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For the thousandth time, he imagined killing Will. But though he fantasized about it, he wouldn’t murder his brother outright. Not because of any moral compunction. He’d simply have the crippled prig alive, writhing in the knowledge that it was Jamie who finally triumphed.

He brought the whisky to his mouth, held it there, letting the fumes burn his sinuses. He needed to think, needed to come up with something that would torture Will for the rest of his days.

A burst of chill evening air had Jamie turning in his seat. A man stood at the door, scanning the room, letting his eyes adjust to the light.

He was taller than average, with hair that shone like a woman’s. Jamie glowered. He didn’t know what the world was coming to; there were popinjays all around.

He took a big swig from his mug and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. He always acted instinctively boorish when faced with pretty lads like this one. Pretty men in pretty velvet coats were beneath contempt.

Belching, he sat tall in his chair. It dawned on him that he angled for a good fight. His brother was nowhere about, but bloodying up this pretty lad’s face would be just the thing.

And he knew just the way.

Downing the rest of his glass in one swig, he watched as the man politely flagged down the barmaid, made his request.

Jamie interrupted them, bellowing, “More whisky.”

The man turned and spotted him, and Jamie knew he’d approach the table. He was the only other man there not soiled by a day of hard labor.

Jamie might not be one for lace at his cuffs, but neither did he disguise his wealth. He knew his clothes showed it. Fine materials and a simple, elegant cut. And he knew fops like this one couldn’t resist the company of wealth.

“A fine evening, sir,” the man gushed. “May I join you?”

Jamie’s only response was to kick a chair in the man’s direction.

He eyed it, eyed Jamie, and with the merest of shrugs, took a seat.

“M’lords,” the servingwoman said.

Jamie looked up, surprised to see the old crow had returned. “You certainly made haste for him .” He gestured to the stranger who promptly began to dig in his coin purse.

“Oh,” she cooed, accepting a copper. “Verra generous, sir.” She narrowed her eyes accusingly at Jamie, plunking a chipped bowl in front of him. A charred slab of biscuit glistened on top, the aroma questionable at best.

“Ah, a filthy bowl of”—he inhaled deeply—“let’s see. I suppose that’s food you’ve brought us, correct?”

“Shepherd’s pie.” She crossed her arms over her scrawny chest. “I don’t make it. You dinna have to eat it.”

He eyed her. The sass was unexpected.

“A moment,” Jamie stopped her, digging in his pocket, then flicked a coin in her direction.

Open-mouthed, she stared at him a moment, then quickly tucked the bit of silver safely at her sagging bosom. “Thank ye, sir,” she muttered in surprise, scuffling away before Jamie could change his mind.

The stranger had been watching the proceedings with wide eyes, and Jamie’s hand twitched with the irrational urge to gesture against the evil eye. The impulse made him more churlish than before.

“To the Lord Protector,” Jamie announced suddenly, lifting his glass to his companion. A sly sneer dared the man to challenge the unpopular sentiment. I’ll have my fight before the night is through , he thought.

A hush fell around them. To propose a toast to Cromwell in such a public spot was at best audacious. At worst, it was suicide.

He’d expected the stranger to take the bait. Rise in some grand, foolish-foppish manner to stand against Jamie. The man shocked him, though, when he merely raised his own glass, chiming, “To the cause.”

Perthshire straddled both Highlands and Low, and it seemed folk were accustomed to dissenting opinions, for chatter in the pub gradually resumed.

Jamie took a swig from his whisky, following it with a deep pull from his ale. This stranger piqued his curiosity, and he found he wanted to bide a time with the man.

Jamie belched into his hand. “Where are we anyway?”

The dandy shot him a skeptical look.

“Och, man, easy. I’ve been on the road. I can’t recall how many inns in how many villages I’ve seen these last weeks.”

“Ah,” he replied, easing visibly. He smiled and sipped his ale. “I too am a traveling fellow. And we two are currently enjoying the hospitality of Uachdar Ardair ,” the pretty man said with a flourish, using Auchterarder’s Gaelic name.

“That close, eh?” Jamie’s eyes grew distant.

“Close to—?”

“Och, close to my bloody family.” He took a quick gulp of ale and slammed his hands down on the table as if he were turning over a new leaf, then and there. “So tell me, man, how is it you find yourself in such a dreary wee offshoot of Perthshire?”

“I am a minister and a seeker, wending my way through the countryside, sowing the seeds of God’s word, nourishing myself on the gentle wisdom of the simpler folk.” He sighed gustily. “Until I met a goddess.”

“A goddess, eh?” Jamie chuckled.

“A god-dess, I say.” He pronounced the word grandiosely, his eyes clouding dreamily. “With hair like the sunlight and the otherworldly mien of an uneasy angel.”

“So where’s your god- dess now?” Jamie tipped the last of his whisky back.

“Alas, she travels with another. And so I come to drown my sorrows on my journey home.”

“Funny, we seem to have much the same goal.” Jamie’s voice had just the slightest slur at the edges.

“To our common aspirations.”

Jamie slammed his whisky glass down and raised his ale to the stranger’s toast.

“May I know the name of the man who shares my most admirable objective?”

“Rollo,” he said simply, swiping his sleeve along his mouth.

The minister spewed ale from his mouth. “Any relation to the Lord Rollo?”

“I am the Lord Rollo.” Jamie’s eyes narrowed. “The eldest.”

“One of the esteemed Lords Rollo of Dunning Parish? It is an honor,” he said warily. “Though, you are not familiar to me. You must have been away for some time.”

“Aye.” His voice grew menacingly quiet. “Some time.”

“Then”—his eyes flashed wide—“you are brother to the one who claims the hand of my Venus.”

Jamie barked out a sharp laugh. “Surely you’re mistaken. My brother’s a cripple who—”

“I’d know him anywhere.” It was the minister’s voice that grew quiet now. “He rode with Montrose, for the King.”

“Aye, that’s the self- righteous prig.” Jamie’s face flattened, his eyes grown chill. “My brother travels with . . . a woman?”

The minister nodded vigorously, pleased to have met a conspirator as appalled by this turn of events as he. Jamie studied the man. He seemed a self-involved sort. The sort whose narcissism left him guileless, too utterly caught up in his own affairs to suspect the designs of another.

Skepticism turned to a sly sort of hope, as it dawned on Jamie just what sort of grief he could cause his brother. “What’s your name, minister?”

“Robertson.” He tipped his glass to Jamie. “Alexander Robertson. Witch pricker.”

“Robertson of Dunning,” he stated, understanding dawning.

“I see you’ve heard of me?” The minister’s affected virtuosity curdled into something considerably less high-minded.

An ego , Jamie thought with a wicked smile. “Oh indeed. Your good works precede you.”

He’d strike up an alliance with this minister, he decided suddenly. One never knew when one would need the friendship of a power hungry religious lunatic. It was gravy that the man had taken a fancy to Will’s woman.

He’d meet this woman. See if she might not be the dagger he could stab into his brother’s back.