He shouldn’t have taken it so far. What could he have been thinking to take it so far? He needed to get out of there. Tamp down his hardened groin with a bellyful of whisky.
“Please.” She pleaded with him now. He felt the maids’ eyes on them and knew it would be the talk belowstairs.
But he couldn’t spare her a look. To glance back now would only twist the knife in his heart.
He heard the heavy slosh of water in the bucket. The slap of droplets spilled on the floor.
In his mind, water rolled down her naked body. She’d stand straight, hands combing through her hair. Her breasts would bead in the chill air. She’d cup and wash them, her palms chafing over sensitive nipples. He pictured her delicate fingers. They’d stroke between her legs, cleansing, probing.
God help him.
Gritting his teeth, he shuffled to the stairs. He’d limp his cursed body down, where he’d sit, and drink, alone.
Jamie Rollo walked into the pub, ready to get soused. His family’s castle was but a day’s ride away, and he always required a good girding with whisky before facing his brother.
Damned William. Jamie knew the self- righteous prig would be making his way back to Duncrub.
He plopped down hard at an empty table. The rickety wood creaked as he sat, and he kicked a neighboring chair free, propping his mucky boots in front of him.
He’d make his bloody younger brother pay for the fiasco back in London. Jamie couldn’t believe the cripple had managed to free a prisoner out from under him.
And now his betters doubted his commitment and competence. Outwardly questioned Jamie’s ability to manage the simple imprisonment of fools.
Oh, little Willie would pay. Dearly, and for everything.
“Whisky,” he called to a passing servingwoman. He’d been riding hard north all day and was in a mood to pickle himself with drink. “And whatever slop you’re serving for supper this evening.”
He used his heel to scrape at the mud on his boots. It was late summer, and the rain had been heavy throughout Perthshire. “I feel like a goddamned mushroom,” he grumbled. “Perth. Sweet bosom of my clan. A seething heap of shit.”
“Beg pardon?” the wench asked, setting the whisky in front of him.
“Bring me ale as well, woman. And now.” He didn’t spare her a glance as she bustled away.
He needed to think. Needed a plan.
He’d return home to wait for his lame brother. Though their father was still alive, the old man had become an imbecile since suffering a fit two years past. And so little brother Willie had nobody to protect him now.
Chuckling, he swung his feet to the floor. Their father had adored Will, but it was Jamie their mother preferred. She claimed it was because Jamie favored her side of the family, but he’d secretly known it was that Will’s legs disgusted her.
Their mother knew how to love a strapping lad. But a feeble, broken one? No, it’d been Jamie who’d been his mother’s chosen son.
Not that Will had needed any more attention. His whole life, folk attended him as if he were a bloody head of state instead of a self-righteous cripple. His series of military victories with James Graham had been the last straw. Who’d have thought a cripple could fight on the battlefield?
He scowled. Graham had been a damned popinjay who’d deserved to die. Though the way the man had been lauded, one would’ve thought he’d been the bloody Messiah instead of a supposed war hero.
The Graham clan. He cleared his throat and spat onto the floor. Jamie had married Graham’s cow of a sister, then wisely left her for a Campbell. At the time, he hadn’t cared who Campbell was fighting for; Jamie only knew it was against his brother, and that had been good enough for him.
He’d come to admire Campbell, though. Had come to respect the values that he and their Lord Protector, Oliver Cromwell, stood for.
And so he’d become a key figure in Cromwell’s inner circle, chasing down fools who dreamed of reinstating a Stuart to the throne. Cromwell recognized his potential, even if his own father didn’t. Jamie’s duty was to snare and cage Royalists like rabbits up in the Tower. Until his damned little brother had come along.
“I wonder at your commitment, Rollo,” Cromwell himself had mused.
Damn his brother.
Planting his elbows on the table, he scrubbed his hands through his hair. Will was a cursed bastard who continued to thwart him left and right. And no matter how exacting his planning, Jamie always ended up looking the incompetent one. Ever since they’d been lads, it had been thus.
Except . . . A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. Except for his greatest triumph, when it was Will who’d been beaten. The terror on his brother’s face when his prized pony charged . . . Jamie chuckled. It had been worth the beating their father had laid into him. His arse had hurt for a month.
The barmaid came back with a pint. She stood for a moment, waiting, but he ignored her, instead taking a big pull from his mug. She stormed off and he sneered, shaking his head. If the hag thought he’d spare her a coin for cloudy ale the temperature of piss, she was sorely mistaken.
Threading his fingers at the back of his head, Jamie leaned back to think.
Putting a burr under that pony’s saddle had been inspired. He needed something that good, that simple and far-reaching, to get back at his brother.
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?”