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Emily set the glass of the dark honey-colored wine before her friend. “After luncheon, wassail will be served in the parlor.”

“Thank you, dear,” said Muriel. “A cup of wassail always brings back pleasant memories.” She gazed toward the window, a wistful expression on her face.

Martin fiddled with his cards. “Ah yes… memories. I recall once playing loo when the stakes were very high.”

Muriel gave Martin an assessing look. “Are you thinking of your past pursuits, Sir Martin?”

“Possibly,” he drawled, avoiding Muriel’s piercing gray eyes.

Did Muriel know that Martin, like Hugh, had spied for the Crown in France? Perhaps in addressing him as Sir Martin, she was letting him know she was aware Martin’s knighthood had been conferred upon him for just that work.

“That’s all behind him now,” Kit put in. She glanced around the table. “Perhaps I shall do a sketch of our card game. It will make a nice addition to my collection.”

“I have decided to trade my cards for the miss,” Muriel announced, reaching for the extra hand to exchange for the one she had.

The play continued, becoming spirited at times. Robbie took most of the tricks, which surprised Emily and Muriel, but not his brother, Martin, or Kit, who were aware of his reputation.

They were just finishing their game when the four who had ventured into the snow returned. At the door to the library, Ailie announced, “We’re back with the greenery. Luncheon will be served shortly in the dining room,” then disappeared as quickly as she had come.

Was he imagining things or did she appear overly happy, her face lit with some unexplained joy? Faith! What had transpired in the woods?

George Kinloch set his tankard on the marred table and peered through the smoke hanging in the air of St Thomas Tavern to glimpse the hideous picture hanging above the bar. The face of the old saint was twisted into a grimace but whether it was in distaste or horror George could not say.

Would he meet his end like Thomas à Becket, the Archbishop of Canterbury, martyred for his defiance of the English Crown? The charge of sedition hanging over his head suggested as much. Still, he did not regret accepting the invitation to speak in Dundee when it had come. The Crown’s actions in Manchester and the wrongs against the poor workers had to be redressed.

A well-organized, self-disciplined man, the father of seven grown children, George had always tried to live a calm, orderly life. When he received the shocking news he had been charged with sedition, he had hurried to Edinburgh to meet with his solicitor. There, they worked up a list of relevant details for the advocates who would conduct the defense.

All to no avail.

From his friends, he had learned that no defense would be successful, that the government in London had decided he would be convicted and sentenced to transportation to Botany Bay. It was then George had written his dear wife Helen telling her he must flee. And France was the natural choice of destinations.

The men sitting around George grumbled about the weavers’ discontent and talked of the uprising that would surely come to Glasgow. George wanted no part of it. God knew the weavers had cause, but he feared any grand display would merely provide an excuse for another massacre by the Crown’s soldiers.

He wanted more for the people of Scotland. He sought reform, not revolution. He was, after all, the Justice of the Peace for the County of Perth. Still, he could not forget his time in France that had made him aware of the plight of the poor who had no voice and often no bread.

With conditions as bad as they were in Britain, why continue a tax that supported the war against Napoleon? It was not unlike the American colonists’ complaints that had led to their rebellion: taxation without representation.

George was confident someday the needed reform would come to his own country, but he would have to leave now if he were to live to see that day.

He reflected again on the archbishop who had defied a king. Fearing for his life, Becket, too, had sought refuge in France. His mistake had been returning to England to be murdered at the king’s pleasure. Hopefully, George could avoid such a fate. That he had to place himself in the hands of brutal men he considered ruffians to assure his escape could not be avoided. The men who guarded him got things done and protected his life.

“Did you procure passage for me and my cousin?” he asked the gruff man whom he had to thank for helping him escape to Arbroath.

“Aye, ye’re sailin’ on the Panmure on the twenty-sixth.”

George nodded. The twenty-sixth, after the trial in Edinburgh. By then, he would have forfeited bail and been declared an outlaw.

Until he sailed, he would have to bide his time with St Thomas’ good ale and be thankful for the rough men who guarded his person. It wasn’t as if he had a choice.

Called to luncheon, everyone found a seat at the dining table. Nash pulled out a chair for Ailie and she gracefully subsided into it. To his chagrin, Robbie claimed the chair on her other side. Nash comforted himself in the knowledge she had earlier returned his kiss and had stopped him when he would have begged her forgiveness for the liberties he’d taken.

He was, he trusted, on the way to winning her heart.

The footman ladled soup into his bowl. Nash stared down at the thick white broth. The steam rising from the surface had a decidedly fishy smell but the appearance of the soup was not unappetizing. Pieces of what looked like fish, small chunks of potato and bits of dark green floated in the broth. Tentatively, he dipped in his spoon, then thought to inquire, “Is there a name for this soup?”

Ailie turned from her own bowl. “’Tis another of our dishes. Cullen Skink.”

He paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “What?”