Chapter 7
A Wanted Woman
At that exact instant, the barkeeper set down two foaming tankards of ale on the table, between Brendan and Freya. Of course, that drew the soldiers’ eyes towards them. Freya made the mistake of glancing up and meeting the eyes of one man. She hastily looked away, but of course, it was already too late.
The man gave an incredulous chuckle, and came striding over. The other two men scuttled along behind him.
“Well, well, well. What have we got here?” he murmured, hands on his hips. “See, I know this lad here from the last time we visited this place, but ye, wee lassie, arenew.”
He was a stocky man, the colors of the Grahame tartan kilt he wore seeming to suck the pallor from his skin. It made him look sickly. His hair was a greasy sort of blond color—what remained of it, at least—and was plastered to his scalp. The two men behind him were dark-haired, one tall, one short. It was clear that the first man was very much in charge.
“I don’t want trouble here,” Ned said uneasily, “Take a seat, lads, and I’ll bring ye over some ale. On the house. Just don’t bother my patrons, eh?”
Freya remembered at the last minute that she was meant to be a nun, and nuns probably did not glare balefully at people. She dragged her gaze down to the grainy, wooden surface of the table, and tried to pretend she was serene and unafraid.
It wasn’t working, especially when tension was rolling off Brendan in waves.
“No wonder ye were so sharp with us last time, lad,” the first man said, nudging Brendan and winking at him. “This is yer lady friend, is it?”
“Just a friend,” Brendan snapped. “And no business of yers.”
“I think it might be, though. Nuns breaking their vows and taking sweethearts seems like a serious matter, nay? Unless, of course, ye are notgetting anyfrom her,” he glanced over his shoulder at that, looking for approval from the other two. They chuckled obediently. He nudged Brendan again, whose expression was growing darker by the instant. “That would explain why ye are in such a bad temper all the time, hey?”
Brendan was halfway out of his chair before Freya could react. She reached out desperately, grabbing at his wrist.
“Don’t,” she hissed, eyes wide. “Just… just leave it. He isn’t worth it. Who cares what they think?”
Don’t draw too much attention to us,she hoped he understood.There are three of them—armed—and only two of us.
Well, and the barkeep, who is currently hiding behind the counter. And I’m not sureI’dbe much help, so really, it’s just ye against the three of them.
Brendan met her eye for a long moment. For an awful instant, she thought that he was going to shake her off and then punch the man in the face. It would be incredibly satisfying, of course, at least until one of the other men drew a sword and stabbed Brendan in the gut.
He gave a sigh, and sank back into his seat. Freya gave him a quick, relieved smile.
“That’s it, laddie,” the first man said, voice thick with amusement. “Listen to yer lady friend. And what’s this? Ale? Tut-tut. The rules at that Priory are much more lax than we imagined. We’d best tell someone about this, eh?”
Brendan clenched his jaw, a muscle feathering in his cheek, but he stayed silent.
Clearly piqued by the lack of response, the man snorted, and then snatched up the piece of paper. He slammed it down onto the table between them, making Freya’s ale slop over the side of her tankard. She found herself staring down at her own face, beneath a few sentences of scrawled information.
“She,” the man announced, “is a wanted woman. Have either of ye seen her? Short, thin, freckled, red hair, blue eyes. Said to be pretty. Seen her?”
Brendan grunted and shook his head.
Feeling the man’s gaze burning into the side of her face, Freya kept her eyes lowered.
“I haven’t,” she murmured in response. “I’m sorry.”
The man leaned closer, closer and closer until she could feel his hot, smelly breath on her cheek.
“Ye are a pretty one,” he said, voice a low rasp. “Shame about… all of this,” he gestured vaguely to her nun’s habit. “Such a waste for the pretty ones to shut themselves up, eh, lads?”
“Back away from her,” Brendan said warningly. “I’ll not tell ye again.”
The man chuckled. “I’d stay sat down if I were ye, lad. Now, lassie, what isyername? And what doesyerhair look like under that ugly hood? I bet ye have got pretty hair, eh?”
He pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger, and Freya jerked her face away, finally turning to face him.
