Page 10 of An Outlaw’s Desire

His breath forming a mist in the cold night air, Pitt pulled open the tavern door. The sounds of bawdy laughter and drunken chatter from the patrons inside immediately grew louder.

A haze of smoke from the roaring fire in the hearth and the tallow candles on the tables hung in the room like fog. Warning flickered in his mind because the smoke lessened how much he could see of the far sides of the room—and as taverns went, this one ranked among the seediest in the area. He didn’t know yet who had sent him the missive setting tonight’s meeting, and the note could well be some kind of trick. But, since the missive had mentioned Fenton, Pitt’d had no choice but to attend.

As he stepped inside, the smells of dogs, unwashed folk, and greasy fare reached him. His inner arm brushed the hilt of the dagger concealed beneath his cloak as he shoved the door shut, the sound barely audible over the ongoing revelry.

Pitt removed his gloves, torn in places but better than naught. At the grimy table to his right, drunkards teased a red-haired wench who was trying to take orders as well as deliver drinks.

Go to the hearth. Stand to the left of the fireplace, the missive had said. Hold your gloves in your right hand, watch the fire, and order two large mugs of mead from the wench who comes to speak to you.

Anger crackled within him as he crossed to the fireplace. The instructions were ridiculous; akin to a foolish game. Moreover, he didn’t have spare coin to spend on mead. He was two weeks behind on what he owed for his lodgings. But, he’d do as the note had instructed. He had to, at least for now.

Ah, God, if Fenton were in trouble or in danger….

Concern gnawed, but Pitt kept his expression neutral and set his left hand on the mantel. His grip tightened on his gloves, while he pretended to watch the blaze. Now and again, he stole glances at the tables and folk in his view. The crowd seemed to be made up of mostly merchants, farmers, and townsfolk, along with a few rougher-looking louts Pitt suspected were mercenaries. Warning tingled again, because for all he knew, the thugs were there for him.

Over the din, he heard approaching footsteps. The red-headed woman carrying a tray of sloshing mugs approached.

Ah.

“A drink, sir?”

“Two large mugs of mead, if you will.”

Keeping her gaze downcast, she nodded. “I will bring them ta ye. There’s a table in the far corner.” She nudged her chin. “That way.”

When he saw where she’d indicated, his gut knotted. Of course, it would be that corner, farthest from the door.

He nodded his thanks to the young woman, and she hurried away. A sense of entrapment taunted him, but if he had to draw his dagger and fight his way out of the tavern, he would. How he resented that Sherborne—the whoreson!—had stolen his sword at the gaol, along with his cloak; one day, Pitt would be able to afford another blade.

He headed across the room.

Drunkards seated at tables glanced at him as he walked past. He ignored them. Shadows clung to the table in the far corner, where a single, half-melted candle flickered.

He sat, positioning himself so he could see who drew near.

The wench brought the mead, he paid her, and she left to serve other customers. As the laughter and conversation in the tavern droned on, he fought to keep still. Sensing he was being watched, he picked at the wax puddling at the bottom of the candle to keep his hands busy. How long did he have to wait until he found out why he’d been summoned?

A broad-shouldered, cloaked man rose from a chair several tables away, tipped back the last of his drink, then turned and sauntered toward Pitt’s table.

Misgiving raced through Pitt. Because the lout’s head was covered by his hood, Pitt couldn’t see his face, but his stride seemed familiar.

Warning shrilled, but as Pitt glanced about, he realized several of the thugs had moved closer. Their stares warned that if he tried to bolt, they’d stop him.

The hooded man sat down in the vacant chair opposite and pulled the other mug of mead over to him. As he looked at Pitt, the candlelight touched his features. “I never miss the chance of a free drink.”

Sherborne.

A ghastly chill rippled through Pitt. His lordship looked different from months ago: his face appeared thinner, and he’d grown a beard. But, he was without doubt the same man. “What in hellfire—?”

“Keep your voice down.”

“Every lawman in Warwickshire is looking for you,” Pitt ground out. Flyers tacked up in Clipston and nearby towns including Hakeston promised a reward for any information on Sherborne’s whereabouts.

His lordship smirked. “Four months on, and I have not been recaptured.”

Bastard! How was that possible? “Why should I not betray you right here and now?”

“Do so, and you will never see Fenton again.”