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Kincardine, Scotland

G unn Burnett’s eyes scanned the sparse clientele at the Thistle & Pig, and wondered how he could turn things around. He’d owned the pub for years, but it was bleeding money now and had been for months. And he had no idea why.

Ever since he’d returned from the war over a year ago, he’d been less and less profitable until now where he was nearly in the negative on a daily basis, bringing in just a pittance of income compared to before when the pub thrived. He just didn’t understand what had caused everyone to turn away.

For the most part, patrons had slowly stopped coming. A person here. A person there. Until soon he was lucky to see a handful of people walk through the door. His connected inn wasn’t faring much better.

“Do ye need me to stay?” his barkeep Thomas asked. The man had been tending the bar for him since he’d taken ownership of the Thistle & Pig and Gunn felt a twinge of guilt kenning he would need to cut his employment in the near future.

“Nay. Go home to your wife and enjoy your evening,” Gunn offered, trying to keep his demeanor upbeat even though he felt the blanket of defeat beginning to cover him and block out the sun.

Thomas smiled, the gesture showing a crooked front tooth, and his face lit up at the mention of his wife. “She will verra much like to see me home early.”

Gunn nodded and gave him a half-hearted smile. “Have a good night, Thomas.”

Surely the man had to ken something was amiss. He’d seen how the Thistle & Pig went from thriving where every chair and table would be filled each night to now being barely able to seat a person at the bar.

“Hell,” Gunn mumbled, pushing his hand though his short hair, and slapped the towel that he’d just used to wipe down the bar against his leg with enough force he felt the pinch through his breeches.

He hadn’t always owned this business, but he’d kenned of it since his younger years, when his father would bring him along on his business deals.

Those consisted of how he could figure out a way to divest whoever he was meeting with from his coin.

The man would have rather spent his days scheming than doing an honest day’s work. Gunn never understood it.

When his father passed, and Gunn became Laird of Leys, at the too young age of 16, he’d made a vow to restore the name of Burnett. It had been a prideful, good name before his father had tarnished it over time with his shady deals and dishonest bartering.

It took years, but Gunn was able to salvage the name and their reputation and soon they were thriving once again. One thing his father taught him was a keen business sense. Only Gunn used that for good. He wasn’t out to swindle anyone.

The previous owner of the pub and inn was someone Gunn looked up to.

He was the one person that didn’t seem to fall for his father’s schemes and Gunn admired him for that.

When he took ill and was unable to maintain the upkeep required to stay in business, Gunn saw it as a good investment opportunity.

Gunn also didn’t want to see it fall into disrepair, not when the owner had worked so hard to make it a place where the townsfolk could gather and enjoy a drink and visitors could eat a hearty meal and relax while traveling.

He offered to purchase it and the Thistle & Pig had been his ever since.

“Good eve, Burnett,” his last remaining customer said with a wave.

Gunn gave him a nod. “Smythe. Have a good e’ening.”

Once Smythe exited the door, Gunn looked around his now empty pub and not expecting anyone else to enter, he began wiping down tables and putting up chairs.

As he worked, he focused on his failing business. He needed to do something. A new cook, mayhap? Nay. His cook was one of the best. A redesign of the space? Just the thought gave Gunn a headache. The cost of that would entail more than he could afford.

The door whisked open.

“We’re closed,” Gunn announced without turning. Damn it. He should have locked the door and turned the open sign to closed when he had the chance. He had no desire to prolong this miserable night.

“Oh,” a feminine voice responded. “I apologize,” she said quietly from the doorway.

Gunn spun at the unfamiliar voice and his eyes widened. A waif of a woman stood there, nervously fidgeting with the dainty pendant hanging from her slim neck. She was much too thin. Much too pale. And were those fading bruises darkening her delicate skin?

Immediately he called out to her. “Wait.”

She paused, one hand reaching out to clench the door handle so tightly her knuckles turned white.

“Ye needna leave.”

The woman shook her head, causing the wisps of blonde hair peeking out from her gray bonnet to fly in the air. “If you are closed, I can find another place.”

English.

The lass was English. It had been some time since an English woman had graced his pub. “What is it that ye need?” He asked, his voice sounding gruffer than he intended.

She rolled her lips inward and shuffled her feet nervously. “I was just looking to get out of the cold for the night. Might you have a room? I promise not to ask aught else of you.”

The undertone of desperation in her voice pierced his heart.

The melancholy that ebbed from her in waves had him wondering how she’d managed to find herself here.

What had happened that she sought out a room in a foreign land from a stranger—alone.

He looked behind her and didn’t see anyone accompanying her.

He sighed. He couldn’t turn her away.

“Of course. I’m closing the pub for the night, but the inn is open.” Walking to the door, she quickly stepped out of his way, and he locked it, turning the sign hanging on the door to closed. He gave the woman what he hoped was a welcoming smile.

“Follow me,” he ordered.

Making his way through the pub, he entered the connecting door that led into the inn. He held it open until she passed through, then closed it and engaged the lock.

“Do ye have any bags?”

She shook her head and held up a small worn leather bag that had seen better days. “Just this one.”

His brows furrowed. He found that just as odd as her being alone.

At the desk that held the booking ledger, Gunn scanned the page. Though he wasn’t sure why. Currently, there wasn’t anyone renting any of his available rooms.

“Name?”

Her big blue eyes darted to the door, looking worried as if someone might see her or hear her name. Her reaction reminded him of a mouse backed into a corner by a starving cat, searching for any means of escape.

“Are ye well?” he asked.

Turning to him, she gave him a faltering smile. “I’m sorry. Jocelyn.”

“Well, Jocelyn, ’tis nice to make your acquaintance,” he said cheerily, trying to lighten the mood and set her at ease. “I’m Gunn, the owner, and ye’ve arrived at a time that all of my rooms happen to be available. Do ye have a preference? Front room. Second floor. Back room.”

“Second floor, back room, please.”

She was frightened of something. Or someone. That was evident from the way her eyes kept darting around the lobby of the inn and the way she hadn’t stopped wringing her hands since they’d entered.

“Of course. ’Twill be five shillings, please.”

Her eyes rounded and she took a deep breath as she opened her reticule and pulled out a small coin bag.

The lack of jingles from coins rubbing against each other led Gunn to believe that the woman didn’t have a lot of money. Shite. She wouldn’t be the salvation he was looking for. Not one to take a person’s last coin, he cleared his throat.

“My apologies. Ye said ye wanted a back room, aye?”

“I do, if you have one available.”

He chuckled. “I most definitely do. But I stated the wrong price. My back rooms are one shilling.”

Her brows drew together in confusion. “Surely, you jest. They must cost more than that.”

They did, but he wasn’t about to admit that to her. The lass looked like she had been through enough rough times and he didn’t want to add to her burdens, whatever they may be.

“Nay, I wouldna do such a thing. One shilling.”

Her slim shoulders dropped in visible relief. In the light of the inn, he could see that the shading on her face was certainly fading bruises.

Instantly his fists clenched. His protective instinct kicked in.

He inhaled a deep breath, trying to calm his irritation.

He didn’t want to frighten her more than she already was.

Men that laid their hands on women in a violent manner were naught but cowards.

So unsure of themselves that they needed to beat women into submission so that they felt strong.

Gunn held back a scoff. Bastards like that were aught but weaklings that needed to be shown how their fists and kicks felt on their own body.

He’d gladly teach the lesson.

Handing him the shilling, she noticed the way he watched her and tugged on her bonnet, bringing it down to cover more of her face. Trying to hide the marks no doubt.

It didn’t work. There were too many.

And then the whole situation hit him. Where had she come from?

Was she traveling alone? That was dangerous.

Where was her chaperone? Her parents? She looked old enough to not need to be in the company of her parents, but still, she shouldn’t be traveling alone.

Mayhap her parents were the cause of her bruises. That just angered him further.

“Are ye alone?” He had no right asking her that. The poor lass looked wary enough already. He didn’t need to add to that.

The blues of her eyes darkened, as her brows drew down. “Why do you ask? I do not think that is any business of yours, sir.” She said defensively, tilting her chin up in a sign of strength.

He admired her tenacity.

Gunn held his hands up. “I mean no offense. I just dinna come across many young women traveling alone.”

She straightened her shoulders. “I am more than capable of taking care of myself,” she said curtly.