Page 1 of Healing the Highland Sinner (Tales of the Maxwell Lasses #7)
CHAPTER ONE
E llair 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.”