Page 47

Putting together the information Captain Gower had given him with the words spoken to “Georgie” in the tavern, Nash concluded the man he was looking at might well be George Kinloch, who could be sailing for France on the twenty-sixth as Mr. Oliphant.

Nash ruminated about this, thinking that when George and his companions left, he would follow them. His thoughts were interrupted when a skirmish erupted next to the round table.

One man, who had been sitting at a small table next to the wall, abruptly stood, sloshing his ale onto the floor. “I say ye’re wrong!”

His companion pounded the table. “Them weavers deserved better than tae end up deid.” His words were slurred but Nash instantly grasped their meaning.

“Haud yer tongue fer yer owin sake,” said his companion, furtively looking about the tavern. Nash judged him the more sober of the two.

By this time, every man’s attention had turned to them.

The man who had remained seated tugged on his friend’s jacket. “Sit ye doon. I hae no intention…”

From the round table, the blond man with the angry eyes rose and stepped toward the two arguing. “The two of ye need tae quit yer bletherin!”

The man seated, who’d clearly imbibed too much ale, awkwardly got to his feet and pushed his finger into the blond’s chest. “Dinna tell me what tae do, ye scunner!”

Nash might not understand all their words but the men’s expressions spoke loudly.

The blond narrowed his gaze, drew back his fist and rammed it into the drunken man’s face, sending him crashing into his chair, both collapsing to the floor.

His companion’s eyes narrowed as a scowl formed on his face. “Ye nickum loon!” He reared back and took a swing at the blond.

The blond ducked and laughed. “Away an bile yer heid!” Then, with a smile on his face, he hit the man, sending him flying into another table, causing ale to spill on its occupants.

“Now see here!” a man splashed with ale protested. He stood, brushing the liquid from his jacket.

Chairs scraped across the stone floor as other men rose and moved to source of the argument like fish to bait.

Nash rose and moved aside, staying clear of the worst of it.

More tankards of ale hit the floor. Shouts echoed off the walls as the fight widened. The men at the bar left their tankards to jump into the fray. Soon the entire tavern was involved in the tumult.

The man “Georgie” was suddenly escorted from the tavern by one of the men at his table. As the two of them slipped through the door, the one escorting George yelled, “Hamish, ye and Lachy finish this.”

“Aye, Derek. ’Twill be me pleasure.” The big man turned to drive his fist into his opponent’s jaw.

Nash decided it was time to leave. He had no intention of using his pistol or knife on a bunch of drunken Scots, not unless they threatened his life. His greater task was to follow the man he believed could be Kinloch.

Rising, he headed toward the door. A few feet from his goal, a fist plowed into his shoulder. He stumbled for a moment, then turned, confronted by a man holding up his fists in challenge.

“Not today, ye muckle haddie,” he said, remembering to speak with a brogue, as he slammed his fist into the man’s face. With his nose bleeding, the challenger fell to the floor and Nash made his escape.

Back on the street, he was greeted by a blast of freezing cold air. The sun’s light was dim as he looked down the street one way and then the other. There was no sign of George or the man who had swept him to safety.

He muttered an oath, unhappy at losing Kinloch. But if he lingered any longer, he’d be missed back at the Stephens’ and Robbie would come searching for him. He had no choice but to return.

After a few tortured hours trying to decipher Nash’s horticulture book, Robbie’s head began to nod, the words blurring on the page. Warmed by the smoldering fire and embraced by the settee, he soon drifted into a dream of a becalmed ship on a glassy sea waiting for wind.

The touch of a hand on his head brought him instantly awake.

“Nash!” said Ailie excitedly, dropping onto the settee next to him, “I might have known I’d find you here. What are you reading?”

Coming out of his stupor, Robbie shoved his spectacles back onto his nose and blinked. Ailie Stephen had the most alluring eyes. Surrounded as they were with her fiery hair, she was a most fetching creature. “Ah…” he breathed, gathering his thoughts. “’Tis a book on horticulture and greenhouses.” He showed her the cover.

She grinned. “Not a surprising choice after our morning in Emily’s orangery.” She tilted her head and gave him a beguiling smirk. “You did seem to enjoy our excursion into the woods to gather hawthorn berries.” There was something about her easy familiarity and sly smile that told Robbie more had happened in the woods than gathering hawthorn berries.

He decided to try an experiment. “Would you like to do it again?”