Page 38 of Healing the Highland Sinner
“Rosalind? What is it?” he asked gently.
She said nothing as she finished cleaning up the table, putting her pots and jars back into the basket and tossing the rags into the basin to be cleaned out. She seemed intent on letting the conversation die then and there, but Ellair needed to know. He needed her to tell him why she was working for Sinclair so he could plead her case to Lair Gunn. Ellair reached out and took her by the hand, looking into her eyes pleadingly.
“Rosalind, talk tae me,” he said gently. “Why are ye workin’ fer Sinclair?”
She wrenched her hand away and looked down at him coldly, her lips curled into a frown but sadness filling her eyes.
“Because they have somethin’ of mine,” she said. “Somethin’ dear.”
And with that, she strode out of the room, closing the door behind her, but not before Ellair had heard the choked sob that burst from her mouth.
CHAPTER 17
Rosalind was one of the few people she knew of who could blend in and navigate both sides of the town, light and dark, with ease. Men like Ewan and Sinclair only knew one way to conduct their business—with threats, intimidation, and when those failed, with violence. Men like them could not exist in the light of day. Rosalind however, had forged strong relationships with the daytime world by offering an alternative—kindness and respect. She’d had to be firm, of course, but never gave the daytime traders of Thurso reason to fear her.
And because of that, Rosalind had made herself indispensable to the legitimate traders and businessmen in Thurso. They knew they could count on her to move their goods into areas where there might be blockades by the local lairds or any other troubles in the lands that might cause their shipments to go missing. She was able to do things in the light of day the seedy nighttime dwellers in town could not. It was a very lucrative business and had helped keep her coffers full.
It was one of those daylight arrangements she had made that had brought her down to the docks that afternoon. She was to meet a powerful and wealthy merchant from the Lowlands who sought to move his cargo to kin in the Highlands. But because the Lairds Gunn and Sinclair were engaged in a standoff, with each of them seizing vessels they believed benefitted the other, even legitimate merchants like Rory were having trouble moving their goods. Which of course, hit them where it hurt most… in the purse.
Rosalind threaded her way through and around stacks of fish, produce, and other illicit goods the harbor inspectors didn’t bother inspecting too closely, lest they run afoul of one of the nighttime merchants who wouldn’t appreciate the scrutiny. She found Rory, a short, pudgy man dressed in dark velvets, standing on the docks. She cleared her throat and tried to clear her mind of all the fuss back at the compound with Ciar and Ellair to focus on the business at hand. She approached Rory with what she hoped was a welcoming smile.
“Good day tae ye, maister Rory.”
He smiled wide and shook her extended hand. “’Tis good tae see ye, lass. I was beginnin’ tae worry ye werenae goin’ tae make it.”
“Apologies. I was delayed.”
He waved her off. “Nay matter. Ye’re here now. Tae business?”
“Tae business.”
He produced a bottle from somewhere within his voluminous jacket and set it on a crate, then added a couple of small, metal cups as well, and poured them both a drink. It was his tradition. The man never discussed business without a drink in hand. The liquor he brought along tended to curl Rosalind’s nose hairs. It was less whiskey than it was liquid fire. But she had to play the role, so she picked up her cup, toasted the merchant, then downed the liquid, doing her best to avoid tasting it as it went down.
“Good, eh?” he asked.
“’Tis quite somethin’, all right,” she replied.
For the next fifteen minutes or so, Rory described his situation. Not that she needed the story, she already knew what the problem was and why he’d reached out to her in the first place. It was the same problem most everybody else was having—their cargo was being seized and confiscated by the two feuding lairds, each of them claiming they were goods meant to bring aid and comfort to the enemy. When legitimate shippers had troubles, it was always good for her.
Rory finished his tale then frowned. “Ye ken I respect ye, dinnae ye? And I always show me appreciation fer what ye’re able tae dae fer me and me kin, eh?”
Rosalind had to fight to keep the frown from her lips, for she knew what was coming next. This was the part where the man pleaded poverty and asked for a discount on his shipment, promising to make it up on the next run, when times weremore… flush. Though, judging by his fine clothing and ample belly, Rosalind had to wonder exactly how much he was actually suffering. The man looked like he rarely, if ever, missed a meal or an appointment with his tailor.
“Of course, I ken, Rory,” she said. “And ye ken how grateful I am fer yer continued patronage all these years.”
“Aye. I’ve been workin’ with yer husband and ye a long time,” he said, leaning into the longevity of their arrangement, which was another precursor to his ask.
“Aye. Ye have.”
“’Tis why I have tae ask ye fer a discount on this shipment. Perhaps the next few, actually,” he said. “With these seizures of me cargo and the new taxes these greedy bastards are chargin’, it’s costin’ me a bleedin’ fortune tae move anythin’. And me kin need these goods.”
And there it was. Rosalind was not in the least bit surprised. His pleadings of poverty and begging for a discount came like clockwork, whether times were thin or flush. She couldn’t blame him, he was a businessman. And that’s what businessmen did—they always haggled to better their bottom line. But she too, was a businesswoman and had to worry about the same thing.
She offered him a small smile. “And how much of a discount were ye lookin’ fer, Rory?”
He narrowed his eyes, a small, mischievous smirk crossing his lips. “I was thinkin’ somewhere around twenty-five percent?”
Rosalind didn’t react since she knew that was his opening gambit. He wasn’t unique in his negotiating tactics. They usually went high with the opening salvo, knowing they’d never get her to agree to that number, then gradually work their way down as they exchanged numbers, until they got to the number they actually wanted. She was guessing that Rory was looking for something around ten to fifteen percent. But she wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
