Page 5 of The Lost Highland Prince (The Last Celtic King #1)

4

Chapter Four

It had been two months since Maeve was faced with the first real choice in her life; two months since she'd finally escaped the prison of her life and scratched the surface of the secrets that had lain beneath it the whole time. She'd traveled with Ann for some way, but after a while, doubt set in. What use would she have been to an organization like the White Sparrows? She had no idea how to be a spy. She had no idea how to be anything at all except a laird's unwanted daughter and a chieftain's unwanted wife. And so she'd asked Ann to take her somewhere else, anywhere else, and allow her to begin life anew.

Ann had been saddened by her decision, but hadn't questioned her. "Ye'll always have a home with the Sparrows if ye need us, Maeve," she'd told her. "But if ye willnae come with me now, we need tae give ye a whole new life."

Maeve had nodded. She knew that they'd be looking for her. She was the only suspect in Darach's murder, and now she was an escapee as well. If Kyle really had been the one to kill Malcolm — and Maeve believed that he was — then she believed he'd stop at nothing to find her and make sure he had a scapegoat to cover his tracks. And so, one night, she tied her hair back and cut it off right at the ribbon, her long chestnut tresses falling away and leaving behind only a short scruff to her chin. It felt like a huge weight off her shoulders, both literally and metaphorically.

When Ann saw her the next morning, the Sparrow smiled. "If ye were tryin' tae look less bonny, ye've not succeeded," she teased. "But ye certainly look different. It's a good start, Maeve."

"I cannae be Maeve anymore," she decided. "Maeve is the one they're lookin' for. I need tae use a different name."

Ann nodded seriously. "Clever. And more sign ye'd be better as a spy than ye think, but anyway. What name shall we use for ye?"

Maeve had already been prepared. Her mind had gone to the earnest look in Eoin's eyes the night he'd risked everything to save her life, and she said, "Mary. I'll be Mary."

And so Mary she'd become. Ann brought Maeve to a small village several miles north of Darach Castle.

"This is where I grew up," Ann explained as their horses trotted into the area. "Me uncle owned a tavern here. He's gone now, God rest his soul, but his replacement owes me a favor. He'll take ye in."

Maeve's heart pounded wildly as Ann led her into the small tavern with its thatched roof and creaky wooden sign. She waited near the entrance as Ann disappeared into the back, and a few minutes later, her friend emerged with a tall, bulky man of around fifty or so with sharp, coal-like eyes.

"This her?" the man grunted.

"This is her," Ann replied. "Ye must take care of her, Bill."

Bill's eyes looked Maeve up and down in a way she strongly disliked, but she resisted the shiver that threatened to overwhelm her. This, she knew, would be her only chance for a while to live a life.

The tavern keeper grunted. "Ye've never washed a dish in yer life, have ye?" he demanded.

"No, sir," Maeve replied honestly.

"Wiped a table?"

"No."

"Swept a floor?"

"No."

"Poured an ale?"

Maeve shook her head.

Bill paused to spit to the side. "So ye're useless, then. What can ye do?" His tone turned a little suggestive toward the end of the sentence, his eyes lingering on her body once more.

Maeve pretended not to notice. "I can learn tae clean and cook and tend the bar," she said. "Is that enough?"

"It's more than enough," Ann assured her before Bill could speak. Her fingers tapped on the knife concealed in her belt. "Aye, Bill?"

Bill shrugged. "Aye, I suppose. In that case, lassie, it's time tae learn."

* * *

Maeve wiped a table as the tavern slowly began to fill with customers for the night. She was glad that Bill was still out. In the last two months, he hadn't been too cruel to her or anything, but… well, he did make her uncomfortable. He obviously found her attractive, and was not shy about displaying it. A stray hand on her arm, an odd caress on her waist, and not-so-subtle comments about how he'd long been in the market for a hardworking young wife. Maeve had done her best to gently rebuff it all, but it was beginning to cause her a lot of stress. She felt like she was stuck in an impossible balancing act, trying to keep Bill happy to retain her job and home but at the same time trying to retain the few boundaries that were allowed to her.

Shaking her head and sighing, she looked around the tavern. It was mostly filled with regulars, though several little pockets of travelers were here too. A group of men she'd never seen before sat near the table she was cleaning, speaking in low whispers.

Maeve knew that what they were saying was none of her business, but something inside her told her she needed to know what was going on. Maybe she was just intrigued, or maybe it was something more, but she couldn't help but think of Ann. One of the last things her friend had told her was that she should collect secrets like gold. It was unlikely that this secret had anything to do with her, of course, but the last time Maeve had let the unknown go by, she'd ended up in a jail cell and nearly lost her life.

Turning slightly and continuing about her work, Maeve listened a little closer.

"I hear the redcoats are rovin' the countryside," one of the men was saying. "Searchin', but God only kens what for. There's talk of rebels against the king."

"Rebels!" another man scoffed. "Eejits and fools is what they are. They paint the rest of us with a bad name, they do, and I cannae believe they cannae just let an old dream die."

"Let it die?"

The new voice was from the table next to theirs. Maeve, it seemed, had not been the only one who was listening. She spied the man who had spoken. He was older, in his late fifties if she had to guess, with a bushy gray beard and equally bushy long hair. His eyes were black as coal, and his shoulders so broad that he reminded Maeve of a painting she'd once seen of an ancient god. But there was nothing divine about this figure, who sat huddled in an oversized cloak and was clearly so drunk that he could barely keep his back straight.

She'd seen his type before; the sad, older drunks who had nothing in their lives but the alcohol. She knew that Bill ridiculed them, but she couldn't. What was this man's story, she wondered? What had led him to view life through the bottom of a tankard rather than with his own two eyes? She shivered, wondering at how easy it might have been for a good man to lose everything. She knew that better than anyone.

"The False King," the drunkard spat, his voice at a raised volume that carried not only to the whispering men but to the tables beyond. "He sits on a throne of lies and blood, and ye're all cowards who act like he's where he should be. I dinnae bow or simper at his feet. Nae me. Nae mine."

One of the travelers laughed. "Shut yer mouth, old man. What do ye ken of it?"

The man's dark eyes seemed to gain a surprising amount of focus for a moment as he regarded the speaker. "I ken more than ye do, I'll bet."

Just then, the front door opened and Bill entered, looking very angry about something. His eyes found Maeve, and he gave her a smile that was not at all warm or appealing. Maeve found herself shrinking back into herself.

The tavern owner approached Maeve and leaned down next to her ear. He'd obviously been drinking elsewhere even before arriving, because alcohol fumes bounced unpleasantly from his hot, sticky breath. "Ye look darlin' in that red skirt," he told her. "I'd love tae see what it's hidin' below."

"I'm busy, Bill," she said quietly. She'd learned in the last two months that ignoring such comments was the best way to make him go away, even though they made her pulse quicken with fear and disgust. Usually, he wasn't so forward, but when he had a drink in him, he truly scared her.

Bill laughed, a horrible hiccuping laugh that showed he was barely aware of himself. "This is me tavern that keeps ye so busy, remember that. I'm just back from the brothel, lass. They're the real hardworkin' women. Ye'll learn busy when ye've been on yer back for me and nae before."

Maeve balled her hands into fists and forced herself to keep her eyes trained on the table she was still cleaning, even though it had been completely polished by now. She tried not to let any of her revulsion or fear show on her face. When Bill realized she wasn't going to react, he shrugged and stumbled off into the back room, no doubt to look for more alcohol. His apprentice, Gordon, who had been running the place in Bill's absence and now stood behind the bar, caught Maeve's eye, but did not act or offer any comfort. He never did. He obviously hated seeing what his boss was doing, but he was a coward. Many men were, beneath it all, as Maeve had learned the hard way.

Shaking her head to try to dislodge the unpleasantness, she gathered her cloth and moved to the next table. The drunkard was still ranting about the False King and how he would never give in to tyranny. Most were ignoring him; some were laughing, though, and others looked angry. It seemed nobody but Gordon had noticed what had gone on with Bill.

The original traveler that the drunkard had been arguing with spoke up again. "Old man, shut yer mouth before ye lose yer head. Or have all of us lose ours."

The drunkard snorted. "What use is a head for a chicken like yerself?" he asked. "When the prince is ready tae take his place, and the McNairs return tae power, ye'll remember who we are as a people."

Bill walked back out during this little speech, and after listening for a moment, approached the drunkard and smacked him hard across the back of the head. "Take yer nonsense elsewhere," he shouted over the general laughter and jeering from several other patrons. "Stay and drink or leave, but nae another word out of ye about dead princes."

"Hear hear!" the traveler said, and a few of the patrons laughed.

The drunkard didn't even react to the hit. He simply fell silent and reached for his tankard, taking a long drink and saying nothing else for now.

Maeve watched as Bill slunk off, and only when he was gone did she approach the drunkard. She leaned over and whispered, "Sir? Are ye all right?"

The drunkard gave her a look from the side of his eye, and Maeve was suddenly struck by how focused his gaze was. She began to wonder just how lost in his cups this man really was. However, a second later, it was gone, and his eyes became unfocused, his voice slurred.

"Just fine, lassie, just fine," he said. "Be a dear and bring me an ale, aye?"

* * *

It was the wee hours of the morning by the time the tavern was almost empty. Gordon had gone home for the night, and most of the patrons had left, apart from a single straggler — the drunkard who had been ranting about lost princes and kings. Maeve took her time collecting the empty tankards and cleaning down the tables, trying to avoid the moment she'd have to enter the back room, but soon enough, there was no other excuse to linger.

She carried the heavy tray laden with glasses into the kitchen and set about washing them one by one, methodically scrubbing in the lukewarm soapy water, hoping to get the task done well but quickly before Bill caught her alone.

But her hope was not to be. There was a thud as the kitchen door slammed open and a shadow fell across her back. Maeve was exhausted from a long night of work, and she couldn't react quickly enough to slip away when she felt his hands settle on either side of her waist.

His hot breath still scorched with the power of alcohol as he leaned in close to her ear and whispered, "It's time tae finish what we started."

"Get off me, Bill," she demanded, shaking him off as best she could. Suddenly, he lurched forward and grabbed her upper arms painfully, spinning her around in place and dragging her into a forceful, disgusting kiss. His tongue pushed her lips apart, and Maeve struggled against him as he pressed her back against the sink.

At last, she was able to aim a kick hard against his shin. He yelped, pushing her away so hard that she staggered to the side and fell to the ground. He growled, a madness in his eyes as he stood over her.

"It's time ye earned yer keep," he told her.

Maeve struggled to her feet, ready to fight. She'd been helpless too much in this life, beaten by her father, sold to her husband, locked in a dungeon to die. She couldn't just let this happen to her, not now. Not when freedom had been so close to her at last.

But he was bigger than her, stronger, and she was small and exhausted and untrained. Though she tried to run, he caught her easily, and when she struggled and fought, though she definitely managed to land a few good hits and heard him swear more than once, he simply held her tighter.

"Enough!" he snarled and pushed hard, forcing her down to the ground again and pinning her there. "Relax, sweetling. It'll be over soon. Now let's see what's under that skirt."

His hand started to move down her thigh and Maeve screamed.

Then, all of a sudden, the weight of the tavern owner was no longer pressing her down, and a loud cry of surprise and pain was left in its wake.

Maeve gasped and pushed herself into a sitting position. The drunkard from before had entered the room in a blur of fury, his fists swinging, and he'd thrown the man off Maeve as though Bill weighed no more than paper. The drunkard did not lighten up with his beating, kicking and punching and effortlessly avoiding Bill's retaliations, until at last the tavern owner fell back onto the floor, his eyes closed, unmoving.

Silence fell over the room.

At last, in a hoarse voice, Maeve asked, "Is he dead?"

The so-called drunkard turned to her, though the intensity in his expression made it clear she'd been right earlier; this man was not drunk in the slightest. When he spoke, there was no trace of the slur in his voice anymore. "Would ye mind if he was?" he countered.

Maeve thought about it for a long time, then decided to answer honestly. "I dinnae ken," she admitted, hating herself for it. It was a weak answer, not kind enough to wish him spared, but neither tough enough to revel in his death.

Her savior grunted, then approached and held out a hand. Maeve took it, and he helped her to her feet, then wrapped his cloak around her shoulders.

"Ye're shiverin'," he told her. "This will keep ye warm." He turned to look at Bill's unconscious body and said, "And he's not dead. Scum that he is, it wasnae worth murder on me conscience. Ye should go home tae yer mam, pet, and never come back here."

Maeve felt cold, and she bit her lip to stop herself from crying out in the sudden tumult of emotion that filled her. Here she was again, forced to run, forced to leave a life behind her, because a man had decided she was an easy plaything. Because she was weak.

"I havenae anywhere tae go," she whispered.

He surveyed her for a moment, then sighed. "What's yer name?" he asked her after a moment.

"Mae—Mary," she replied, catching herself before she accidentally revealed her true self. "And ye?"

"Senan," he told her. His brow furrowed. "What's yer story, Mary?"

Maeve glanced at the unconscious tavern owner and her head spun. She felt dizzy, and pulled Senan's cloak tighter around her shoulders, grateful at least for the comforting warmth it offered. "I'm a pawn," she told him bitterly. "It's all I've been me whole life; a weak pawn, made tae suit the whims of men."

Senan didn't react dramatically. He simply seemed to ponder her words. "I see," he said. "And ye're happy with this?"

"No. I want me freedom," she told him. "I need me freedom. But I dinnae ken what tae do now. Where tae go, how tae live. I dinnae ken how tae exist as anythin' but what these men want me tae be."

That intense coal-black gaze focused harder on her now. "And what would ye give up tae have that freedom?" he asked her. "What would ye be willin' tae do in order tae discover yerself, Mary? Tae be truly free, and naebody's pawn anymore? Would ye fight? Die? Kill, if ye had tae?"

Maeve thought of Ann, who had offered her the way of the Sparrows. She regretted now rejecting that chance when it was offered; she knew that not many people got a second chance. She did not know who this Senan was, but she knew that he'd saved her, and she knew that he stood against the False King that the Darachs loved so much.

It wasn't enough to trust someone, but he was offering her freedom. And she would not shrink away again.

She met his gaze unflinchingly, determination coursing through her now. "Anythin'," she said. "Anythin'." And she meant it.