Page 63 of Rose
She put her hands on her hips. “Do ye both think I should just stay on my island and wait for death to take me?”
Ramsay backed away. “I know better than to argue with a red-haired MacVie.” The blacksmith turned to Tristan. “Ye’d best stay quiet until these two calm down. They’re mean as second skimmings when they’re mad.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Tristan replied. Then he stepped forward, his hands outstretched as he approached Ian and Rose as if he were handling spooked horses. “Why don’t we find a quiet place where we can all sit down and talk.”
Rose’s hands remained on her hips, her stance unyielding. Ian stood with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at his sister. Then, suddenly, his features softened, and he seized her, pulling her into a fierce embrace. “I didn’t mean to yell at ye, but ye can imagine my surprise. I was just walking by and there ye were, my sister, being groped by a bleeding Englishman.” He lifted his head and glared at Tristan before he turned his gaze back to her. “Ye’re supposed to be leagues away.”
“’Tis I who am sorry,” Rose said, hugging him back. “I ken ye were just trying to protect me, and ye didn’t mean to almost kill my husband.”
“Yer husband,” Ian said, stiffening as he turned once more to look at Tristan. “Well, he seems to have some sense, for a sassenach.” Then he took Rose’s hand and started to lead her out of the alley. “I know a place we can go.”
Rose glanced back at Tristan who had earned Ramsay’s watchful eye. “Be nice to him, Ramsay. He is important to me.”
They wound through a maze of narrow, dirt streets before Ian stopped in front of a two-story stone building. He smiled down at Rose. “I never thought I would ever bring ye here.” Rose looked up at the carved wooden sign hanging above the door,The Anchor Tavern. She looked through the window with interest. “I’ve never been to a tavern,” she said to Tristan.
Ian’s smile faded as he glanced at her so-called husband. “Follow me,” he said, stepping inside.
Rose scanned the large room. The Anchor Tavern teemed with men, mostly fishermen and sailors judging by the smell. The din took her by surprise. Booming laughter blasted her ears. Barmaids squeezed between the tables and chairs while maneuvering their full trays, all the while smiling and swinging their hips to the pipers playing on the far side of the room.
“Mary keeps a lively room,” Ian said, smiling down at her.
“Ian,” a woman called out from across the room.
He smiled. “Here she is now.”
Rose’s eyes widened when she saw the tavern’s proprietor. Her unbound red curls skimmed her waist as she crossed the room to welcome them. Rose wagered they were roughly the same age. She also had bright blue eyes.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you today,” Mary said to Ian. Her accent was refined like Tristan’s, and she walked with a regal grace.
“Good evening,” Ian said, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek. “We were hoping to use the back room,” he said in a low voice.
Mary smiled. “Of course,” she said and winked at Rose. “Follow me.”
Ian led the way through the packed room. Rose glanced back to make sure Tristan and Ramsay followed, but Ramsay held Tristan back.
“Don’t fash yerself,” Ian said. “Ramsay will bring yer…er…”
“My husband,” Rose said pointedly.
“Aye, yer husband will join us in a few minutes.”
Mary led them behind the bar to a door half hidden behind a stack of barrels. Rose watched as the tavernkeeper reached into the bosom of her tunic and pulled out a small key. She unlocked the door, then turned to Rose. “Follow me, lass,” she whispered, her accent suddenly as Scottish as Rose’s.
Eyes wide, Rose followed Mary down a long hallway, then inside a room that was comfortably appointed with a large table and several chairs.
When the door shut behind Ian, Mary seized Rose in a crushing embrace. “I would know ye anywhere, Rose MacVie!”
Astonished by Mary’s sudden transformation, Rose didn’t know what to say to the woman hugging her like they were old friends.
“Yer brothers said we resembled each other, but looking at ye now, why ‘tis like looking in a mirror!”
Ian chuckled. “Rose, this is Moira. She is one of us, one of Abbot Matthew’s rebels. She maintains this tavern under the guise of English Mary, a refined and wealthy widow. ‘Tis a safe place for Scotland’s rebels to meet and rest. Her tavern is actually one of several in London maintained by the Abbot.”
“I know all yer brothers,” Moira said, her eyes bright. “All handsome devils, to be sure. And they all talk about ye, the eldest MacVie. They say ye’re the one who’s truly in charge.”
Rose laughed outright. “Someone has to keep them in line.”
“Did the Abbot send ye here on a mission?” Moira asked.
