Page 3 of Provoked

Only then did he turn away and walk back to the inn.

Chapter Two

Despite Andrew Hardie’s exhortation to the crowd to go home and read their bibles, the town’s public houses were full that night, their customers toasting the dead men, for the most part.

David was staying one more night at the inn before taking the coach back to Edinburgh in the morning and when he went down to the taproom, he found the place bustling with custom, not a free chair in sight.

The landlady spotted him hovering in the doorway. “Good evenin’ to you, Mr. Lauriston,” she said in a carrying voice, causing a large group of men in plain working clothes to look around at the new arrival. They sized him up, taking in his well-made clothes with suspicious expressions.

“Good evening, Mrs. Fairbairn,” David replied, painfully aware of his refined voice. Dropping his old dialect and adopting the King’s English had been a necessity for his profession, but at times like this, it made him self-conscious.

“Are you wanting some dinner?” she asked politely.

“Ah, yes, please.”

“Come away into the back parlour where it’s less busy, then.”

She came out from behind the bar, and he followed her out of the crowded taproom and into a cold and empty back parlour dominated by an enormous mahogany dining table. It was quiet and empty of people. Much fancier than the taproom and much less snug.

“I’ll have Katy come and light the fire. What are you wanting for dinner? I’ve got a nice meat pie.”

“That sounds excellent.” In truth, the thought of food left him cold, but it was better than sitting in his chamber all night.

“Ale?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’ll be back in a minute.” She bustled away while David took a seat at the gleaming table.

The furniture in here was much better quality than in the taproom, where well-worn benches and ancient scarred tables were the order of the day. The long dining table shone as though it was polished often. Mrs. Fairbairn’s pride and joy, he guessed. It was empty but for a stub of tallow candle on a pewter plate in the centre. A few other candles flickered on a sideboard. Beyond the door, David could hear the chatter of patrons from the taproom, occasional bursts of laughter, a dog barking. He felt a stab of loneliness, followed by one of foolishness. Was he a child to mind a bit of solitude?

After a few minutes, the girl, Katy, slinked in. She was only thirteen or so, a wee slip of a thing weighed down by a heavy coal scuttle. She looked terrified when David greeted her, mumbling something he couldn’t make out before turning to the fireplace to kneel down and scrape out the grate before laying a fresh fire.

She was just finishing up when Mrs. Fairbairn entered again. With her was a tall, well-dressed gentleman, the quality of his coat and boots unmistakable even in this poor light.

“Come away in, sir,” the landlady said as the maidservant scuttled past them. “Make yourself comfortable. This gentleman is Mr. Lauriston, my other guest.”

The man turned towards David with a polite smile. His dark gaze moved over David with candid interest, and it seemed to David that his smile grew as he took in what he saw, becoming faintly predatory. David’s heartbeat quickened in response, rising to struggle like a trapped bird at the base of his throat. Discomfited, and annoyed at himself for his reaction, he nodded more curtly than he ordinarily would.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lauriston,” the man said. “Do you mind if I join you for dinner?” His accent was the accent of the very rich Scot. Cut-glass English with just the slightest lilt. Over six feet in height, almost a full head taller than David, and far broader.

“No, of course not, Mr.—?”

“Balfour. Murdo Balfour.”

They shook hands. Balfour had removed his gloves, and the brief, icy clasp of his fingers chilled David’s own. He could still feel the ghost of their grasp once Balfour had released him.

Balfour turned away to hang his coat and hat on a stand in the corner of the room while Mrs. Fairbairn readied the table. Lifting the tallow candle stub, she set it aside and fetched a white bundle from the sideboard. With a shake of her arms, the bundle opened up like the sail of a ship catching the wind and settled over the dark wood in soft folds. She finished the table with a branch of beeswax candles, lighting them with a flame borrowed from the crackling fire.

David glanced surreptitiously at Balfour as he settled himself into a chair. He was perhaps thirty or so. Not classically handsome, but arresting, with bold, startling features. His thick hair looked black but might be very dark brown—difficult to tell in this light—and his complexion was fashionably pale. It was a startling combination with all that height and a pair of shoulders on him that had surely brushed the sides of the doorway when he walked in here. Straight nose, dark brows, a wide, sardonic mouth with a twist to it that suggested the man spent his life laughing at his fellow man. Not a particularly friendly face but a compelling one. And right now, David realised—dismayed to notice Balfour had just caught him cataloguing his features—one that was animated with what appeared to be veiled amusement.

The man’s dark gaze was very direct. Meeting it, David felt a surge of something that was part excitement, part alarm.Could he be…?David damned the question even as it arose in his mind. He wasn’t looking for company tonight. He wasn’t. It had been many months since his last lapse.

“What is your direction, Mr. Lauriston?” Balfour’s tone was neutral, but his gaze seemed to linger a little on David’s mouth. Or was David imagining things?

“I am due to return to the capital tomorrow. And you?” David kept his voice cool.

“It appears we are taking different roads. I am bound for Argyllshire.”