Page 3 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
Her breathing returned to a steady pace and Marion closed her eyes. A part of her wished she could curl up and hide there forever.
For now, I am hidden and that is enough.
Chapter Two
“Iam looking for a young woman,” Anselm explained. His voice cut through the low murmur of conversation as he approached the old innkeeper. “She is about nineteen years of age, with dark hair and green eyes. Very fond of books.”
He was sure to keep Verity’s name, and any other particulars, to himself. There was no need to advertise his sister’s flight to every nosy Scot as he went about his desperate search to find her.
I am sure it would be the talk of the village to hear about the Duke’s wily sister and her mad dash in the Highlands.
The gossips would have a field day as word would no doubt follow them all the way down to London.
The reek of stale ale and unwashed bodies assaulted him as he anticipated a response that did not come. The innkeeper waspreoccupied with wiping down the old wooden table in front of him, and clearly in no rush to assist him.
“Have you seen this woman around here?” Anselm pressed while placing his hand on the table and hoping to gain the innkeeper’s attention. “Did you hear me?” he asked sharply, raising his voice louder in case the man was losing his sense of hearing.
The innkeeper grunted then and looked up at him with a smirk on his face. The old man’s eyes were the color of muddy water and red with fatigue. He took a long moment to assess Anselm before answering.
“And what business would a fine English gent like yerself have with a young lassie like that? Has yer lady run off with another man? Maybe the bonnie lass ran off lookin’ for a real Scotsman. Cannae say I’d blame her, no’ wi’ folk like yerself about,” he said laughing to himself as he began polishing again.
“As you have so cleverly gathered, I have come a long way,” Anselm persisted, ignoring the man’s insolence. “And I have been tracking this woman for some time. You would do well to answer my questions.”
A ripple of distrust went through the room in the form of hushed whispers and pointed looks in Anselm’s direction. The patrons, who all had the ease of regulars, seemed to notice him and were sizing him up. Heads turned and voices went quiet as church mice as men sipped their stouts and watched this interaction intently.
“Well, there is nay one like that here,” the innkeeper snapped. “I have nay interest in yer trackin’, English, and I daenae care how far ye have come. In fact, I daenae care what fancy title ye have neither, so ye can forget about throwin’ that around, too.” He tossed his rag onto the counter and looked at Anselm. The innkeeper’s unimpressed expression was as cool as stone.
Anselm reached into his coat and pulled out a handful of sovereigns then placed them on the counter in resignation.
“Perhaps that will refresh your memory,” Anselm offered, hoping the universal language of compensation would work to his advantage.
He detested bribes, especially for such a small ask, but he was desperate to gather what information he could and move on.
The innkeeper’s eyes flickered to the gold, then back to Anselm, then back to the gold again. His muddy eyes went hard. He swept the coins off the counter, sending them skittering across the floor with a single sweep of his grubby hand.
“Keep yer filthy English money. It ain’t no good here.”
“Aye, tell that to yer king, English!” A dirty, toothless man yelled from across the room.
His loud, jeering laugh echoed through the bar as others began to join in chorus.
“Aye, that is right!” One man yelled while slamming his glass on a table. “Get out of here!”
“What was that?” Anselm’s voice dropped so that there was a dangerous edge to it as he turned to face the rowdy crowd.
The innkeeper leaned forward. With his massive forearms braced on the table, he drew Anselm’s attention back to him.
“Me friend over there said that we daenae take kindly to yer sort pushing yer weight around. Now, get out!” He barked.
Before Anselm could respond, a group of rough patrons rose to their feet and looked at him. They strode toward him, with menace in their eyes, which were also hazy from drinking. They quickly surrounded him. Their faces were grim and fists clenched tight. The innkeeper came from behind the table and joined them, tapping the dirty rag against his hand like a battle drum.
“Last chance, English,” the innkeeper warned, as he crossed his arms defiantly over his pot belly. “We daenae like to fight in this place, but if we have to we will. Ye will surely regret it.”
Anselm glared back at them with a grim smile playing on his lips. He moved first and landed a swift, unexpected jab to the innkeeper’s large gut.
“Urgh!” A gasping choke erupted from him as he doubled over in pain that filled Anselm with immense satisfaction.
Suddenly, the man with the missing teeth found himself sailing over a table and landing with a crash on the hard ground. A younger, more wiry man charged at Anselm. It was nothing for Anselm to block the swing that came in his direction before sending the man sprawling across the floor like a cricket ball.
