“Aihan,” she said. “Ming Aihan.”
“Ming Aihan,” he repeated, puzzled that she would have the same first name as the man she was looking for. Then he remembered that Merlow had told him that the Chinese gave the family name first. Was this man her husband, or her father? Or another relative? An Uncle perhaps? “Aihan,” he said again.
She nodded and said, “Aihan,” patting her chest. Her figure was slender and her breasts were small; she was like an elegant bird. The tunic did not reveal much of her shape, which prompted him to wonder . . . He blocked the wayward thoughts. He needed to leave now, before he got any deeper into this mire of unwanted attraction.
He nodded to her and repeated his promise to look for Ming Liang with the gestures. He held a hand up and asked, “How tall?”
She frowned at him, then comprehending, she held a hand above her head indicating that Ming Liang was a head taller than her and half a head shorter than him.
He nodded and gestured that he would leave her now. “I go.”
She bowed to him, and he felt compelled to bow back.
Chapter Four
Col left the cell recalling the rumours he had heard about Chinese warriors roaming the countryside and terrorising people. He had dismissed them as lurid tales at the time, but perhaps there was truth to them after all and this Ming Liang was at the root of them? He tried to remember when he’d heard the stories. Soon after Merlow had left to go to London and didn’t come back as he said he would, but three months later, and with a bride.
Given that Merlow had spent the last ten years of his life in China, it seemed logical to assume that if Chinese people had been seen in this vicinity, it had something to do with him.
Calling the dogs, he set off to walk into Dysart and ask some questions. The mist had cleared to a fine day, and he crossed the lawn where she had ambushed him that morning. Seeing something glinting in the grass, he bent and picked up the knife she had threatened him with, a drop of dried blood on the tip. The handle was carved ivory and showed a sinuous, many-scaled dragon. He tucked it in his belt and kept going.
He headed for The Speckled Hen. If anyone had heard of these rumours it would be Angus McMurtrie, the Hen’s publican. Entering the taproom, he found McMurtrie behind thebar, pouring drinks for his customers. He was a big man with a generous stomach and bushy beard.
“Laird!” he exclaimed. “How might I serve ye?”
“I’ll have a pint of ale, please, and a mite of gossip.”
“Aye?” McMurtrie filled a tankard from the barrel on the bench behind the bar.
“Chinese. Had any in these parts recently?”
“Aye, had a Chinese lassie in here yesterday looking fer ye. She find ye?”
“She did. She’s looking for a relative, name of Ming Liang. Dark hair tied back, about so high,” he indicated with his hand. “Older fellow, in his forties maybe?”
“It’s possible. We had some Chinese fellows around a few months back.” He handed over the tankard as Col flipped him a coin. Angus caught it expertly and pocketed it. Jerking his chin, he said, “Yon Sassenach over there in the green jacket may be able to tell ye more. He’s been dining out on tales of the Chinese for months.”
“Thank ye,” said Col, tipping his tankard in toast as he took a sip. He wandered over to the fellow in green who was seated at a trestle table with three others playing cards.
“Afternoon lads, mind if I join ye?”
“Col! What brings ye out on this fine day?” asked Todd McTasker, the village blacksmith.
Col climbed over the trestle and sat down as Todd quipped, “It’s the laird, Bobby, best mind yer p’s and q’s.” He nodded to the man in green.
Col held out his hand. “Bobby, is it? Col Thornton.”
“The Mac Sceacháin!” said Todd sotto voce.
“Bobby Farrell,” said the man in green. “Pleased to meet you.”
Col knew the other men, who all greeted him with a raising of their tankards and a murmuredLaird.
The dogs settled under the table at his feet.
Sipping his ale, he said, “Aye, I’m after a bit of gossip and told ye may know.” He nodded to Bobby. “Chinese spotted in these parts?”
Bobby’s eyes lit up and he smiled, rubbing his hands with relish. “Aye, you’ve come to the right place, my lord. I’ve made somewhat of a hobby of gathering tales about their antics. People like a story, and I’ve been happy to oblige. In fact, I was telling the story only a month or so back when a big Chinese fellow interrupted me in a very—entertaining way, shall we say.”
