Chapter 5
Evan stalked through the port with long strides, his mood blacker than a storm cloud over the Cuillin Hills. The din of the harbor grated in his ears—hawkers crying their wares, ropes creaking, gulls screaming overhead. Normally, he found comfort in the bustle of ships and commerce. But today he felt strangely out of sorts.
It was all the damned lass’s fault. The way she’d looked at him as he’d left her at the beach—those deep, dark eyes of her so full of...what? Disappointment? Why should that bother him so? He’d been disappointing people all his life.
But for some reason, he couldn’t get her expression out of his mind. He should never have gotten involved with her. What had she been doing anyway, blundering into his business deal like that? He should have taken the locket in payment for her ruining his deal and left her there on the island.
Yet he’d had half a mind to give it her back when they’d landed. Half a mind—but the weight of it in his pocket reminded him why he hadn’t. Fine gold, delicate work, worth enough coin to keep him afloat until he found steadier ground.
She’d live, and he’d move on. That was how the world worked.
He ducked into a narrow wynd that led to a tavern overlooking the water, the sort of place where smugglers liked to drink in the afternoon when decent folk were still abouttheir business. Sure enough, when he pushed open the warped wooden door, the sour tang of ale and unwashed bodies hit him like a wall.
“Campbell!” A voice hailed him from a corner table.
Evan spotted two familiar faces: Murchadh Howe, broad as a bull with arms thick as anchor rope, and Thomas Macrae, lean and sly, his eyes always darting like a rat’s. Old acquaintances, men who’d shifted more than a few casks of contraband with him in the past. Exactly the kind of men he needed.
He forced a smile and swaggered over. “Murchadh, Thomas. I was hoping I’d find ye in here.”
They eyed him as he pulled up a stool. No hearty handshakes, no claps on the back—and that immediately put Evan on edge.
“I hear ye’ve been busy,” Thomas said.
“Aye,” Evan replied easily. “Always. Business never waits.”
“Nay, it doesnae,” Murchadh agreed. “But we heard ye’ve been stirring up trouble. Something about a deal gone bad up north and the fishermen who’ve just come in have brought rumors of trouble out on the island as well.”
Evan waved a hand as if to brush the notion aside, even as his stomach knotted. Damn it. How had word gotten here so quickly? Gossip, it seemed, had the ability to materialize out of thin air. “It was nothing. The trouble up north was just a wee misunderstanding with some ruffians who didnae agree with my price, that’s all. And the business on the island was nothing either. I’ve twenty casks ready to move, fine quality. All I need is passage for them—”
But Thomas leaned in, his eyes narrowing. “I couldnae give two shits about what went down on the island. But that business up north? Sounds like more than a misunderstanding. Word is that ye’ve royally pissed off someone yereallydinna want to piss off—Seoras MacInnes.”
Evan’s words faltered and he felt his easy smile slip for a heartbeat. “MacInnes?”
“Aye,” Murchadh said, his voice dropping. “The warlord himself. And he’s looking for ye.”
Evan’s mouth went dry. Seoras MacInnes was no petty smuggler. He ruled a huge swathe of the criminal underworld up north like his own kingdom, every smuggler and petty criminal paying him tribute. Men whispered of his cruelty—how he nailed thieves to walls, and made widows of the wives of any who dared cheat him.
Aye, Evan had run into a spot of bother with his men up north, but he’d hoped MacInnes would have forgotten about that.
Shite.
He forced a laugh, though it sounded hollow to his own ears. “Dinna fash. I’ll smooth it over.”
But Murchadh and Thomas exchanged a look, and Thomas shook his head. “Maybe. I’ve heard that smooth tongue of yers could charm a snail out of its shell but we’ll not be seen dealing with ye, Campbell. Not with MacInnes on yer tail.”
The finality in his tone was like a door slammed in Evan’s face. He leaned back, every muscle taut with the effort of keeping calm. “Fine. I’ll find other partners.” He pushed his stool back and stood.
And that was when he saw her.
Through the grimy tavern window, across the sunlit quay, the lass—Ruby—wandered past. She moved with the stiff awkwardness of someone out of place, skirts dragging on the stones, hair loose and shining in the light. She stopped at ship after ship, speaking to the captains, gesturing southward, only to be waved away.
Thomas followed his gaze. “Who’s that then?”
“Looks like a fine prize,” Murchadh muttered, his grin dark.
Evan scowled. “She’s nobody.” He tossed the words too quickly, and their eyes narrowed.
He’d said she was nobody, but she’d paid him with a locket worth a fortune, and she was standing out there like a lamb among wolves. Sooner or later, someone would notice her soft hands and her fine speech, and then she’d be in serious trouble.
