Page 33 of Sins of a Scot
“I dinnae ken that it is,” Iseabail replied. “There is a man over yonder who looks like he could be who were looking for. He has a brown hat sat beside him, but there is nay feather in it.”
“The one who has hardly been able tae keep his eyes off ye fer the last half an hour, ye mean?” Owen growled.
Iseabail smiled up at him. “Is that right? Good. That will make this all the easier.”
“Nay, Iseabail. This is nae a good idea.”
But Iseabail had already pushed herself from the wall and was making her way across the room to the man. He watched her every step, and then smiled widely when she came to sit beside him.
Owen, who remained where he was, could only look on and grit his teeth.
There’s that feeling again.
He ignored his goading thoughts and kept a steely eye on Iseabail. If that cad laid one finger on her…
For the first few minutes, it appeared Iseabail did much of the listening, as the man seemed to talk on and on. Owen wondered what he might be saying, and not able to help himself, he left his position and maneuvered around the room. He came to a stop afew feet away, hidden behind a group of burly men who were as wide and tall as himself.
“…besides, me room looks out over the ocean,” the man drawled. “Would ye nae like tae wake up with that view in the morning?”
“Ye’re very presumptuous, are ye nae?” Iseabail came back, clearly holding her own.
“Och, ‘tis ye who came over tae me, remember? Surely, I should get a reward fer answering all o’ yer strange questions.”
Owen gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw.
I’ll give ye a reward, all right. It’s right here at the end o’ me arm.
He clenched his fist, imagining what he wanted to do to this man.
“Ye’ve been very kind, but I was looking for someone particular, and clearly, ye are nae him. I’m going tae return and find me friend. Perhaps he has had better luck.”
“Och, nay ye dinnae,” the man spat.
Owen caught the man grabbing Iseabail’s wrist, and could no longer help himself.
“Hey,” he yelled, pushing himself through the crowd of men.
“Ye will let go o’ me now,” Iseabail said.
The man released her immediately, but Owen didn’t care. He had laid his hand on a woman who clearly was not interested in him. He wasn’t getting away with that. Pushing the table aside, he grabbed the man by his tunic and pulled him to his feet.
“What the bloody hell dae ye think ye’re doing?” he spat.
“Get yer hands off me before I knock those teeth o’ yers down yer throat,” the man bellowed back.
“I’d like tae see ye try,” Owen spat.
“Ye’re a whippet,” the man growled. “I’ll put ye on yer back in one strike.”
“Prove it,” Owen yelled, and turning on his heels, he dragged the man through the crowd, who had long since quieted at the row, and who now parted to let them through.
“Owen?” Iseabail cried.
But Owen ignored her plea. He was far too angry to listen to her in that moment. Rage danced in every fiber of his being. No man had the right to put an unwanted hand on a woman. This bully needed to learn a lesson, and Owen was just the man to do it.
As they spilled out onto the cobbled street, the crowd followed, and without giving the man a chance to think, Owen swung his fist and caught him across the jaw.
Cursing at him, the man came back, his arms swinging, but his direction was obvious with each attempt. So obvious, that Owen was able to avoid his blows with ease while returning a swift strike of his own before the man knew what had hit him.
