Elspeth leaned toward the man. “Was it a fellow Jacobite?” She understood their cause and felt sorry for their devastating loss, but her father had been careful not to align himself with them. Even so, he’d helped more than a few wounded Jacobites as they’d passed through Dunkeld—secretly, of course.
George sent another furtive look toward the soldiers. “Yes.” The word was barely audible.
A Jacobite had wielded Lann Dhearg. Elspeth couldn’t help but look briefly toward Williams. “Do you know what happened to the man with the sword?”
He shook his head. “As far as I know, no one has seen it since the battle.”
It would be easy to think George’s cousin had seen something that wasn’t real in the heat of battle. But that other man’s brother had seen it too. Elspeth looked toward the table where the other pair of men had been sitting, but they were gone. Had they left?
She frowned, wishing she’d had the chance to talk to the brother. As it was, this was barely a story. That didn’t mean she couldn’t investigate further.
“Thank you.” She smiled at George. “If you hear of anything else, I do hope you’ll let me know. I’d love to record the story. I’ve been writing down many recollections from Culloden. I’ll add this one.”
The man inclined his head toward her. “That’s well done of ye, miss.”
Elspeth gave him a single nod, then returned her attention to her aunt. “Well, now I have something to research.”
“So it would seem. What a fantastical tale.” Aunt Leah blinked at her. “You still don’t think it’s real, do you?”
“No. The myth likely started with one person fabricating the tale.” That was the way stories originated. Someone exaggerated or made something up outright, such as with the thirteen treasures or with King Arthur, who was often tied to them. Arthur probably existed, or someone like him. Had he pulled a sword from a stone? That hardly seemed possible. Tracing those stories to a single source was impossible, especially after more than a thousand years since Arthur had purportedly lived in the sixth century.
Aunt Leah picked up her cup. “Can you find that person? That seems unlikely.” She sipped her tea.
“It is, but since the event happened recently, I may get lucky.” She waggled her brows at Aunt Leah, who laughed softly.
“If anyone can find the source, it’s you.”
Unless it really was multiple sources. So far, two different parties had attested to the same rumor. The story either came from that single source exaggerating or outright fabricating the sword, or those multiple parties really had seen a flaming sword. Or something that looked like a flaming sword. What could that be?
Elspeth’s mind worked as they finished their tea. She nearly forgot about Mr. Williams.
No, that wasn’t true. She’d just latched on to the distraction that kept her from thinking about him.
“Are you ready to go upstairs?” Aunt Leah asked.
“Yes.” Elspeth wasn’t really, but perhaps she’d steal back down later after Aunt Leah fell asleep. As she rose, hat and gloves in hand, she looked toward Mr. Williams. His gaze met hers, and for a moment, she felt an invisible connection stretch between them. The light of recognition was still absent in his expression, but there was something else. Briefly, she wondered if she’d been wrong, that he wasn’t really Williams. But no, she wasn’t wrong—she’d never forget his eyes.
What she wanted to know was if he truly didn’t recognize her or he was pretending not to. That was the mystery—one she planned to solve.
Chapter Two
Tavish Crawford eyed the pair of English soldiers who remained in the common room. He’d been waiting for the right moment to approach them. After watching them drink an excessive amount of ale over the past few hours, the time was near.
The innkeeper’s red-haired daughter, Carrie, as she’d introduced herself hours earlier, bustled to his table. “Finished?”
“I am, thank you. The stew was delicious.” Tavish gestured to his empty tankard. “Another ale, if you please.”
“Finally. Ye’re the slowest drinker in the entire inn. Can’t believe it given yer size.” She eyed him with stark interest. “Ye talk like ye’re a lord or summat. Are ye?”
Tavish gave her a bland smile. He was many things. “I’m just John MacLean, I’m afraid.” Tonight. He couldn’t help but think of Elspeth Marshall and how he was someone else to her. He’d seen the confusion and then anger in her expression when he’d failed to acknowledge her.
But he couldn’t. Besides, she was better off not knowing him—as Roy Williams, John MacLean, or Tavish Crawford.
“Where are ye from?” Carrie asked as she scooped up his trencher and empty mug. “Not the Highlands.”
“Near Glasgow.”
“It’s not England, but it’d be an improvement,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll fetch ye another ale.” Then she turned and swept back toward the kitchen.
As she passed the soldiers, they asked for more ale. It was time.
Tavish stood and made his way to their table. “’Evening. I hope you don’t mind that I stepped in earlier. I probably should have let you pummel them.” He shook his head with faux regret. “There’s no place for talk of Culloden unless it’s to remind them how badly they lost.” Tavish softened his brogue so that he almost sounded English.
“Damn right,” the captain who’d made the earlier threat said with a sharp nod. His small dark eyes surveyed Tavish. “Did you fight?”
“I’m not a soldier.” Not officially. “What brings you men to the middle of nowhere?”
“On our way home on leave,” the captain responded. “I’m Fowler. This is Sergeant Boyd.”
“Not sure we’ll make it home for Christmas, but we’re going to try our damnedest,” Boyd said as Carrie delivered their ale. “We’re fortunate to be able to go home since you heathens don’t even celebrate the season.” He snorted.
Fowler nodded in agreement. “We’ll make it. Unless we find any fugitives.”
“You’re on the hunt for Jacobites?” Tavish asked casually before taking a sip of ale.
Boyd spat on the floor. “Bloody criminals. We’ll catch every last one and see ’em hang.”
“Or in jail,” Fowler said with more restraint. But then his lip curled and a feral gleam blistered his gaze.
Tavish tensed. He hoped they could leave tomorrow. He didn’t need them hanging about, not when he was also on the hunt for Jacobites. But for a wholly different purpose. He didn’t think there was anyone in Calvine who needed his help, but he was ever mindful and would offer assistance where it was wanted.
“You’re looking for someone in particular, then?” Tavish asked.
Fowler nodded. “Several someones. Know anyone named McCloud or Williams? Those are the two I’d most like to find. McCloud’s a skinny fellow with black hair and a jagged scar across his brow. Williams is larger—about your size, I’d say—with long hair and a thick beard.”