“Can’t say I do,” Tavish lied. “But I’ll keep an ear out.” McCloud was a friend and currently in hiding. His injuries had been extensive. Tavish had recovered more quickly—after shaving his beard and lopping his hair off. He was, most likely, the Williams they wanted.
“There you are.”
The feminine voice drew all three men to turn their heads. Standing next to the table, her dusky green eyes flashing with ire, was Elspeth Marshall.
She’d wound her red-blonde hair atop her head, save a few wispy curls that grazed her cheeks. She wore a dark green gown that laced across the front of her bodice beneath a square neckline. Putting one hand on her slender waist, she fixed her angry stare on Tavish.
He swallowed. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.” This could go very, very badly.
Her lips parted. “You really don’t remember me?”
Tavish allowed a lazy smile as he glanced toward the soldiers. “I think I would. Ergo, you must be mistaken. No matter, I’m delighted to meet you now.” Before he could say his name and show her it wasn’t Williams, she spoke.
“Oh, I know you already, Mr. Williams. And you know me. What I’d like to know is why—”
Tavish couldn’t let her continue. “My name is not Williams. You are mistaken, miss.” He hardened his gaze and prayed she would go.
“Williams?” Fowler asked, his eyes focusing—and narrowing—on Tavish.
“As I said, I’m MacLean.” Tavish looked directly at Miss Marshall. “John MacLean. Now, if you’ll excuse us, miss, we are drinking ale and discussing things that don’t involve a young lady such as yourself.” He turned his attention to his tablemates even as he heard her sharp intake of breath.
Miss Marshall didn’t immediately leave. Tavish felt her presence and her outrage like a stiff, cold wind. Still, he refused to be buffeted.
With a small sound of indignation, she spun on her heel and left. Inwardly, Tavish winced. Outwardly, he lifted his ale and muttered, “Good riddance.”
Fowler scrutinized him across the table. “You really aren’t Williams?”
“A Jacobite?” Tavish snorted in disdain. “No. But I’d be happy to help you find him. He ought to be strung up with the rest of the traitors.”
“Hear, hear!” Boyd banged his tankard on the table before taking a long drink.
Fowler hesitated, but eventually did the same. Then he leaned back in his chair, still holding the mug. “Good, because I’m not in the mood for a fight tonight. I just want to get home to my family. Is that too much to ask?” He sounded weary. Tavish could understand that. They all wanted comfort after the nightmare of Culloden.
“Amen to that,” Tavish said.
“What do you make of that silly story about a flaming sword?” Boyd sniggered. “These bloody Highlanders will believe anything.”
Today wasn’t the first time Tavish had heard rumors about the sword. He knew they weren’t rumors, of course. The sword had been used at Culloden, and he needed to find it. While he was always looking for Jacobite survivors of Culloden, his primary concern at the moment was locating Lann Dhearg before it fell into the wrong hands. And if it already had, well, he’d have to get it back.
“They particularly appreciate legend and fantasy,” Tavish said derisively.
Fowler pressed his lips together. “I’ve heard about this fiery sword before. For a fallacy, it is remarkably persistent.”
Boyd let out a snort. “That doesn’t make it true. I didn’t see anything of the sort that day. Can you imagine it, though? A sword that burst into flame. That would be very useful in the dark.” He laughed before taking another drink.
“Seems like I’ve heard the rumor too,” Tavish mused. “Can’t remember where exactly.” He pretended to think and hoped one of the other men would play along.
“The first time I heard about it was just outside Inverness,” Fowler said. “A month or so after Culloden.”
Tavish looked at the captain over the rim of his tankard. “You’ve heard the tale multiple times?”
“Indeed. I’ve heard its flames took out a dozen men, that it’s a broadsword, and that the man wielding it was seven feet tall.” His tone was droll.
Tavish smiled into his ale before taking a drink. He was tall, but not that tall…
“Nonsense, but at least it’s entertaining!” Boyd set his mug onto the table with a thud. “I need to take a piss.” He stood and left the common room, going out the front door.
Fowler glanced toward the stairs in the corner. “Too bad you didn’t really know that pretty thing. But then if you did, I’d have to take you into custody.” The edge of his mouth ticked up in an arrogant half smile.
“If I were Williams, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you. And I sure as hell wouldn’t allow you to take me anywhere.” Tavish let a brief moment pass before he let out a low, dark laugh, which Fowler joined.
“We’ll find him,” Fowler said with great confidence. “One by one, we’re rounding them all up. They can’t hide forever.”
“You’ll be back up here, then—after your holiday?”
Nodding, Fowler took another drink. “Right after Epiphany.”
Tavish wondered if all the soldiers scouting for Jacobite stragglers were doing the same. Not that it mattered overmuch—those who’d fought or supported the Jacobites mustn’t let down their guard.
Fowler’s dark brows drew together as he cast a look at the front door. “Hell, Boyd is taking a long time. The other night, he fell over when he went out to piss. I’d better go check on him.”
“I think I’ll turn in.” Tavish stood along with the captain and bid him good night.
When he got to the stairs, he looked to make sure Fowler had left. When the front door was closed, Tavish walked upstairs. As soon as he hit the landing, a figure jumped out in front of him.
Hands on her hips, Elspeth Marshall glared at him, her eyes ablaze. “You’re a lying blackguard.” Then she drove her fist into his gut.
As Williams doubled over, Elspeth considered delivering another injury. He deserved at least that.
“I deserved that,” he said, echoing her thoughts. His voice was muffled from his bent position.
“You saying that doesn’t make you less guilty.” It did steal a bit of her outrage, however.
He straightened and grasped her hand, dragging her along the narrow corridor to a door at the end. Opening it, she saw another flight of stairs.
She dug her feet into the floorboards. “Where are you taking me?”
“We can’t stand here out in the open.” He tossed a look toward the landing at the top of the stairs from the common room where she’d been waiting for him. His dark brows were drawn low over his eyes. “We can go to your room or mine, which is upstairs. Choose. And be quick.”
“Mine.” She turned across from the door he’d just opened and unlatched the one to her room. “Here.”
She stepped inside and pulled her hand from his.
He closed the door firmly behind them and faced her. His cloak from earlier was gone, leaving him dressed in a rather drab suit of brown, not unlike the one he’d worn when they’d met. No, not drab. He was far too arresting—from his dark hair to his supple lips and square jaw to the way his muscular form filled out his clothing.