It probably had something to do with the pub’s proximity to St. Deborah’s. The Abbess’ keen eye reached everywhere, even here, and some of the nunsdidlike a drink.
“Another?” Ned asked, grinning at Brendan and nodding at his empty tankard.
“Aye, another.”
“Just finished yer rounds at St. Deb’s, I imagine?”
“Aye, I have.”
Brendan was never particularly chatty. It was a trait he’d picked up during his soldiering days, and long days and nights of managing the farm by himself had gotten him deeper into the habit of silence. Not that Ned minded—he generally just talked on and on, not caring if Brendan listened or not. Ned’s wife,Annie, was silent as the grave, which was probably why the two got on so well. One talked, one listened.
“Any news from the Priory?” Ned asked, a couple of anecdotes later.
Brendan hesitated. The image of the lass, the freckled red-head, popped into his mind. He’d been thinking about her all day, much to his chagrin. He knew already that he was attracted to her, which was a fatal mistake. When he’d first seen her, weary and damp and frightened, standing at the bottom of the hayloft ladder, he’d wanted nothing so much as to wrap his arms around her and keep her safe. The feeling had been sudden and more than a little shocking.
It wasn’t the first time that Brendan had seen one of the smaller, more vulnerable convent girls and wanted to protect her. After all, virtually every woman in the Priory had some sort of troublesome past, something that had driven her there. But he’d never felt the sharp, insistent pull of attraction towards them, not like he had towards Freya.
He was unlikely to see her again, of course, if she’d disappeared into the convent, and anyway he couldn’t consider a relationship with anybody. Not now.
A relationship couldn’t be built on lies, and that was all he had to offer. Lies, trauma, and deceit. Whatever was chasing the woman, it wasn’t good, and she would do better to steer clear of men likehim.
No, it was better for everybody if he stayed by himself. Alone, he could handle his demons himself, and concentrate on doing some good. Doing anything, really, to undo what he’d already done in his life. The past could never be changed, but the present? Well, he had control over that. He could do real good in the future, if he was careful and lived a strict, isolated life. Marriage did not feature in his plans.
It didn’t matter if he was lonely. He deserved loneliness.
“No, nothing new,” he heard himself say, swigging his new pint.
There was no way Ned would have left it at that, and the conversation would have gone for a good while longer, if the door hadn’t swung open at that moment.
Three men stood there, hands on their hips, surveying the occupants with barely concealed distaste.
To nobody’s surprise, they wore Grahame tartans.
“What a load of lazy ingrates,” the lead man snorted. “Barkeep, how about a couple of pints for some actual hardworking men? Soldiers, no less!”
Ned’s mouth pressed into a thin, angry line.
“Aye, lad,” he said, his tone carefully mild. “I’ll fetch it for ye now.”
“And pies, too, if ye have them. Quick as ye like, and the gravy better be hot!”
Ned said nothing. He poured out three pints, set them on the counter, then hurried through the door which led to the kitchen. Brendan stared down into his mostly full pint of ale, and wondered if it would look bad if he left it altogether and just walked out.
Too late.
The lead man came swaggering up to Brendan—who was the only man sitting at the bar—and draped an arm over his shoulder.
“Ought to get yourself a job, mate.”
Brendan clenched his jaw. “I have a job. This is lunch.”
“Uh-huh. Sure it is. Say, we’re looking for a wee lassie—a runaway. It’s a sad story, isn’t it, lads? A stupid, empty-headed girl, ungrateful. Had a fine match lined up for her. She was going to marry our Laird Grahame, can ye believe it? And then she ran off. Or maybe kidnapped. I suppose if the Laird wants to marryher anyway, he’ll say she was kidnapped. Then we’ll be after somebody to blame, ha-ha. Name of Freya McInnes.”
Brendan’s hand tightened imperceptibly around the tankard.
Of course.Everybody had heard about Laird Grahame’s intended marriage, forming an alliance between their clan and the McInnes Clan. The news about his bride-to-be mysteriously disappearing must have flown through the towns almost as quickly. If the Grahame soldiers were here already, that was a bad sign. A sign that they’d tracked her. Did she know how close they were?
Stay quiet,he warned himself.Don’t attract attention. It’s not yer business.
