Page 5 of In Bed with a Highland Beast

“It is up tae ye if someone sees ye,” Lucia pointed out as she pulled a pouch full of coins out of her pocket and handed it to him. “An’ I had tae make the attack look real. Look at this,” she said, pointing to her swollen lip. “One o’ yer men did this. They certainly didnae hold back. Why did ye hurt the MacGregor lad so badly?”

“Ye said tae make it seem real,” Rory reminded her. “We made it seem real. Besides, ye didnae tell us he could have killed us all! Have ye seen him fight? The lad’s a demon!”

“I told ye that ye would need several men,” Lucia pointed out. “An’ naething happened tae any o’ them, so stop complainin’. Here’s yer coin.”

“I dinnae owe ye, ye dinnae owe me,” said Rory with a tip of his head. “Correct?”

“Correct,” Lucia confirmed. “Go. Get out o’ here.”

Rory turned to leave, but then came to a sudden halt, looking at Lucia over his shoulder. “What will ye dae with him?”

“Join the Ravencloaks.”

Though Lucia’s tone was entirely nonchalant, Rory gaped at her, shocked. “Ye will get yerself an’ the laddie killed.”

“They killed me braither,” she reminded Rory. It didn’t matter if she died. It didn’t really matter to her if Alaric ended up dead, too. All that mattered was revenge. “An’ now I will kill the bastard who took him from me.”

CHAPTER THREE

“Wake up.”

Alaric winced, waking up to the sound of a vaguely familiar voice and the soft impact of a bunched-up cloth against his face. He blinked his eyes open just as Lucia, standing by the dresser next to the door, grabbed another cloth to toss at him. This time, Alaric grabbed it mid-air, sitting up on the bed to rub at his eyes.

“When did I fall asleep?”

He didn’t remember even wanting to sleep. The last thing he could recall was his conversation with Lucia—a conversation they never got to finish. He still had so many questions for her, so many things he needed to find out, and he was about to start asking them once more when the combination of a throbbing headache and an empty stomach stopped him.

“How are ye feelin’?” Lucia asked. “Those men were rough with ye.”

“I’m alright,” Alaric said, though it wasn’t quite true. His entire body ached, the pressure behind his eyes felt unbearable, and even the smallest hints of light from the candles Lucia had lit in the room were enough to blind him. “How long was I asleep?”

“A while,” said Lucia as she headed to the door. “There is water fer ye in the washbasin. Come down tae eat when ye’re ready.”

With that, she was gone, leaving Alaric in the dim light of the room. For a moment, he fell back down onto the pillow, shutting his eyes firmly and trying to stave off the worst of the headache with little success. A part of him wanted to stay there forever and try to sleep the pain off, but when his stomach rumbled loudly, he figured Lucia was right; he had to eat.

With great effort, Alaric pushed himself off the bed and shuffled over to the washbasin, quickly scrubbing off the sweat and what was left of the blood from his skin. He righted his clothes and fixed his hair as much as he could while looking at his reflection in the looking-glass, taming his dark curls and smoothing down his beard, and by the time he was done, he looked almost presentable. It was only when he opened the door of the room that he paused, the sudden influx of noise that had been dampened by the thick wood making him wince again. He took a moment to breathe through it, willing the headache away, and then made his way down the stairs where Lucia was waiting for him, sitting at a table tucked away in the far corner of the room.

It was the kind of table he would have chosen. She had also selected the seat where he wanted to sit, ideally, with her back against the wall and a full view of the room before her. Not for the first time, Alaric wondered who this woman was who was acting like a seasoned scout.

Could it be it was only chance? Could she have chosen that table by accident?

But there were a couple of other empty tables in the room, though the tavern wing of the inn was strangely populated even at that time of the night, with several men at each table. Then there was the way she was watching—not looking at, but obviously observing—her surroundings. Every now and then, her eyes scanned the room and any movement near the door instantly drew her attention.

Wary and confused and tired, Alaric made his way to the table and, with some reluctance, took the seat across from Lucia, with his back to the room. He had never felt so exposed. He had no reason to think someone was going to attack him in that tavern, but it was impossible to quiet the voice in his head which spoke of untold danger every time he turned his back. His tutors’ teachings were deeply embedded in his very core after all those years of learning how to fight.

Before Alaric could gather his thoughts enough to speak to Lucia, a serving wench brought them food—the typical stew of unidentifiable ingredients served in all such taverns—and two mugs full to the brim with ale, some of it spilling onto the already sticky table as she placed them down. The food hardly lookedappetizing, but as it were, Alaric thought he could even eat the dirt from the ground outside and still be content.

“Wait,” he told the young woman as she made to leave. “Dae ye have ink an’ paper?”

“Aye,” said the girl, nodding. “Me faither should have some.”

“I need tae write a letter,” said Alaric. “Will ye send it fer me?”

Though she regarded him curiously for a few moments, the girl nodded and left, weaving her way through the crowded tables. When he glanced at Lucia, she had the same curious look on her face.

“Who are ye writin’?” she asked.

“Me braither,” Alaric said. “I must tell him I was delayed.”

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