out with her teeth. I wouldn’t put it past her to get to him, even in the dungeon.”
Emma missed a beat, absorbing this information. “The dungeons? Gregor is in the dungeons?”
“Aye, he is. I don’t allow that sort of thing to happen in my keep.
I’ve made examples of men before, and now I’ll make one of Gregor.
I haven’t decided how long he’ll stay there.
I told my chief advisor, Lady Tabitha, about the whole thing, and she sides with me. She sends her sympathies, by the way.”
Emma’s cheeks were hot enough to fry eggs now. She stared down at the smooth stone beneath her hands, wishing she didn’t feel so very small and frail.
“I owe ye my thanks, Me Laird,” she said, her voice tremulous. “If ye hadn’t come along when ye did—”
“I brought ye these,” Thomas interrupted bluntly, setting down a small box on the table and pushing it towards her. He caught her eye and grinned. “Sweets. I thought they might soothe ye after what nearly happened last night.”
Emma opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out beyond a weak “thanks.”
Should she refuse the gift?
No, that felt rude. Ungrateful, even. Her hands reached out of their own accord, pulling the box before her. She lifted the lid and peered inside.
The familiar scent of fennel, ginger, and aniseed rose to her nose at the same time that she realized what the little lumpy, hardened balls inside the box actually were.
“Comfits!” she breathed. Her mouth was already watering. “I love these!”
He’d given her so many, too!
Grinning, Thomas reached over to steal a comfit, popping it in his mouth.
“Aye, I know ye love them. That’s why I brought them.”
Emma hesitated. “How do ye know?”
He shrugged carelessly, his attention already wandering. “I saw ye eating them before. Go on, have one.”
Emma did, closing her eyes and placing the ball gently on her tongue, savoring the rich flavors, sweet and bitter, at the same time.
She opened her eyes and found him staring directly at her, a strange expression on his face.
He immediately averted his gaze, clearing his throat as if he were uncomfortable.
The moment was gone in an instant, of course, and he was the same old smirking laird as always, glancing across the table at her with a smile on his face.
“I think ye should tell Delphine what happened.”
Just like that, Emma’s good mood evaporated.
“What? I can’t tell her.”
“Aye, but ye should. Tabitha knows, and I didn’t swear her to secrecy. Gregor ought to suffer for what he’s done, but if Delphine finds out from someone else—”
“I can’t tell her,” Emma interrupted more sharply than she intended. “I won’t.”
Thomas tipped his head to one side, his expression ever so slightly pitying. It made her furious for some reason, and that fury mingled with the strange, tingling feeling in her gut, making a potent and unfamiliar sensation.
“I won’t!” she insisted.
“Have ye told anyone else? Come, Emma, be honest. Have ye?”
She opened her mouth to say “no, of course not.” But Riley immediately sprang to mind, and she did not respond.
“I knew it,” Thomas said, with too much smugness in his voice. It was so infuriating. “Look, Emma, I’ll not tell ye what to do…”
“It sounds like that is exactly what ye are doing!”
“… but ye ought to tell her,” he continued as if Emma had not spoken. “Whenever ye like, but tell her, eh?”
He straightened up, smiling at her. She didn’t smile back. She had the strange urge to fling the anise comfits at him.
She didn’t, of course.
Then, he was gone, whistling and swaggering out of the door, leaving her a seething, boiling maelstrom of feeling, wanting something so very badly but without the slightest idea of what it was she wanted.
The wretch! How dare he?
To console herself, she popped another comfit in her mouth. They really were delicious.