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* * *
“Who was that ye were speaking to? I’ve never seen him in here before.”
Behind the bar, Ailsa, Greta’s fellow tavern maid, looked at her curiously, and with just a touch of jealousy.
“Just a faither with his child,” Greta shrugged, reluctant to tell Ailsa the man’s name. “I was talking to the wee lassie, mostly. She’s a right wee doll.”
“Aye, and where there’s a faither there’s a maither somewhere,” said Ailsa shortly. “So I hope yer not getting ideas above yer station, Greta. Yer paid to work, not to flirt wi’ the customers.”
This wasn’t strictly true, and Ailsa knew it every bit as well as Greta herself. Flirting might not be what they were being paid for, but, nevertheless, it was what most of the men who passed through taverns such as this one expected of them, and, as if to prove it, before she had a chance to reply, one of them was upon her, leaning over the bar with a lewd grin which showed every one of his rotten teeth.
“Gi’ us a kiss,” he slurred, making Greta recoil in disgust as the full force of his rotten breath hit her. “Come o’er here to Tam, would ye?”
It was the same man who'd commented on her birthmark, Greta realized with disgust. He'd obviously been annoyed by her failure to respond in the manner he'd hoped, and now he was back for another try.
“That’s enough, Tam,” said Ailsa sharply, as Greta took a step back to avoid the drunkard’s reaching arms. “Ye’ve been told about this before. Ye’ll be thrown out if ye daenae leave us in peace.”
“Och, now that’s no’ very friendly, is it?” said Tam indignantly, his voice suddenly menacing. “Ye daenae want to make me angry, dae ye?”
No, Greta did not want to make him angry, and she knew from bitter experience that when a man was as drunk as this one seemed to be, anger could be all too easy to come by. He might seem harmless enough, with his slurred words and stumbling gait, but as another man stepped up to join him, his cheeks ruddy from the whisky he’d already consumed, Greta felt a ripple of fear flood her body and had to suppress the urge to run and hide.
“Come on, give the man a kiss like he asked!” The second man’s voice was loud enough to attract the attention of the group of lads sitting by the fire, and, before Greta knew quite what had happened, she and Ailsa were surrounded, a circle of jeering faces thrust in theirs, as the chant went up: “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
Greta gripped the edge of the bar hard enough that her knuckles turned white, feeling beads of sweat break out on her forehead as hands reached out towards her, pulling roughly at the shawl she wore over her dress.
“Let’s be seeing ye,” a rough voice said as the garment was cast aside, leaving her painfully aware that the heart-shaped birthmark on her neck was, once again, exposed. “I fancy ye have a nice figure under there somewhere….”
Greta flinched as the small group started to close in on her and Ailsa, closing her eyes in terror but then forcing them open again in surprise as the fingers that clawed at her clothing were abruptly removed, and she felt the air open up around them.
“Now then, lads, that’s enough o’ that, I think. Let’s leave the ladies in peace.”
Warren stood in front of her, holding Tam firmly by the arm, while the younger men stood uncertainly nearby, their expressions sheepish.
“Are ye unharmed?” Warren asked the two women, who simply nodded mutely, as he gave the drunkard a sharp push, sending him staggering back in the opposite direction of the bar. Greta had no idea how he’d managed to subdue the rowdy men so quickly, but, then again, the man who stood before her now seemed worlds away from the father who’d played quietly with his daughter in the corner, just a few minutes before.
That man had been polite, even a little shy, as he turned his face from hers to hide his missing eye. On the other hand, this man exuded a quiet authority, which made it clear that he would stand no nonsense from anyone.
I dinnae ken how tall he was,Greta thought, remembering the way Warren’s bicep had strained the fabric of his jacket as he’d held the drunken Tam upright, as easily as if he were a child.
“Thank ye, sir,” she said now, gratefully accepting the shawl he’d plucked from the tavern floor and wrapping it around herself once more. “I wish I could repay yer kindness.”
“Nae payment is necessary,” he replied with sincerity. “But I hope ye’ll forgive me while I return to me daughter. I dinnae think this is quite the place for a child after dark.”
Greta nodded, realizing as he spoke that darkness had, indeed, fallen, which meant her shift was almost over, and she could return to her lodgings in the next town. She rubbed her back again as she watched Warren and Isobel leave, the little girl’s head drooping onto her father’s shoulder as he carried her from the crowded tavern. Greta felt a prickle of disappointment as they left. She had liked them both, and although she had turned down Warren’s offer to sit with them, it saddened her to think she would likely never see them again.
Still, Ailsa was right, she realized. Where there was a child, there must presumably be a mother, and the fact that this man's wife had not accompanied him tonight did not mean he didn't have one. So regardless of what she'd thought of him and his daughter, she knew she must push her thoughts to the side, for no good could come of them.
“Ailsa, that’s me done for the night,” she said, removing the apron she wore to protect her dark blue dress. “Take care o’yerself, will ye?”
She nodded towards the group of men by the fire, who were starting to become rowdy again, ale spilling from their tankards as they laughed loudly together, their eyes still occasionally roving in the direction of the two tavern maids.
“Aye, and the same to ye,” Ailsa replied. “Daenae worry about me, I can take care o’ meself.”
Greta wasn’t so sure about that, but, knowing the other woman would protest if she offered to stay, she took a deep breath and, forcing her way through the crowd of men in the tavern — some of whom turned to watch her with interest, she noted — she pushed open the door and stepped out into the dark street, feeling the pinch of cold on her cheeks.
* * *
It was a cold night, with a nip of frost in the air, and Greta walked quickly, her heels loud on the cobbled streets of the little village. There was no one around, but the darkness played tricks on her, conjuring figures in the shadows, and causing the sudden snap of a twig beneath her foot to make her start forward in fright. Was it her imagination, or was someone following her? Once or twice she was sure she’d heard either a cough or the clearing of a throat, but, when she turned around, there was no one there.
