Page 13 of The Wolf in My Tavern

I pause in front of the window. I can’t see much as it faces the back of the tavern and the courtyard. The view is primarily rooftops and the sky. The moon is bright again tonight, reminding me of the night before my father took me away.

The same moon that shines down on poor girls in Bleakness and princesses in faraway lands.

Only, I don’t feel so poor anymore, when I am rich in friendship and love. Gratitude wells up inside me as I take a moment to gaze out the window before I ready myself for sleep.

“Thank you, Betsy, for your comfort that terrible day and your kindness and friendship… Thank you, Tim, for your generosity in giving me a place to stay… Thank you, Callum, for taking such a risk as you did to save us that night…” The words form a ritual of gratitude that changes a little every day as new things happen, and I find new reasons to be grateful. It might not feel like much to some people, but to me, this tiny space, barely enough to hold the bed and dresser, is perfect. I have two hand-me-down woolen dresses—one from Betsy and one from the cook’s daughter, who had grown out of it. With adjustments, they now fit just fine. I also have a new pair of boots gifted to me by the local cobbler when he heard what had happened. “…Thank you, Master Robins, for my new leather boots…” I even have a few coins, at Tim’s insistence. I tried to give them back. But he would hear nothing of it, said I had worked for them, and it was only fair. When I have a room and food in my belly, how could I want or need any coin? Tears trickle down my cheeks as I count my blessings in finding good people who give and expect little or nothing in return.

As I run out of people to thank, my thoughts shift to the workers at the fish market. Are they still gutting fish there? Do they wonder where I went? I rarely spoke to anyone and kept to myself, for I did not have the time to make friends. On reflection, it was a very lonely life. Now, I find myself with unexpected friends in Betsy and the cook, who, while old enough to be my mother, has a kind disposition and is always laughing about something or other.

Yet the joy of new friendships cannot compete with the revelation that is to be found in my very first kiss.

I slip out of my woolen dress and hang it on the hook. I remove my boots before placing them neatly against the wall. Then I slide off my stockings and underthings, collect my nightgown, and pull it over my head. Even that is a wonder—a proper nightgown of soft cotton that falls to my toes.

Climbing into bed, I lie on my back and pull the covers up to my chin. I brush my fingertips over my lips and think about the kiss.

Will he kiss me again?

“Thank you, Callum, for my very first kiss,” I whisper as I twist to peer up at the moon.

Yet it is not only Callum who comes to mind, but the stranger with the piercing blue eyes and dark, tousled hair—Master Gray. There is a darkness within him, yet his darkness does not scare me. More, it seems to call me.

My fingers trail down my body, brushing lightly over my nipple. I bite my lip as the pleasure radiates pulses from that tiny touch.

I take my hand away and roll onto my side, willing myself to sleep. But sleep is slow to come as my thoughts drift, and I make up scenarios where Callum might have the opportunity to kiss me again.

These sweet musings chase me into my sleep, where dreams of sensuality, awakening, and unimagined pleasure await me.

Chapter Six

Callum

Tonight is about revenge. The conversation with my father in the tavern last week has played upon my mind many times since. It also confirmed that he is more than merely a blacksmith.

My thoughts stray to the bundle I found under his bed as a child—the sword.

I want to ask him more, yet now is not the time. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe after I have proven myself again, he will share more about himself and his past. I’m eager for the changes and to become a man. Not in the ways associated with age, because I am already measured as a man in that way, but in the mindset, in the way demonstrated through deeds.

My father, myself, and a man I have never met before meet in the shadows of an abandoned shop. John is a small, skinny beta of similar age to my pa, with intelligent eyes and a purposeful manner. As I listen to their conversation, I realize they have been acquainted for many years—part of my father’s secret life, I presume.

A fourth man, with the bearing of a soldier, comes to join us. I have seen Anders talking to my pa at the workshop on occasion. A heavy cloak covers up his city guardsman uniform in a way that disguises it at a glance, but not on closer inspection.

He nods at my father, glances at John, and then at me, before returning his gaze to my father. “Got a couple of lads waiting for when it’s done.” He pats his hip, drawing my attention to the rope hanging there, ready to use.

My stomach clenches, and I feel a little queasy. Events happened in a rush when we raided the slave markets, leaving no time to think. My father was right. It is very different when one takes deliberate action that will lead to a man’s downfall. I’m about to take a step here from which I cannot go back.

Surprisingly, it was not rage that consumed me when I killed the men at the market, but a sense of intense justice. The same sense envelops me now as I swallow down the sickness. It solidifies my purpose and holds my hands steady when I feel they ought to shake.

Anders’ eyes are back on me. “Your lad?” he asks my father.

“Aye. Callum wished to be part of this.”

The city guardsman nods. “He has your bearing.” His lips curl up in the faintest of smiles before he directs his focus to the street and the tall row of townhouses opposite. It has been snowing all day and has only just stopped. The passage of feet and carts has churned up the snow, leaving behind slushy mud. It is a miserable time of the year, although at least it has not settled deep.

“Aye, and his late mother’s hair,” my father says.

John chuckles before indicating the townhouse two doors down on the far side of the street. “Third floor. Attic room, facing the alleyway out the back. A dozen or so families call that dump home. Neighbors won’t interfere. Folks keep to themselves in this part of the city. We won’t have any trouble. The father’s name is Cecil, and he’s already filled his belly with ale before turning in for the night. Word is tempers have been short among those who run the slave markets since the raid, and Cecil copped a beating among the fallout.” He grins. “If a few of the bastards get offed while they are infighting, it’s a bonus all around.”

“He won’t be missed, then,” Anders says.

---