8 A BLADE FOR HIRE
THE VOICE WAS a rumble in her ear, deep and rich. The hold on her wrist was firm but not painful.
Ailsa stilled, heart slamming against her ribs like a fist.
The pockmarked man’s gaze narrowed, shifting past Ailsa. “Piss off,” he growled.
“When you let the lass go about her business, I will.” The stranger’s tone was cool, yet iron lay just beneath.
The man’s mouth twisted. “We were just having a friendly chat.”
“Aye … that’s exactly how it looked.”
Moments passed—a battle of wills—and then, the warrior let her go. Cursing under his breath, he picked up his cup of ale and waved them away. “Fine. You’re welcome to this whey-faced quim.”
The hand on Ailsa’s other wrist released, and she spun around to face the man who’d come to her aid.
He was big, at least a head higher than her, and broad-shouldered, wearing a fur cloak, leather vest and breeches, and heavy boots.
Raising her chin, she met a pair of honey-brown eyes. Heavy-lidded and intense, they sat beneath thick, expressive brows. Wavy, slightly disheveled oak-brown hair framed a powerfully masculine face. Heavy stubble emphasized the sharpness of his jaw.
Ailsa stilled. There was something oddly familiar about him.
Had they met before?
She couldn’t think where. Maybe she’d passed him in the fort earlier in the day, or on the road from Braewall?
Gaze narrowing, she tried to place him.
Aye, he was attractive—distractingly so—although such men couldn’t be trusted.
The stranger raised an eyebrow, making it clear he’d marked her scrutiny. “Looking for a blade to hire?”
Ailsa shifted uncomfortably, aware that everyone inside the ale-hall knew her business now. “Maybe.”
“Well, I might be interested.” He nodded to the empty booth a few feet away. “Shall we have a quiet word?”
Ailsa hesitated, sweeping her gaze around the cave-like space and the shadowy booths lining it. Everyone was still staring at her, at them. Tension crackled through the smoky air.
Gods. She was making a mess of this.
She was suddenly aware of the heavy coin purse hanging from her belt. The other patrons were likely itching to get her alone to relieve her of it, and so might this man be as well.
However, he had stepped in to help her, had prevented the situation from turning ugly.
She should at least hear him out.
All the same, Ailsa was on edge now. She didn’t want to follow a strange man into a dark corner. But what choice did she have? She couldn’t rescue Kayla on her own.
Giving a brusque nod, she brushed past the stranger, who still watched her, amber eyes assessing, and slipped into the booth.
Darach slid into the booth opposite the woman and did his best not to stare.
Watching her from across the hall, he’d thought her striking.
Up close, he marked her pale skin, sharp cheekbones, and a mouth so red it looked painted—only, he’d wager it wasn’t. And those eyes. In this light, her irises appeared coal-black, and she fixed on him with a sharpness that made the hair on the back of his forearms prickle.
Kayla’s apprentice was unsettling.
Finding her in here solved a problem though.
He hadn’t followed her into this ale-hall—indeed, he’d been surprised to see her in such a place—but now he had her attention, he’d use it.
He’d been trailing her for days now, waiting for her to bring him to Kayla.
As yet, she hadn’t.
He’d lived in Farnoch for the past six moons but had recently risked returning to Braewall.
He’d been careful, leaving his stallion behind and disguising himself as a salt peddler.
However, upon arriving at the fort, he’d discovered the tattooist missing.
After questioning a vagrant living in the wynd outside the workshop, he’d learned that Kayla’s apprentice had set off in pursuit of the mercenaries, alone.
He’d tracked her on foot, always careful to keep out of sight.
And now, here she was, desperate and in trouble, offering herself up like a lamb to wolves.
He should have known that sooner or later, she’d need to hire muscle.
And here he was. In the right place at the right time.
“So,” he said, settling back against the rough wood and slinging an arm across the back of the booth. “Tell me about this job.”
She hesitated, fingers curling around her cup. He’d retrieved it for her from the table near the door. Those nails. They’d raked the air like talons when she’d nearly gone for the other man’s face. It was difficult not to stare at them.
“A woman has been taken,” she said finally, her voice low. “A group of men … abducted her from Braewall a few nights ago.”
“How many?”
“Six.”
“What makes you think they traveled to Farnoch?”
“I followed them.” Her jaw set. “They’re here. I saw them this afternoon.”
His attention sharpened at that. He’d entered the fort shortly after her but had been stopped and questioned by guards at the gate.
They’d seen him come and go often of late and wanted to know his business.
By the time he’d gotten free of them, she’d stopped talking to the pie-seller and disappeared.
“Where?” he asked, careful to keep his tone all business.
“In an ale-hall.”
“There are plenty of them in this fort. Which one?”
Her gaze narrowed. “It’s just up from the market ground, on one of the eastern wynds.”
He knew it, one of his favorite drinking spots. “You didn’t approach the men?”
“No,” she replied curtly.
Of course, she hadn’t. They wouldn’t be sitting in this ale-hall talking if she had.
She’d be dead.
“How heavily armed were they?”
Her gaze shadowed. “It was hard to see … they were wearing large black cloaks.”
Impatience curled up then, and he checked the urge to drum his fingers on the table.
He had a lead now, and that meant he was wasting time here chatting to Kayla’s apprentice. The tattooist herself was somewhere in this fort.
Slow down, he counseled himself then. This lass could be useful to you.
“So, you thought you’d find them here, did you?” He gestured at the shadowy ale-hall around them. He certainly had—that was why he’d visited this shithole.
She swallowed. “No … I’m just here for a sellsword.” Her chin lifted then. “Is that what you are?”
“I fight and kill for coin, aye.”
“So, you’re good?”
“Aye.” He observed her under hooded lids. The lass’s recklessness was going to get her killed. At the very least, it might make her a pain in the arse. She could get in the way. “This woman we’re rescuing … who is she to you?”
He had to make sure this was the right woman.
A muscle flexed in her lean jaw. “My mentor.”
“So, what’s your trade?”
Heat flashed in those black eyes. “Does it matter?”
“It might,” he replied, taking a gulp of ale and immediately regretting it. The drink was foul. “If I’m risking my neck, I want to know what I’m getting into.”
“My mentor is a master tattooist … I’m her apprentice.”
Darach swallowed a smile. “And those men who took her … any idea why?”
“No.” Frustration bled into her voice. “And I don’t really care … I just need to get her back.”
Darach gave a soft snort.
He was curious why those warriors had taken Kayla, and she should be too. Knowledge was power. It might give him an advantage when confronting them.
He preferred to know exactly what waited for him, for he needed Kayla alive. He needed her help. She was one of the few tattooists in The Wolds who could channel earth magic properly, who could fix what had been done to him.
Or at least, he hoped.
“So, you want me to help you take them on with … what? That wee knife in your boot?”
She stiffened. “How did you—”
“Mercenaries mark such things,” he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “And since you carry no weapon at your belt, I assumed it’s concealed elsewhere.” He paused then. “Only someone with shit between their ears would walk into a place like this without a blade.”
She flushed red at that. Her dark gaze hardened.
“Look,” he said, gentling his tone. “I’m not saying it can’t be done. But you can’t just march up to these men and demand they hand your mentor over.”
“I know that.” Her fingers flexed on the table, and he glimpsed those sharp nails again before she curled them into fists. “That’s why I need assistance.”
He inclined his head. “For twenty silver pennies?”
She gave a jerky nod, suitably chagrined. He should think so; he couldn’t believe she’d blurted that out in the middle of this place. Those words were the first he’d heard after entering the ale-hall.
“That’s a generous fee.” He pretended to think it over. “But it won’t do me much good if I end up dead.”
“You won’t … not if we come up with a plan.” She hesitated then. “Half now. Half when the job’s done.”
Once more, he made a show of considering the offer. Of course, he’d already decided.
This hadn’t been part of his initial plan. Before walking into this ale-hall, he’d been focused on tracking Kayla down, freeing her, and getting her help. Nothing else.
Yet he had to be practical. He was almost out of coin. And if he did fail to find Kayla tonight, this young woman might be of use to him.
“Very well,” he said after a lengthy pause. “You have my blade.”
She exhaled sharply. “Right.” She put her cup of ale down. “I’ll get your coin.”
“Those men … you followed into an ale-hall today,” he asked casually. “Did they see you?”
She cut her gaze away, a muscle flexing in her jaw. She then dug into her purse and counted out ten silver pennies before handing them to him. “They might have done.”
Darach’s pulse sped up. Shit. She probably stared at them with those unnerving black eyes until their skin crawled. Looking away so she wouldn’t see his frustration, he slid the part payment into his own coin purse.
“They couldn’t have gone far.” She leaned forward, urgency creeping back into her voice. “They had a pony and a wagon. They’ll have needed to find lodgings with stables attached.”
True enough. Farnoch wasn’t that large. If those mercenaries were still here—and they likely were, since they’d need to rest and resupply—he’d find them.
Once he knew where they were sleeping, he’d deal with them and take Kayla. The lass would only complicate matters.