Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Creagan
The tavern was crowded, noisy, and exactly where Creagan wanted to be.
A fiddler played near the hearth, though half the patrons sang loud enough to drown out the tune.
Dice rolled across one table while coins changed hands at another.
Two old men near the door had been arguing for the better part of an hour over whose hound was the better hunter, neither apparently troubled by the fact that neither man had brought a hound with him.
Creagan sat with his back against the tavern wall and laughed when the woman perched on his thigh slipped her hand beneath his half-open shirt.
“Careful, lass.”
She smiled at him. “Why”
His grin turned playful. “I might think you have wicked intentions.”
Her hand roamed lower along his naked chest. “I do.”
He nibbled at her neck. “That could prove delightful.”
The woman laughed as her hand dipped even lower.
“Don’t forget about me,” the woman on his other side said, running her fingers along his hard muscled forearm delighted he had shoved his shirtsleeves up not long after he sat down at the table.
Creagan winked at her. “I could never forget such a buxom lass.”
She smiled, pleased.
He took a drink of ale, his hazel eyes bright with amusement above the rim of his tankard. A short growth of beard shadowed his jaw, and his long dark hair was tucked behind his ears. Ears that heard more than most realized.
Creagan had been in the village less than a day and already knew the tavern keeper's name, Gus, which serving lass poured the fullest tankard, who cheated at dice, and which fellow would be sleeping in the stable if his wife discovered how much coin he'd lost tonight.
He liked people… most of the time.
He liked their stories, their foolishness, their laughter, and especially their ability to turn an ordinary night into one worth remembering.
There had been enough nights in Creagan's life when men screamed instead of laughed, when blood flowed more freely than ale, and dawn revealed bodies rather than men sleeping off too much drink.
He preferred this.
A sudden crash near the door brought several conversations to an abrupt halt.
One of the men who had been arguing about the hounds stumbled backward into a table, sending cups and tankards crashing to the floor. His companion advanced on him, a thickset man with a scar running from the corner of his mouth into a beard several shades darker than his hair.
The tavern keeper, Gus, hurried from behind the trestle. “Take it outside, Fergus.”
Fergus did not have to shove Gus hard to send him stumbling, his bulk did it for him.
Creagan saw Fergus reach for the knife in the sheath at his waist. The tavern keeper was just regaining his balance and didn’t see it.
Creagan quickly lifted the woman off his lap and got to his feet.
“You've had enough, Fergus. Go home,” Gus ordered as he approached him.
Fergus raised his arm, bringing the knife down at the startled Gus.
Creagan grabbed Fergus’s wrist and the man cried out and dropped the knife.
Creagan grinned and slapped the man on the back, keeping hold of his wrist. “You’ll thank me in the morning. It’s never good to harm the man who pours your ale.”
Fergus’s eyes popped wide. “I didn’t hurt Gus, did I?”
“Nay,” Gus said from behind Creagan. “But you told me you had no knives on you. And you know it’s for your own good I ask since too much ale has you drawing them too fast.”
“Sorry, Gus,” Fergus said. “Can I have another ale?”
Gus had the fallen knife in his hand. “Do you have any more knives on you?”
With how drunk the man was, Creagan did not take a chance. He ran his hands along Fergus’s sides and found another knife tucked beneath his belt. He pulled it free and handed it to Gus.
Fergus frowned. “Forgot about that one.”
“I’m sure you did,” Gus said.
Creagan gave Fergus another friendly slap on the shoulder. “Go home. Sleep. Tomorrow you can come back and apologize properly.”
Fergus looked toward the overturned table and the broken tankards scattered across the floor. “Suppose I’ll have to pay for those.”
“You suppose correctly,” Gus said. “And no more ale tonight.”
“Not even one for the road?” Fergus asked.
“That road just might rise up to meet you if you have another ale,” Creagan said with a laugh.
Fergus didn’t find it funny, but others did. He grumbled something beneath his breath but headed for the door without further argument.
Creagan watched until it closed behind him, then turned to Gus. “Now that I've saved you from being stabbed, I believe you owe me an ale.”
Gus stared at him. “Saved me? You were already drinking my ale.”
“Which made me uniquely qualified to save the man pouring it.”
Laughter broke out around them.
Gus shook his head. “I suppose I owe you. Sit down. I'll bring your ale.”
Creagan returned to his table.
The two women were waiting for him with generous smiles.
The buxom lass caught his arm and pulled him down beside her. “You never told us you could move that fast.”
The other woman settled herself on his thigh again. “I sure hope you’re not fast at everything.”
“I take my time when it comes to important things,” he assured her with a wink.
“Like what important things?”
Creagan kissed her slowly. “Like you—” He turned to the other woman and kissed her. “And you.”
“More ale,” the one woman called out. “We have a long night ahead.”
It was considerably later when Creagan climbed the stairs with an arm around each woman.
He couldn't remember which of them suggested they retire upstairs, though he suspected it might have been him.
At the chamber door, the buxom lass caught hold of his shirt and pulled him inside.
Creagan had barely taken two steps when one woman began slipping his shirt from his shoulders.
He smiled as the other woman closed the door.
Creagan was already several miles from the village when the morning sun found him walking along the road. He carried everything he needed in the leather pack slung over one shoulder. His pace was easy, despite having slept considerably less than he usually preferred.
He smiled at the memory. Some things were worth losing sleep over.
He had no particular need for a horse. His feet had carried him across more lands than most men would ever see, and traveling on foot had advantages. People were more inclined to stop and talk to a lone traveler than a mounted warrior. He heard things that way. Learned things.
And Creagan enjoyed the journey nearly as much as wherever it happened to take him.
Today, it was taking him somewhere he was always glad to return to.