And then he realized he was either going to pass out or be heartily sick. He left the hall before he could spread any happiness, joy, or what he'd eaten that morning. There was, unsurprisingly, the usual cluster of Highlanders congregated by the gates. Thomas was even less surprised to find Connor MacDougal waiting for him, a sneer on his face.
"Well?" Connor demanded. "Did Herself give it to ye proper?"
Thomas looked up—as if having to look up at an adversary wasn't unpleasant enough in itself—at the MacDougal. "This is the thing, Laird MacDougal," he said, wondering how the ghost would feel if he puked at his feet. "You don't have any more right to this place than I do, so why are we arguing over it?"
He had the momentary satisfaction of seeing Connor MacDougal speechless, but that interval lasted long enough for him to sidestep the man and continue on his way down the road. He'd gone only about thirty yards before he heard the angry response from behind him.
"Don't think yer fancy words will win ye the day!" Connor bellowed. "I've still a sword, and you've a neck to be severed!"
Thomas held up his hand in acknowledgment and continued on his way without turning around. He nodded to the picketers, all of whom were swiveling their heads from his direction to the keep and back, their mouths hanging open in astonishment.
He made it to the road before he dropped to his knees and was heartily sick.
And when he found he could crawl to his feet, he did so and made his way back to the inn. Maybe he could sleep the headache off. Maybe he could find the key to Mrs. Pruitt's liquor cabinet and drink himself into a stupor. It really didn't matter that he didn't drink. He suspected that the combination of the havoc he'd just wreaked on an innocent woman and the blinding headache he was suffering merited some kind of dive into the swamp of vice.
Maybe it would erase the memory of what he'd just seen.
He'd made that beautiful, proud woman cry.
It wasn't exactly how he'd intended to meet the neighbors.
Chapter 8
The tidings spread like fleas in wet, humid grass. She'd known they would the moment she'd made the mistake of blurting out the truth. Never mind that most of the men had been at the gates, keeping a respectful distance. There were always several professedly innocent eavesdroppers loitering about in case she needed aid. Damned nosy old women, the lot of them. She had no doubts Roderick was at the heart of all the gossipmongering.
The only good to come of it was that Connor MacDougal had not only grunted at her and nodded his apology, he'd doffed his cap and made her a little bow.
But that was poor recompense for the loss of her privacy.
She supposed, though, that she only had herself to blame for her temper that had led to such loss, but how was she to have done anything else? She hadn't been able to remain silent. It had been all she could do to keep her wits about her when faced with Thomas McKinnon in the flesh.
She'd decided to wait for him in the hall because she thought it might make her seem more powerful. She also hadn't been hiding herself. She had fully intended that he see her immediately.
But she hadn't anticipated how the sight of him would affect her.
He'd been taller than she had supposed, tall and broad and so beautiful she had been scarce able to look at him without wanting to sigh in appreciation. His voice had been deep, a soothing sound that washed over her and left her wanting to close her eyes in pleasure. His eyes were a pale, unearthly blue that had been so mesmerizing, she'd struggled to find wits enough to give him the uninterested responses she'd planned.
Ach, that such a lad had actually come for her.
That he had come for her.
It was so unjust—to finally find the man she had waited for all her life some six hundred years after her death.
The thought of that injustice had been enough to harden her resolve and sharpen her tongue. Perhaps it wasn't his fault that he hadn't arrived when she'd wanted, but it was far easier to be angry with him than to be desperately regretful that he'd come too late. So she'd been aloof and curt. To her mind, he'd been passing unpleasant and astonishingly disrespectful. He certainly hadn't lingered to beg pardon for his poor behavior. He'd stammered out a few apologetic noises, then walked off, ceasing, no doubt, to give her another thought.
But would he return?
Now, that was the question that plagued her—and that it plagued her infuriated her. Why should she care what a mortal did? She was unmoved by his broad shoulders and strong hands. He'd trampled over her heedlessly, and for that he should have been forgotten and thought well rid of.
And it was the thought of ridding herself of him that was driving her out of her keep and down the road to the inn, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. It wasn't that she didn't frequent the inn, and at whatever hour suited her. She had, on more than one occasion. She had kin down the way. Every decade or so, there rose up in her a longing to be with family. Or, rather, family that she cared to see.
Fortunately, there were at least a few decent men in her family tree, and she found that quaffing a companionable cup of ale every now and again with one or another of them was a pleasure she could allow herself. And 'twas Ambrose MacLeod she sought that night, and not just for the pleasure of speech with him. He was a wily old warrior with unlimited ideas on how to rid oneself of annoyances.
An annoyance such as
