Page 25 of Who’s That Earl

“So I’ve heard. Tell me,” he said, leaning against the bar, “is there anyone else still here I’d remember? What about Theo?” Theo Campbell had been the third in their mischievous trio, all those years ago.

“He’s the blacksmith, now. Comes in for his pint and his pie, most nights, when he’s not payin’ court to this lassie or that.” Ross paused to pull two foaming mugs of ale and set one in front of Thomas. “Where are ye sleepin’?”

“Dunnock’s gatehouse.”

Ross made an expression, somewhere between surprised and impressed. “So, you’ll have seen Mrs. Higginbotham, then.”

“Mrs. Higginbotham? Aye. I’ve seen her. Spoken with her.”

Nearly kissed her.

He could not quite decide what unsettled him most about that phrase, the kissed or the nearly. He’d been desperate to discover whether her lips tasted as sweet as he remembered. But was she right? Was it unwise to try to pick up where they’d left off?

He’d held onto their first kiss for so long, it had become a perfect, delicate crystallization of the past. A second kiss might melt that precious memory like a snowflake.

Or would those memories, those feelings, those kisses form a powerful, dangerous avalanche that would sweep them both off their feet?

Thomas shook his head to drive off such thoughts, blinking again like a snow-blind man. “Why?” he demanded, when he once more focused on his friend’s amused expression. “Haven’t you seen her?”

“Oh, aye. Comes in regular to fetch the post, she does. Stops in for a chat with Mrs. Abernathy across the way more often than not. Usually makes it down to the kirk on Sundays. She’s got a capital pair of spaniel pups.”

Even her dogs were well liked in Balisaig, it seemed. “Don’t the people hereabouts find her rather...reserved?”

Ross lifted one shoulder. “Well, folks make allowances for a Sassenach, ye ken?”

“Sassenach,” he echoed. Outlander. The word held a world of meaning. Accurate, certainly, in Jane’s case. But might it not also apply to...?

Ross chuckled at something in Thomas’s expression. “P’raps we ought to do the same for you.”

Thomas forced himself to laugh with him. Yet he was afraid. It was impossible not to wonder, again, whether their friendship could survive the revelation that Thomas was now an earl.

He drank deeply from his mug before he could answer with his customary easiness. “Nay, Ross. Balisaig’s known me too long for that.”

The other man gave a self-satisfied nod, evidently willing to wave away the years that might have come between them. “Aye, that we have. So, what’s this job of yourn?”

“Well, now…” Thomas wiped the foam from his lip with the back of his hand and lowered his voice, despite the empty pub. Old habits died hard, and people were usually more ready to help an investigation if they believed they’d been taken into another’s confidence. “What do you know of Dunnock’s tenant?”

Ross’s answer was familiar. “Nowt but that he writes books,” he said, tapping the cover of the volume he’d put under the bar. “Never seen ’im.”

Thomas tried to read the other man’s expression. Interest? Distrust? Surely the people of Balisaig wondered about the mysterious Mr. Ratliff? Unless their own distress made idle curiosity a luxury they could not afford.

“He doesn’t visit the village, then? Never darkens the door of the kirk?”

“Some folks claim he’s ill,” Ross explained. “Though I canna say I ever heard tell of the apothecary being called. Esme told Elspeth he spends more ’n half ’is time abroad.”

Thomas made a noise he hoped would pass for surprise.

“I dinna see that it matters much,” said Ross, after taking another deep drink. “It’s not like we’ve ever clapped eyes on Lord Magnus, either. Folks get on, whether or no’ there’s some great man at Dunnock.”

With sudden energy, Thomas thumped down his own mug and strode toward the window. Most of its panes were filled with rondels of glass, through which little could be seen but colors and the hints of shapes. Nevertheless, he attempted once more to take stock of the street and its handful of passersby. “Do they? Get on, I mean.”

When Ross made no answer, Thomas turned to find himself an object of scrutiny, far more intense than any the man had spared for either Ratliff or Jane. “Aye,” he said at last. “Just like we always have. Maybe ye’ve forgotten.”

Had he forgotten? Or had memory exaggerated the struggles and sacrifices of this rural village? Had he given too much weight to his gran’s complaints about the earl’s indifference?

A fortnight past, he might have latched onto Ross’s words with eagerness, seeing them as his ticket to return to General Scott, report that all was well, and request his new assignment.

Two things now gave him pause.