Chapter 15
The feeling of betrayal stung, like something tingling under her skin. It didn’t matter how fiercely Emma told herself she shouldn’t feel so angry, that Thomas owed her nothing, least of all his loyalty.
It still hurt.
She was vaguely aware of someone calling her name, although the chatter of the crowd drowned it out nicely, making it easier to pretend that she didn’t hear.
For a moment, the press of bodies in the too-small space was almost overwhelming, but then she broke through and found herself with a little room to breathe.
She breathed in deeply through her nose, willing herself to calm down.
She found herself near the back of the pub, near a set of rickety wooden stairs that went up to the second floor.
There was a sort of long landing overlooking the rest of the pub up there, along which a few people were lounging and talking.
She climbed the stairs quickly, relieved to have found somewhere quiet.
Leaning on the railings, she had a good view of the floor below. She watched people crowd together for a few moments, all of them chattering, laughing, and drinking. She spotted Thomas more than once, always craning his neck with a frown, looking for someone.
Looking for her.
She always glanced away sharply before he could spot her and prayed that he wouldn’t think to look up at the landing.
“So, ye are the lady of hour, eh?”
She flinched at the unfamiliar voice and glanced up to find a young man leaning against the railing, smiling at her.
“What?”
It was a somewhat graceless reply, but he didn’t seem put off at all.
He laughed, shuffling a little closer. “Ye are all anyone can talk about. The pretty young healer who’s snared the rakish Laird MacPherson. It’s no mean feat.”
That was probably supposed to be a compliment, but Emma couldn’t find it in herself to smile. She glanced down at the sea of smiling faces again, and this time she couldn’t spot Thomas at all. Perhaps he’d gotten tired of looking for her.
“Aye, well, I’d rather be known as a healer than some man’s fiancée,” she snapped before she could stop herself.
The man blinked, taken aback, and shuffled forward a little closer. “I am sorry, I never meant any offense. People are saying that too, that ye are a fine, experienced healer.”
Emma bit her lip, aware that she was being unkind. He wasn’t to know what was going on, after all. She glanced over at the stranger, taking him in.
He seemed to be about her own age, stocky and barely taller than her, with a mop of red-gold curls, a face full of freckles, and large brown eyes.
He was clean-shaven and had a boyish, handsome sort of face.
He smiled hopefully as she scrutinized him, and she realized in a vague sort of way that he was trying to flirt with her.
“I dinnae mean to be so harsh,” she apologized. “It’s just that… well, all of this is a lot, ye ken.”
She gestured vaguely to everything—the pub, the crowd, the noise, the heat.
He nodded, wincing. “Aye, I can understand that. Still, for what it’s worth, ye are making a fine impression on everyone. Where is yer man, by the way?”
It took her a split second to realize that he was referring to Thomas.
“I really have no idea,” she replied, her tone frosty. He seemed to take the hint and didn’t push the matter any further.
“Ye look like ye need a cup of ale,” the man said confidently. “And so do I. Can I fetch ye one?”
Emma hesitated. She was thirsty. That first mug of ale had whetted her appetite, and she hadn’t even enjoyed that, thanks to Astrid. But getting another drink would mean struggling through the crowd again to get to the bar, and she couldn’t face that.
“There’s no sense in both of us braving that crush down there,” he said again as if he read her thoughts. “Let me fetch ye a drink.”
She was tired, so very tired, and she did want a mug of ale.
“All right, then,” she relented, flashing him a weak smile. “That would be kind of ye.”
“Wonderful. I’ll be back in a moment.”
He slipped past her, heading to the stairs, and Emma realized in annoyance that she’d forgotten to ask his name.
He was almost certainly trying to flirt with her, but that meant nothing.
After all, he already knew that she was betrothed to another laird.
She thought he was probably a laird, too, as he carried himself with an unconscious confidence, a sort of grace and ease born from a lifetime of getting what he wanted.
Not in a spoiled way, though. The man seemed decent enough.
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the wide, flat railing that ran around the landing. It was wide enough to comfortably rest a mug of ale, which some people, further along, had done.
Tracking the progress of the man’s red-gold hair through the crowd, Emma flinched when she realized a familiar face was staring up at her.
Thomas had spotted her at last, then.
He was standing just below the landing, oblivious to the jostling crowd. He waved, trying to get her attention, and she pointedly looked away.
Why not go find Astrid? I’m sure she’d be good company for the rest of the evening.
The man pushed past Thomas on his way back to the bar, clutching two mugs of ale in his hands. Thomas glanced at him, briefly irritated, and his gaze sharpened.
Both of them watched the oblivious redhead make his way to the stairs, the mugs of ale held aloft. Emma watched realization dawn on Thomas, then his face went blank, unreadable.
She tossed her hair, which was tickling her exposed skin—she wasn’t used to having it loose like this—and pointedly met the man’s eye, smiling.
“Thank ye,” she said, accepting her mug of ale. He’d obviously given her the best one, with the frothiest, creamiest head and the cleanest tankard. “I never asked, what’s yer name?”
“I’m Peter McCrea,” the man replied. “Laird McCrea, that is. Well, not yet. I will be Laird McCrea one day, but right now, my father holds that title.” He grimaced apologetically, taking a sip of his ale.
He’d moved closer to her now, so close that their shoulders were almost brushing. She wasn’t sure that she liked that, but it still felt less crowded than the chaos downstairs.
“The place seems full of lairds and ladies,” she commented. “I feel out of place, for sure.”
Peter snorted. “Me Da always says that a healer is never out of place, no matter where they go. He says that good soldiers, workers, and craftsmen are never cheap but that excellent healers are truly priceless.”
“I think I’d like yer Da, then,” Emma said, smiling.
Peter laughed at that, a little more uproariously than was strictly necessary. He drank a few big gulps of his ale, his eyes watching her over the brim of the tankard. He set it down on the banister behind him, allowing him to shuffle a few inches closer to her.
This time, she moved away just a little. Peter’s flirting was almost certainly harmless, but that could change if she seemed to entertain it.
Almost without thinking, Emma sought out Thomas in the crowd. To her surprise, he was gone. She scanned the sea of unfamiliar faces, seeking out clear green eyes and disordered black hair.
She saw him at last, one foot on the bottom of the staircase. That gave her something of a shock. Was he coming up here? She hoped not.
I don’t want to talk to him.
Peter had his back to the staircase, so there was no way that she could turn her back without snubbing him. Clenching her jaw, she watched Thomas slowly but surely mount the staircase. There could be no doubt as to why he was coming up there. His steely gaze was fixed on her.
No, not here. Peter. Poor, oblivious Peter.
“Do ye know a woman named Astrid?” Emma asked suddenly, fighting to keep her gaze from flicking over Peter’s shoulder and fixing on Thomas.
The last thing she wanted was for Peter to turn around and find Thomas creeping up on him like some sort of prowling predator.
“Astrid? No.”
“Ah. Well, I met her earlier. It seems that she is a friend of my fiancée.”
The inflection she put on friend could not be missed. Peter blinked, obviously not expecting the conversation to go that way, but recovered himself quickly.
“Oh, that’s awkward. But I’m sure it’s in the past, eh?”
She shrugged. “I’m nae sure of anything anymore. This woman, Astrid, was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. Who wouldnae want her?”
Peter tipped his head to one side. “I think ye are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
She rolled her eyes, and he had the grace to blush. “Clumsy, Peter, clumsy.”
“Sorry, it sounded better in my head,” Peter replied, laughing self-consciously. “But ye are beautiful. And that’s a fine dress.”
“Oh, do ye like it? It’s new. Here’s a wee bit of advice, Peter, if ye want it.”
“I’m listening.”
“Complimenting women’s beauty is all fine and good, but it gets stale very quickly. Do ye really think, when ye tell a beautiful woman that she’s beautiful, that it’s the first time she’d ever heard that?”
Peter pursed his lips, considering. “That’s an excellent point. What do ye recommend, then? I see ye are applying yer healing skills to my clumsy wooing, by the way.”
“I’m a woman of many talents.” Emma drained her ale and set it down with a clack.
Thomas was at the top of the stairs now, unashamedly watching them, his arms folded across his chest.
“Ye want to compliment her on something specific. Hair, features, and clothes are fine, but again, all that proves is that ye have eyes, ye know?” she continued, feeling the ale start to go to her head. She ought to have eaten something with it, but it was too late now.
“Oh, aye. Go on.”
“Talk about something unique to her. Her intelligence, her capability, her skills. Her personality, maybe, and her mannerisms. Good compliments can woo a lady, but ye have to be good at it.”
Peter chuckled at that. “I like the idea of being good at wooing, but really, I only need to be good at wooing one person. The woman who’ll become me wife, of course.”
“Ah, see, that’s a good one. Women like that.”
Peter burst out laughing, shaking his head. “Ye are incorrigible, Emma Gallagher.”
She grinned at that. She might not be interested in flirting with him, but it was good to make someone laugh. It was good to feel like she was part of a conversation that was actually enjoyable. Like she wasn’t being compared to, say, Astrid.
At least their necklaces weren’t actually matching. It would be too much if Emma’s necklace was just one in a long line of identical jewels, distinguished only by their colors.
And then, things took a turn for the worst.
Encouraged by her light manner and the way their conversation had turned easy, Peter leaned forward and casually placed his hand on her lower back.
He’d obviously been planning the move for some time and covered it up by shifting closer, under the pretense of leaning against the railing.
Emma hesitated, trying to formulate how she would politely but firmly tell him to remove his hand. She glanced up and found that he was staring directly into her eyes.
“Emma, look, I know that ye are betrothed, I know that. It’s just… well, I feel a connection between us. Is it so strange?”
She opened her mouth, trying to think of what, exactly, she would say to let him know that there was no connection. That there would never be a connection.
And then, something smashed on the ground behind Peter, making them both flinch and spin around.
Thomas had come right up behind Peter, standing only inches away. He’d smoothly swept Peter’s empty tankard off the banister onto the wooden floor. The tankard had smashed, leftover dregs of ale seeping out of the wreckage and onto the floor.
Peter blinked, recognition dawning. He lifted his chin and kept his hand on Emma’s back.
Oh, wonderful. He means to make a claim.
“That was my drink,” he said mildly.
Thomas’s expression was livid, his eyes flat and cold. He glanced at Emma just briefly, and the look in his eyes sent an oddly pleasant shiver down her spine, something heated and anticipatory.
When he spoke, he didn’t snarl exactly, but somehow his teeth seemed longer, more vulpine.
Wolfish, even.
“Me hand slipped,” Thomas responded, his voice a low growl.
Emma noticed for the first time that the three of them were alone on the landing. She wasn’t sure whether the other guests had simply chosen to move on or whether Thomas’s approach, in a cloud of anger, had driven them away.
Maybe he’d caught their eye and gestured bluntly that they should make themselves scarce. She wouldn’t put it past him.
“An accident, then,” Peter said. “Nothing to worry about.”
Thomas smiled. Although perhaps it would be more accurate to describe the gesture as baring his teeth, as there was no politeness or warmth in that smile at all. He took a step closer, his height and muscle dwarfing the smaller Peter. Emma could almost feel the man cower against her.
“Thomas…” she began and immediately wished she hadn’t spoken.
Thomas’s gaze whipped in her direction, and there was something searing about it. The words died in her mouth, and she was left breathless by a combination of arousal, anticipation, and frustration, all mingling in her gut.
“I’m nae angry,” Peter said.
Obviously, the man did not know when to stop. His gaze was darting about, and he didn’t dare fix his stare on Thomas’s face. Perhaps he was afraid.
For good reason, Emma thought.
“Me hand slipped,” Thomas repeated, his words harsh and clipped. “Just like yours.”
His gaze dropped pointedly to where Peter’s hand rested on Emma’s lower back, making his point entirely plain.
Peter swallowed hard, the movement making his scrawny throat bob wildly. He glanced sideways at Emma as if appealing for help. She only raised her eyebrows. What did he want her to do? Thomas had obviously taken a dislike to the situation, and it wasn’t far to drag poor Peter into this.
“Apologies,” Peter rasped out, withdrawing his hand as if it had been burned. “I… I was simply…” he stammered, the last of his courage leaving him, and glanced at Emma again.
“We were just having a conversation,” she said shortly.
Thomas did not look at her. He was still staring at Peter, not seeming to even blink. “I’m sure it was an excellent conversation,” he drawled, the implication clear.
Swallowing hard again, Peter’s nerve broke. He darted past Thomas, heading for the stairs, and did not look back. He plunged into the crowd and was immediately swallowed up.
That left Thomas and Emma alone on the landing.
Anger fizzled inside her.
Who does he think he is? How dare he? Especially after… after Astrid!
She glared at Thomas, who stared boldly right back.
“What in the world do ye think ye are doing?” she hissed.
He smiled again, the sharp, fox-like smile that never failed to send a shiver down her spine. “I was about to ask ye the same.”