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Lachlan
They’d sent awoman. To be a “knight.”
I tried to ignore the tug of interest I’d had for the American woman who’d stood on my doorstep, dripping, disheveled, and nibbling on her lower lip as she’d taken in her surroundings with wide blue eyes. The color of the loch after a winter storm, leaning more to gray and moody, her pupils dilated when she looked at me. I knew that look, it was the same many women had thrown me through the years, and in any other time I would have been asking Sophie on a date. Already, images of her pale skin flushed with pink after a hearty session in bed danced in my head, and I cursed.
“Another,” I said, holding up my glass.
“Another…please,” Graham, my best friend, and owner of the Tipsy Thistle, glowered at me.
“Away and shite, Graham,” I said, raising my eyebrow at him.
“Och, this one’s got himself a mood on, does he now?” Graham stopped in front of me, wiping a pint glass with a towel. “Could it be because of the two guests I dropped off on your doorstep not all that long ago?”
“It’s a long drive from Edinburgh. You couldn’t have warned me?” I asked. Some best mate he was.
“And ruin the surprise? God, no.” Graham laughed and pulled another pint for me. I stewed in my annoyance, glancing across the pub when the front door opened.
The Tipsy Thistle was a proper Scottish pub. With uneven stone floors, rugged stone walls, and a deep fireplace where a fire danced merrily, it was a cozy meeting place for everyone in the village. Several rooms broke off from the main, having been added through the years, to create a hodgepodge space to relax with a pint and a meal. The main room showcased the bar, an ornately carved wooden circle, that flaunted a startling collection of some of the finest whiskies in Scotland. It was a place to watch a match with your mates, to bring your family to celebrate an occasion, or like tonight, to sink into a dark mood.
If your best mate would let you, that is.
“There’s Agnes. It’s pissing down out there, isn’t it?” Graham called to the newest arrival, who promptly crossed the bar and took the stool next to me.
“Heard you have some visitors,” Agnes said, running her hand through her short mop of curls that glinted with rain.
“Gossipy old coo, aren’t you?” I directed this at Graham, as he was the only one who’d known of the arrival of the Americans.
“When I want to be.” Graham smiled and put a full pint of Brewdog IPA in front of me. “And for you, my lovely lady? Might I say that color looks brilliant on you?”
“You may,” Agnes said, smiling evenly at Graham. She’d been one of the few in the village to resist his charms. At this point, I wondered if he was even attracted to her, or if it was just the challenge of it. Either way, their flirty banter had gone on for years, with no headway gained. “I’ll take a cider, please.”
“Coming right up. Food for either of you tonight?” Graham asked. The pub was empty on this rainy evening, and while I would normally say it was due to the weather, it was empty more often than not of late. I worried for Graham, and that he would have to close his business, a landmark in Loren Brae.
“Just whatever soup is left,” Agnes said, and I nodded in agreement. Graham would send his cook home to his family if we didn’t want anything else. He disappeared to the kitchen and Agnes turned to me.
“So your guests? Shouldn’t you be entertaining them?” Agnes asked. A petite woman, perpetually with paint under her nails, and a laser-sharp intelligence, she owned both a pottery shop and a bookstore in town. Both of which had suffered a similar fate as Graham’s business. Tourism was drying up, and I hated that I couldn’t find a way to help the people I cared about.
“Not my job,” I bit out, taking a sip of my beer.
“Isn’t it, though? You’re the one out there in your kilt, making tourists squeal with your ‘bonnie lass’ compliments, and leading tours. I believe it quite literallyisyour job to welcome new people to town,” Agnes said. She tucked a wayward curl behind her ear and studied my face. I didn’t like what I saw in her eyes, and I already knew the direction this conversation was headed.
“Only on the weekends. Hilda can handle them,” I said. I knew I was being stubborn, but I didn’t care. There was too much bad history surrounding the arrival of one Sophie MacKnight for me to sit around and make nice with her over a meal. The woman had no idea who she was dealing with. If she thought she could come in and change everything just because she was the new owner…
“Easy, boyo,” Graham said, pulling my empty glass from where I gripped it tightly. “I’ll not be having you break another glass on my watch.”
“Sorry,” I said, clenching my fists.
“Be a good lad and tell us what you learned on the ride up,” Agnes said, pivoting her inquiry to Graham.
“I’d like to be a good lad for you anytime…or very bad, depending how you like it…” Graham wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at Agnes.
“I like it with a man who’s cracked open a proper book at least once in the past decade,” Agnes purred.
“Even better.” Graham made a great show of pulling out a tattered copy of a bartender’s drink guide and thumbing through it before shooting Agnes a devilish grin.
“That hardly counts. There are pictures in it,” Agnes pointed out.
“I’m going to need a ruling on this one,” Graham said, tossing the book in front of me. “What say you? Is this a proper book or not?”
