Page 15 of A Scot's Devotion
“This is incredible,” she gushed momentarily forgetting she was supposed to play a part.
He looked at her oddly but kept smiling. “Did yer husband not bring ye in the front gate, then?”
“Husband?” she murmured absently, smiling at a chubby-cheeked jolly woman laying out fresh herbs. “What husband?”
“The one ye claimed to have.” He stopped and eyed her with renewed interest, not checking her out anymore but troubled in a way that set her on edge. “Are ye unmarried then, lass?”
“Of course I’m married,” she exclaimed, trying to backtrack. But it seemed he already had her figured out. His darkening gaze was far too astute.
“And who are ye married to again?” There was no missing the warning in his tone or the wariness in his eyes. She better answer correctly.
But what was the right answer? What was she supposed to say?
“Uh...”
“Do ye not know yer own husband’s name?” His eyes narrowed in distrust, and his shoulders tensed. “Who are ye again, lass?” He took in her dress, one that stood out compared to the plain wool dresses of other women. “First, I catch ye behind a locked door doing God knows what then I swear yer accent was different.” He fingered her dress. “Not to mention yer fine garment.” He stepped closer, definitely in her personal space, his posture more intimidating by the moment, his voice a growl. “Might ye be a Sassenach spy then?”
“Awhat?” she gasped, knowing full well what that word meant.
English.
And this was no place for an Englishwoman, let alone a spy.
“Are ye a spy, lass?” he groused, grabbing her arm. Gone was his genteel, flirtatious manner. Instead, suspicion and anger churned in his eyes.
“I’m not.” She shook her head. “I swear.”
She tried not to panic. What could she say to get out of this? Oh, but her damnable curiosity could get her in trouble, couldn’t it? She didn’t want her head lopped off and stuck on a pike. Or to be drawn and quartered. Perhaps even hung or burned at the stake. Because isn’t that what they did to witches? Or did she have the wrong era? Either way, she swallowed hard, imagining all too well what they might do to an English spying witch.
“There ye are, lass,” came a deep, authoritative rumble before Aidan appeared through the crowd.
“There he is!” Her ticket out of getting her head lopped off. Or so she prayed. She rambled on before giving it much thought. Rambled because she was frightened and willing to say anything. Laying it on thick because hell, what gal wouldn't when faced with medieval torture? “There’s the love of my life, my veryScottishhusband and avid supporter of good King David II, Laird Aidan Hamilton.”
