Healing the Highland Sinner (Preview)
Chapter One
Ellair sat at a table in a far, dimly lit corner of the tavern. His back was to a corner, and he had a view of the entire common room, including the front door, to better see who was coming and going. He had never been as far north. He was in the town of Thurso, and he couldn’t say that thus far, he cared for the experience. The air in the town was permanently pervaded by the salty scent of the sea, which wasn’t terrible. It was the undercurrent of rotting fish that he didn’t care for.
The tavern maid set a cup of warm mead on the table in front of Ellair and flashed him a smile. Petite, with very feminine curves, she had hair the color of honey, eyes that sparkled like emeralds, and a complexion the color of fresh cream. She was a lovely girl.
“Is there anythin’ else I can dae fer ye, me laird?” she asked.
He scoffed. “I’m nay laird, lass,” he replied. “As fer what ye can dae fer me, I can think of a hundred different things just off the top of me head.”
Her pale cheeks flared with color, but she didn’t look displeased with his boldness and a girlish giggle burst from her lips. She swayed back and forth, giving Ellair a wonderful view of her hips and generous bosom.
“I dinnae think me faither would approve of such talk, me laird.”
“As I said lass, I’m nay laird,” he replied, then tipped her a wink. “As fer yer faither, what he daesnae ken will nae hurt him, eh?”
She giggled again. “Ye’re incorrigible.”
“Aye. Guilty as charged.”
Her eyes lingered on him for a long moment before she turned and walked away. The smile on her lips, though, told Ellair that she was giving thought to his proposition, unspoken though it might have been. Chuckling to himself, he picked up his cup of mead and took a long swallow as he surveyed the room around him.
It was filled with hard men who looked like they spent their lives out at the sea. They were boisterous, laughing loudly, sharing bawdy tales and singing even bawdier songs. The common room flowed with music, ale, and laughter. The atmosphere was lively and crackled with an energy he knew most people would find infectious, but Ellair wasn’t one of them. While he didn’t consider himself a snob—though no doubt others did—these were not his kind of people. Nor was this the sort of place he would choose to come to have a good time. Drunken brawling and bawdy jesting were not his idea of fun.
If he’d had his druthers, he would not be sitting in this tavern in Thurso. But the mission he was on was too important for it to be handled by anybody but him. The small town was critical, welcoming ships from the Orkneys, the Lowlands, Ireland, Norway, and well beyond, and to lose it would be unthinkable. Worse, it would be catastrophic for Clan MacAulay and its allies. His laird, Domhnall MacAulay, was counting on him, and Ellair, as his friend and war chief, was determined to not let him down. Even if it meant sitting in a grubby tavern in a town not to his liking.
A figure in a dark cloak emerged from the crowd. The cowl of the cloak was pulled up, the face hidden within the shadows, completely obscured from view. At first, Ellair meant to ignore it, but when it became clear that whoever was hidden beneath the cloak was heading straight to his table, he sat up straighter. Though he continued to sit casually, one hand on top of the table wrapped around his cup, his other hand slipped below the table and hovered near the hilt of his dagger.
“Easy, lad,” the deep rumbling voice drifted from the shadows of the hood.
The person stood before Ellair’s table and casually slipped a hand out of the sleeve of his cloak, displaying an ornate hammered gold ring with a large red stone fixed into the center. Ellair knew all too well who it belonged to, telling him exactly who stood before him. The man took the chair opposite Ellair and leaned forward. The man’s blue eyes burned brightly within the shadows of his hood and his expression reflected the gravity of the moment.
“Laird Gunn,” Ellair said quietly. “’Twas nae ye I was expectin’ tae meet. I figured I’d be seein’ one of yer men.”
“I thought it best tae speak with ye meself. The situation is delicate enough, that I cannae trust anybody else with it. And call me Torrin, I’m tryin’ tae keep a low profile.”
Ellair nodded. He understood completely and respected it. Laird Gunn did not look at all like he thought. He had been expecting the Laird of Clan Gunn to be an older man, not a man his own age. His hair was dark, his shoulders broad, and he had a weathered, hard face with a strong jawline framed by dark stubble with a light dusting of gray. With the hood pulled over his head, he was anonymous enough, but he carried himself with a quiet and powerful authority.
If he was trying to be covert and keep his identity unknown, he was going to have to loosen up, for the man just had a presence that couldn’t be denied. A presence that, in a crowd that wasn’t as deep into their cups as this one, would have marked him out as a person of authority sooner rather than later.
The serving girl came by and dropped off a cup of ale for the him. Ellair flashed her a crooked grin and tipped her a wink, which turned her face scarlet and had a giggle bursting from her mouth. She turned and hustled away but kept stealing glances at Ellair. Amused, he turned back to the Laird, who had his hands wrapped around his cup with a frown stretching his lips, staring at him intently from the depths of his hood.
“I see ye’re settlin’ right in around here,” he said.
Ellair shrugged. “I’m daein’ me best,” he said. “So, why are we meetin’ here, me lai—Torrin? Why did we nae meet at yer keep?”
“What dae ye ken of the current situation?”
“Alas, nae much,” Ellair replied. “Me laird told me there are rumors about English spies fundin’ rival clans of yers. Tryin’ tae weaken ye from within.”
“’Tis nae rumors, lad. ‘Tis very true,” he replied. “I cannae yet prove it but I’m sure Clan Sinclair ‘tis behind what’s happenin’. Hugh Sinclair, that bleedin’ Lowland-born bastard, has eyes on power and glory fer himself. Ye cannae trust them lowland born. Bunch of thievin’ scoundrels.”
Ellair bit the inside of his cheek to keep from giving voice to the caustic reply sitting on the tip of his tongue. Regardless of his background and upbringing, he was now the war chief for a prominent clan and Laird MacAulay’s right hand and he needed to conduct himself as such. What he did and how he behaved reflected on his laird. Ellair reminded himself he was there to do a job at his laird’s bidding.
“Anyway, ‘tis why I wanted tae meet ye here, far away from me keep, where we’re less likely tae be noticed,” he said. “I cannae have anybody connectin’ us. Nae fer what I need ye tae dae.”
“And what is it ye need me tae dae?”
Torrin glanced around as if to see whether anybody was eavesdropping on them. The men in the tavern were so fixated on their drinking and wenching, Ellair was fairly certain nobody had looked at them once since they’d both sat down.
“I need ye tae get close tae the underworld here in Thurso,” he said. “I need ye tae find the key players… the smugglers who are takin’ arms tae the Sinclairs and cozy up tae ‘em. I need ye tae infiltrate their ranks and find out what in the bleedin’ hell is goin’ on, who’s involved, and what exactly it is they’re plannin’.”
“Oh, is that all ye need me tae dae then?”
A wry grin crossed Torrin’s lips, and he chuckled. He raised his cup and took a drink of his ale, his eyes darting around the room, suspicious of everybody around them. His gaze finally settled on Ellair again.
“These bleedin’ smugglers and raiders are cuttin’ me off at the knees,” he said. “They’re capturin’ me ships, takin’ me men prisoners, and cuttin’ off me trade routes. They’re makin’ it impossible tae feed me people and pay me soldiers. They’re cripplin’ me. If I cannae feed me people and keep ‘em safe, they’re goin’ tae revolt. If we cannae shut them down and stop these bleedin’ vermin, they’re goin’ tae kill me clan without raisin’ a blade.”
Ellair took a swallow of his mead and nodded, taking in everything Torrin was telling him. Domhnall had alluded to some of what Torrin was telling him but hadn’t gone into such detail. All Ellair knew was that his laird was worried as well. Tor rin looked up and held his gaze, his expression growing stony.
“I dinnae think I need tae tell ye that if me clan falls, it willnae be long before that bastard Sinclair turns his eyes toward yer laird’s clan,” Torrin said grimly.
Ellair nodded. “Aye. I was able tae piece that taegether on me own.”
Torrin chuckled. “Domhnall said ye’re smart and a capable war chief.”
“He’s a halfway decent laird, I suppose.”
The big man across from him chuckled, the deep, rumbling sound of it reminding Ellair of rolling thunder. Torrin was a hard and cynical man, he could tell. Ellair didn’t think the man laughed much and took everything seriously. But he also seemed to have a dry sense of humor. He was a man Ellair could relate to in that way. And despite his brusque, crotchety demeanor, Ellair found that he liked him.
“Are ye sure ‘tis the Sinclairs behin’ the smugglin’ and raidin’?” Ellair asked.
“Aye. I’m all but certain. The bastard’s been eyein’ me lands longer than I can tell ye,” he sneered. “And I’m sure he’s helpin’ arm the smaller clans around him. Likely promisin’ them the moon fer their help. They’ll never get anythin’ though. The man has nay honor and his word’s as good as a pile of dung.”
Ellair frowned. The situation seemed dire. More dire than Domhnall either knew or had told him when he’d asked Ellair to go north to help with Torrin’s situation.
“And let’s nae forget the bleedin’ English,” Torrin said.
“What about them then?”
“Other than Sinclair bein’ rich in English land and titles, they benefit from chaos and discord in Scotland,” he replied. “I’ve nay doubt they’re helpin’ with funds and sowin’ rebellious-minded men tae help bring the discord. They’ll eventually take what they want and kill the man tae dae it. He daesnae understand he’s alignin’ himself with a pack of rabid dogs that are eventually goin’ tae turn on him.”
A heavy silence settled over the table as Ellair took in everything the man had just told him. What he was asking him to do was complicated, a lot more complicated than he’d been anticipating. Not to mention, far more dangerous as well. But Domhnall put his faith in him to do this job. To help Torrin save his clan while helping to protect his own, because he was right–if his clan fell, it was only a matter of time before Sinclair turned his eyes toward Laird MacAulay’s.
“All right, what dae ye need me tae dae?” he asked.
“Most of the smugglin’ in Thurso is controlled by somebody called the Widow,” he replied. “I’ve nay idea who it is exactly. ‘Tis what I need ye tae find out. We cleared a path fer ye tae put yerself as a sword fer hire. We dae ken he’s goin’ tae need capable men. So, I need ye tae find the Widow, get cozy with him, and figure out what they’re doin’ and what the bigger plan is.”
“And if it’s nae Sinclair behind it?”
He frowned. “Then I’m wrong. If I’m wrong, find out who the Widow’s workin’ fer.”
Ellair took it in for a moment then nodded. “All right. I’ll get tae work then.”
“If ye need tae send me a message, talk tae Shumpert. He works in the stable and is me man,” Torrin said. “He’ll be able tae get word tae me.”
“Shumpert.”
“Aye. And Ellair…”
“Aye?”
“Be careful. This nest of vipers has fangs. Sharp ones.”
Chapter Two
Ellair leaned against the side of the building cloaked in the shadows of the alley. A thick fog was rolling in off the sea and the air that enveloped him was cold and carried a heavy aroma of salt. From where he stood between a pair of buildings, he listened to the soft slap of waves splashing onto the legs of the dock and the creak of the boats that bobbed gently in the water. He could see why some people believed the sound of the ocean was soothing as he listened to the gentle rock and sway of the ocean.
He struck a match and lit his pipe, drawing deep on it before quietly blowing a tendril of smoke heavenward. He had been in Thurso for the last four days, posing as a blade for sale, making discreet inquiries about this Widow person. He’d gotten bits and scraps from various people, but it was as if they were either too scared to name him or genuinely didn’t know. For all the legends and stories floating around that he’d heard, the Widow was a mystery.
A man approached him, his eyes wary and darting left and right, as if trying to see everywhere all at once. The man was small and wiry, his movements quick and birdlike. He was dirty, his cloak tattered, and his cheeks hollow, as if he hadn’t had a decent meal in days. Ellair drew deep on his pipe and blew a thick plume of smoke skyward, waiting for the man to speak. He licked his lips and cleared his throat.
“Are ye Ellair?” he finally asked.
“Aye. And ye are?”
“I’m Ian, sir.”
“And what dae ye want with me, Ian?”
He looked around, his face twisted with fear. He licked his lips again and wrung his hands together as he shifted nervously on his feet.
“I—I heard ye are lookin’ fer the Widow,” he said.
“Oh? And where’d ye hear that from then, eh?”
“Word gets around, sir,” he said. “There arenae many people foolish enough tae go lookin’ fer the Widow. Ye tend tae stand out.”
Ellair chuckled to himself. He supposed that was fair enough. He drew from his pipe again, watching the man carefully as some faint warning bell rang in the back of his mind. He didn’t look like a threat, but it was usually the ones a man discounted that ended up burying their dagger in hearts. Ellair took nobody for granted and was always primed for a fight. Nobody would catch him off guard. And if the Widow had sent one of his men to run him through, he would be getting a very dead assassin back in return.
“Is it true?” the man asked. “Are ye lookin’?”
“And if I was?”
“Well… could be I ken where tae point ye.”
“Aye? And where might that be then?”
The man frowned and shifted on his feet again, his eyes scanning the area all around them. He was nervous. It made Ellair wonder if he was trying to set him up and pull him into an ambush. Like the squirrely man in front of him, Ellair’s eyes flitted left and right, searching for threats hidden in the darkness around him. He was skilled at finding danger, but he saw nothing. Knowing this wasn’t leading him into ambush told Ellair the man wanted something else.
“Well? Where can I find the Widow?” he pressed.
The man licked his lips. “’Tis valuable information, sir. Isnae it?”
Ellair frowned. “Valuable?”
“Aye.”
Ellair laughed as he realized what the man was after. “And how much value dae ye see in that information?”
The man looked uncertain and licked his lips nervously again. He looked like a man caught somewhere between getting what he needed to survive and naked greed. He had something he knew Ellair wanted. He also knew he couldn’t overplay his hand by asking for too much spurring Ellair to seek the information elsewhere. He decided to take the decision out of Ian’s hands.
Ellair pulled a small purse of coin from his pocket. He bounced it in his hand, letting Ian hear the coins clinking together and his eyes widened. He wrung his hands together faster and Ellair could practically see the man counting the coins in his head and deciding what he was going to do with them.
“Take me tae where the Widow is and this purse is yers, lad.”
A shadow crossed Ian’s face, and he frowned. His his eyes flitted about almost manically.
“I—I dinnae want the Widow tae ken I’m involved,” he said with a nervous tremor in his voice. “Ye’ve heard the stories—”
“Aye. And I heard plenty of stories when I was a bairn, lad. Daesnae make any of ‘em true.”
“The Widow is fond of choppin’ men’s heads off if ye run afoul of him.”
“Have ye ever seen the Widow chop a man’s head off?”
“Well… nay.”
“And have ye ever seen any of the actual heads the Widow chopped off with yer own bleedin’ eyes, lad?”
“Well… nay. But I kent people who—”
Ellair waved him off with a chuckle. “’Tis fictions. ‘Tis naethin’ more than fictions.”
“Ye dinnae ken. Ye’re nae from here.”
That much was true. Ellair wasn’t from Thurso, much less Clan Gunn lands, so he couldn’t say with authority what was and was not true. He did, however, know the schemes and machinations of man and knew well that the best way to bend people to your will was to instill fear in them. And the best way to instill fear was to create myths and legends about the most terrible, monstrous things you were capable of. To make people believe you would, say, go around chopping men’s heads off.
Ellair was certain that’s what this was. A myth the Widow had created to scare people and bend them to his will. And he was certain of it because in all these days he had been wandering around Thurso, quietly inquiring, he had yet to come across a single person who had actually seen the monstrous deeds everybody believed the Widow was guilty of. It was always second, third, or even fourth-hand information.
But he saw the light of fear shining brightly in Ian’s eyes. Ellair could see it in the tension of the man’s body and the way his feet shifted on the ground, as if he was ready to take flight.
“I just need ye tae point out where the Widow might be. I’m nae askin’ ye fer a formal introduction, lad,” Ellair said. “The Widow will never ken ye were involved. I give ye me word.”
Ellair bounced the small purse in his hand, letting the sound of the coins clinking together ring out and hang in the air between them.
“Ye give me yer word the Widow willnae ever ken me name?”
“Ye’ve got me word.”
“All right then,” he said. “Follow me.”
“Good lad.”
Ellair followed Ian through the warren of dark and shadowy alleyways that cut through the town, but always staying near the docks, judging by the sounds and smells that saturated the air. They emerged from an alleyway, but Ian threw his arm out and ducked back into the shadows.
“There,” he said.
Moving cautiously, Ellair leaned out and spotted a pair of cloaked and hooded figures standing on the end of a dock. They were too far away to hear and the darkness that shrouded them made it impossible to see their faces. But one of the men was massive and well-built, while the other was slighter of figure.
“Are ye certain?” Ellair asked.
Ian nodded and swallowed hard. “Ye see that silver chain around his wrist?”
Ellair strained his eyes and at first, didn’t see anything. But then when the man gestured, he noticed the links of silver that encircled his wrist. Perhaps Ian was more observant than he’d given the man credit for.
“Aye, I see it,” he said.
“’Tis the Widow,” Ian urged. “Now, I’ve done what I said I’d dae—”
Ellair tossed the purse to the man, who nearly dropped it. The soft clink of coins echoed through the still night air, drawing the attention of the figures on the dock and forcing Ellair to duck back into the shadows.
“Be gone,” Ellair said.
It was, however, not necessary. After securing the purse in his grubby hands, the man was already dashing back down the alley, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the Widow. He frowned. For all he knew, Ian had pointed him to a couple of random people just to get the coin. He was going to have to watch these two and hope he hadn’t been duped. And if he had, he was going to have to find Ian and… express his displeasure.
***
For three days, Ellair had shadowed the two figures Ian had directed him to. He’d gotten a good look at the large man. His hair was the color of mud, and his eyes were a gold-tinted shade of hazel. He was broad through the chest and shoulders and had a jagged scar that ran along the left side of his jaw. He was a formidable and imposing man, who moved with a grace and fluidity, which told Ellair he was more than capable with a blade in his hand. He never seemed to be out of sight of his employer. Ever. He could be a problem.
The smaller of the two—the Widow—though, had proven far more elusive. The man kept his face hidden in the shadows of his hood at all times, never giving Ellair the barest glimpse. It was frustrating. The only thing he had been able to discern was that the man was small and slight, that he too, moved with a casual grace. But in all the time he’d been watching, the man had not struck Ellair as one capable with a blade. In fact, he had never seen a blade on the Widow at all. It could be hidden beneath his cloak, but he didn’t move as if he was weighted down by one. It was curious.
He walked through the darkness of the alley, heading toward the building he had identified as the Widow’s base of operation. It was a small, two-story wooden structure on the far side of the harbor, set well away from everything else, giving it an unobstructed view of the entire port and making it easily defensible, because it was difficult to sneak up on. But Ellair had found a spot where he could hide within the shadows and observe.
There didn’t seem to be much going on as he studied the building. Lights glowed in the windows and Ellair could see shadows moving behind the curtains.
He had to figure out how to cozy up to the Widow, and he had to do it soon. But it wasn’t like he could knock on the door and ask for a job. That would get him a blade in the belly before he ever got the words out.
As he watched the building, the hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end and goosebumps marched across his skin. His body grew taut and the soft scuff of a foot on the cobblestones behind him sent a rush of adrenaline surging through his veins. In one fluid movement, Ellair spun around and pulled his dagger. Three men stood before him, all with swords naked, the edges of their blades glinting in the gloomy light of the alley.
The large man who never left the Widow’s side stood in the center of the trio, the point of his blade pointed straight at Ellair’s throat. A wicked grin crossed his face, making the scar along his jawline crinkle.
“And what dae we have here?” he growled, his voice low and gruff.
“Just a man out for an evenin’ stroll,” Ellair replied lightly.
“Funny how yer evenin’ stroll has brought ye here, tae the same spot, watchin’ us fer a few nights now, isnae it?”
“Aye. ‘Tis funny indeed.”
The man smirked and motioned to one of his men. The man stepped forward and quickly disarmed Ellair who didn’t put up a fight as an idea occurred to him. This might have been a stroke of luck that could work out better than he’d hoped.
“Who are ye and why are ye spyin’ on us?” the man grumbled.
“The name is Ellair and I was hopin’ tae have a few words with yer employer.”
“A few words about what?”
“About employment.”
“We arenae hirin’.”
“If ‘tis all the same tae ye, I’d like tae hear it from the Widow himself.”
The three men exchanged glances and chuckled darkly. Whatever the joke was, Ellair was missing it.
“Somethin’ funny, lads?” he asked.
“Aye. Somethin’s very funny.”
“And what might that be?”
“Yer bleedin’ assumptions fer one thing.”
The voice behind him was soft and feminine and when Ellair turned around, he had to bite back the gasp that bubbled into his throat. Standing before him was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Wavy chestnut brown hair framed a round, pale face, and plump, bow-shaped lips. Her green eyes sparkled dazzlingly and bore into him ruthlessly. The woman was slender yet curvy, and distinctly feminine in a way that made Ellair’s heart race.
The woman raised her hands and pushed the hood back, giving Ellair a glimpse of the silver links that encircled her wrist. His mouth grew suddenly dry, and his racing heart fell straight into the pit of his stomach.
“Ye’re the Widow,” he said.
“Aye. I am,” she said, stepping forward, the dim light of the alley glinting off the dagger in her hand. “And who in the bleedin’ hell are ye?”
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