Chapter Two
Rory sat at his usual corner table in the Sunk Ship, a bawdy tavern in the seaside village of Gaillean.
Raucous laughter from fishermen, unwinding after a long day at sea, competed with the lyrical voices of barmaids and prostitutes, the latter vying for the attention of the wealthiest, youngest, or handsomest clientele.
Painted lips and charcoal-lined eyes flashed in Rory’s direction, but the scowl that furrowed his brow kept the lassies at bay.
He lifted a tankard of ale to his lips, took a slow sip and scanned the room.
A man named Tamhas with thinning gray hair and a bushy beard raised his mug in greeting when Rory caught his eye.
Tamhas was the proprietor of the Sunk Ship and possessed a loquacious tongue, but Rory was in no mood for conversation.
On a different night, he might have called Tamhas over; instead, Rory only nodded in greeting, then immediately looked away and eased back in his seat.
Resting his head against the cool stones behind him, he stared up at the iron candelabra dangling from the ceiling while he worked to shut out the surrounding frivolity.
“Rory!”
He jolted upright and looked at the man sitting across the table.
David slammed his mug down. “Finally, I have yer attention.”
Rory’s scowl deepened. “I’m right here. Ye don’t need to shout or break Tamhas’s table.”
“Really? Because I’m not so sure about that. I’ve said yer name a half a dozen times, and ye’ve only just noticed. What the bloody hell is wrong with ye?”
Rory shrugged. “Ye have my attention now,” he said dryly, ignoring his friend’s question.
David’s shoulder-length blond hair fell in front of his hard, green eyes as he leaned over the table and hissed in a low voice, “I’m trying to talk to ye about what the abbot said at our last meeting.
Remember?” He raked his hand through his hair, uncovering his eyes, which narrowed on Rory.
“While a truce is in place between Scotland and England, we’re supposed to rally the people.
We’re supposed to be turning farmers into soldiers. ”
Rory motioned for David to stop speaking as a barmaid sauntered up to the table holding a tray of brimming tankards.
She bent at the waist, giving Rory a view of her smooth, full bosom, which loomed above her cinched bodice.
Strawberry ringlets dripped from her temples, framing her heart-shaped face.
Rory fingered one of the curls and swept a slow gaze across her creamy skin, but her overt display did little to stir his desire. His body throbbed with need, but no one in that room could satisfy his hunger. Only one woman had that power—one with the heart of a Scottish rebel.
Rory shifted his eyes, looking down at his fresh tankard of ale. “Thank ye,” he muttered.
“For the love of God, man, what ails ye?”
Rory looked at David in surprise. “If I cared, I would ask the same question of ye.”
Another woman sauntered by just then, her hips swinging in a sensual rhythm.
Rory recognized her as one of the lassies who worked upstairs.
He followed the movement of her hips for a moment longer before looking back down at the golden liquid in his cup, which he found to be the most appealing thing in the room.
David threw his hands up, once more drawing Rory’s gaze. “Bloody hell, Rory. As usual, ye’ve got every woman in this room throwing herself at ye, and ye’re not taking even one kiss, one nibble.”
Rory shrugged. “I see nothing that catches my fancy.”
David rolled his eyes. “Don’t even try to tell me that strawberry tart over there with all the curves escaped yer notice. I’ve known ye a long time. She’s exactly the type to catch yer fancy.”
Rory glanced once more at the red-haired lass who now sat on Tamhas’s lap but kept her eyes trained on him. David was right. Normally, her round bottom would be pressed against his lap. Her luscious breasts bobbing up and down close to his hungry lips. But tonight, he had no interest.
David leaned close. “What occupies yer mind so?”
Rory absently trailed his finger around the brim of his cup. “I was just wondering how long it took Alex to sew all those coins into her tunic.”
“Ah-ha,” David exclaimed, jumping to his feet, the scrape of his chair drawing the surrounding revelers’ gazes. “That chit? That’s what this is all about?”
It was Rory’s turn to roll his eyes. “Sit down, would ye?”
David eased back down, shaking his head.
“Ye’ve got yer head in the clouds over a lass.
” He leaned forward. “I’m trying to talk ye about rallying the people, building armies, taking back our country, putting a bloody Scottish king on the bloody thrown while ye’re daydreaming about some bleeding lass.
” David stood and turned around, gesturing across the room.
“A little strawberry tart will make ye forget Alex MacKenzie for good.”
Rory leaned to look past David at the ‘strawberry tart’ whose pretty face suddenly lit up with a wide smile. “Damnation,” he cursed and grabbed David’s hand out of the air, flattening it on the table. “What the hell do ye think ye’re doing?”
“I’m getting ye a warm and willing lass to share yer bed so ye can get yer head back to business.”
“I have not needed help filling my bed since I shaved my first whiskers. I already told ye—I’m not interested.”
David crossed his arms over his chest. “Yer lack of interest is the bleeding point. Fine. Have it yer way. Deny yerself a warm bed. That is yer own choice to make. Pine after some lass ye may never see again—also yer choice. But ye cannot allow this infatuation to distract ye from what’s important.
The cause is bigger than us both. The pining of yer heart is of no consequence.
Ye’ve made a vow to yer brothers-at-arms and to the abbot.
Anyway, do ye think King Edward is sitting idly by with a drink in one hand and a ripe arse in the other?
Nay. Ye and I both know this truce will not last. He spends his days bleeding his people dry with taxes to amass more weapons, horses, and soldiers.
We must rebuild Scotland’s army as he does.
Rory, the time to rally the people is now! ”
Rory tossed down the rest of his ale and swiped the back of his sleeve across his lips. “Ye want me to rally the people, do ye?” He stood. “I’ll rally the people.” Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted. “We’re going to fight for Scottish independence. Who’s with us?”
The room erupted into cheers. Chuckling, Rory sat down and winked at David. “Don’t fash yerself. Ye know where my loyalties lie.”
Just then another barmaid leaned over and thumped down two full tankards, sloshing ale on the table. Rory pressed a kiss to her blushing cheek before raising his cup to David. “Alba gu bràth.” Scotland Forever.
David sat back in his chair, a rare smile playing at his lips. “Alba gu bràth.”
Rory set his tankard down and reached toward the wooden tray in the center of the table.
He passed over the cheese and bread, choosing a red apple.
A fleeting sadness caused a pang in his heart.
Apples always reminded him of his wee sister, Roslyn.
She was one of thousands of innocents slain on the streets of Berwick when King Edward of England claimed the once Scottish city for himself.
At the time, Rosalyn had been selling apples in Berwick’s once bustling marketplace.
Six years had passed. The approaching winter would have marked her thirteenth year.
His grip tightened around the apple as the all too familiar fury laid claim to his soul.
The Berwick massacre had completely altered Rory’s life.
Once he had worked the docks alongside his da, but both his parents had also been cut down in the streets.
He and his four brothers and eldest sister had been forced to flee their demolished city, becoming exiles.
That was when Rory first took up the cause, alongside his siblings.
His dedication had never wavered, nor would it do so now.
His first priority would always be Scotland.
He knew Abbot Matthew was right. The time had come to rally the people. He set the apple down among the bread and cheese and locked eyes with David. “Weapons,” he said.
“What the devil are ye talking about now?”
Rory leaned forward. “If Abbot Matthew wishes to turn farmers into soldiers, we’ll need weapons.”
The door swung open just then drawing Rory’s gaze.
Into the Sunk Ship walked a scrawny lad.
Rory guessed he had no more than ten years to his credit.
He kept his eyes down and crossed straight to where the barkeep stood, uncorking a new barrel of ale.
The man bent to give the lad his ear. Moments later, again without looking up, the boy dashed out the door.
A shiver of expectation shot up Rory’s spine when the barkeep turned and looked directly at him and made the sign of the cross.
Rory stood. “Abbot Matthew is looking for me.”
David raised his glass. “To another mission. Alba gu bràth.”
“Indeed,” Rory said before setting out across the room.
“Rory!”
Rory glanced back when he heard David’s call.
“Maybe he can reveal something about Alex MacKenzie.”
Rory smiled. “Why do ye think I’m leaving now and not after I’ve finished my ale?”