As he drew closer, a shushing sound joined the moaning noise and Dair finally knew for certain that it was coming from someone, not something. Soft muted tones reached him as he stood before the closed door and listened against the wood. The shushing soon accompanied the grunting sound again. He couldn’t wait any longer.
Adair gave two solid knocks on the wood and heard a gasp, followed by silence. He opened the door quickly and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior.
Two points of light drew his attention to the squat candle flame flickering on a shelf halfway up the rear wall of the hut. The second candle flame bent sideways and sat lower on a small table to the left of the outbuilding’s single room. In the hut’s centre was an unlit fire pit with a large cauldron sitting atop the cold ashes, and to the right were two large wooden tubs and one wide-eyed Keila.
‘Mac,’ she said, staring at him. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were sleeping.’
‘I was,’ he said, remembering the temporary name Rory had given him. ‘I woke and thought to check on Demon.’ He glanced down at the wooden pail she was holding at an angle and one of the large tubs she looked to be cradling with her knees. He hadn’t heard the grunting and soft wailing since he’d opened the door. ‘Do you need help?’
‘I … ah,’ she looked down at the pail she held before glancing up at him. ‘Nae. I’m almost done with the first straining.’ He stared at her and his lack of understanding must have been obvious by his silence and stillness. ‘I’m straining the ale.’
The stitches beside his right eye pulled tight as he frowned in confusion, then remembered her saying she brewed her own ale. He relaxed his expression. ‘I heard a voice and didn’t know if you, or someone needed, help.’
She frowned ‘Oh, I … like to sing while I strain the brew.’
The grunting and moaning had been Keila singing? He kept the thought to himself and nodded.
‘Rory always said it makes the brew taste better.’
Adair continued to watch Keila as she worked. She looked refreshed, her high cheekbones flushed, her green eyes bright from sleep. Her warm smile sent heat straight to his chest and made him feel breathless. Why?
He put his reaction down to still tiring quickly after completing only menial tasks. It wasn’t something he liked to admit, but since the beating, it was how it was.
The sight of her thighs hugging the cask, and wisps of her fiery-red hair washed golden by the candlelight and curling about the smooth skin of her face, heated his blood. The familiar reaction at the sight of a beautiful woman eased the tightening of his muscles. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ He stepped closer.
She looked down at her task and looked back up. ‘Nae, but—’ She licked her full lips. ‘Thank you for rescuing Rory. He forgets things at times and often finds himself in trouble.’ She searched the tubs as if looking for something. ‘He is a good man and I am very fond of him. I don’t know what I would have—’
‘It was nae bother, Keila,’ Dair said, feeling uneasy at her heartfelt gratitude. ‘I’m glad I was here to help.’ It was the least he could do, considering all they’d done for him. Keeping his identity a secret suddenly caused the tension to return to his body. ‘I’ll go—’
‘You’re welcome to sit,’ she said, cutting off his words about leaving and nodding toward an upside-down tub by the doorway.
His growing curiosity about this woman had him accepting her invitation to sit. He also needed to ask about her visitor. But that particular question remained unspoken on his tongue. He closed the door and, securing his dirk at his waist, he found his seat. ‘Does it work?’ Keila looked at him askance as she resumed slowly pouring the last of the ale from the bucket into the second barrel. He wanted a closer look at precisely what she was doing but didn’t want to cause her any discomfort, being alone with him in an outbuilding in the middle of the night. ‘Singing to the brew?’
‘Oh,’ she said and smiled an unexpected shy smile that left him feeling light-headed and worrying his dizzy spells had returned. ‘I like to think so. But I’m a dreadful singer and it’s usually only the ale that has to suffer. Forgive me.’
Candlelight caught the tips of her red-gold lashes as they hid her emerald eyes. Adair’s sudden urge to move closer wasn’t new to him. She was a beautiful woman. But his need to be near her, for the sake of being near her, was. He shifted to the edge of his makeshift seat and planted his feet firmly in place. ‘I doubt most people would admit such a thing.’
She straightened and lowered the empty pail to the floor beside her. ‘Then most people with a singing voice like mine are either deaf or fooling themselves.’ No smile accompanied her forthright statement. She stood, and leaning forward she lifted the metal sieve from the top of the filled tub and, turning it on its side, tipped the contents into a second pail positioned on top of a small round table. She glanced up and noted his interest. ‘This is the mash that’s been strained from the brew. It’s a combination of the gruit I use for flavour and the wheat after it’s been malted, or soaked and left to dry to separate the grain from the husks. Our ale is much sought after.’
Dair stood, and lured by her pride and obvious enjoyment of the brewing process, along with his recent need to be near her, moved to her side, curious to know more and to hear Keila continue talking. She might not have the singing voice of an angel but he found her lilting tones as she spoke about something she favoured alluring.
‘I saw nae wheat crops around your home.’ Something sweet assailed his sense of smell as he stood beside her and leaned closer.
She ceased tapping the sieve against the edge of the wooden pail. ‘It is too difficult for us to tend such a large crop as well as everything else we grow and do. Instead, we trade our goods for wheat.’
Adair nodded, hearing a hint of weariness in her reply. ‘And what is the flavour you use that makes your ale much sought after?’
Keila looked up at him and stilled. ‘If I shared that information, then our ale will nae longer be much sought after.’ The hint of a smile touched her mouth. She rested the sieve on top of the pail containing the mash. ‘How are you feeling?’
Adair preferred to talk about Keila and the brewing process, but it seemed she’d shared all she wanted to in regards to brewing her ale. ‘Thanks to your care, I am better each day.’ He held her gaze. She’d cared for him when he was unable to do so himself. Feeling indebted to her had stirred unfamiliar urges not borne of lust alone.
She looked at him. ‘It is strange to hear you say you’re feeling better,’ she angled her head to one side, ‘when your bruises appear more painful and pronounced with every passing moment.’ Her hand reached up toward his face and then stopped and lowered, as if her need to touch him had been without thought.
Dair self-consciously lifted his own hand to his face. With care, he explored the tender skin about his eyes and lips, for the first time wondering if his face resembled the beast it felt like. He’d never been one to waste time looking at himself. He knew what he looked like. Many a woman had complimented his features. But now, seeing Keila look at him with what appeared to be either pity or disgust, made him want to know what she thought.
‘Is my face as frightening to look upon as it feels?’
Her emerald gaze scanned his face anew. ‘It looks painful, but it’s good to see the swelling is almost gone.’ Her words were as kind as her tender caring. ‘The bruising will likely worsen before it begins to fade.’ She continued to search his face and met his gaze. ‘Can you remember anything about the attack?’
Adair stared back and lowered his hand. ‘The last thing I remember is leaving an inn where I’d stopped for a drink. You said the nearest inn was a full day’s ride away. Where is the inn?’
Her gaze left him and she draped a cloth over the pail. She threw him a glance. ‘To the north.’
Her lips pressed tightly together, signalling she had no more to say on the matter, as if she didn’t want to say an
ymore to him, about anything. Like she suddenly had a secret she didn’t want to share. She’d joked about not giving away the secret ingredient to her much sought after ale, but withdrew when he asked a few questions about an inn. Why?
‘In which town?’
‘In Mortlach. We can talk more the morn.’ She lifted the pail. ‘There’s still much to be done.’ She walked to the door.
Adair missed the honest woman with the shy smile he’d glimpsed for a short time. He stood and opened the door for her, watching this close-lipped woman sail out into the night. He watched her until she disappeared inside. There was something Keila didn’t want to discuss regarding the inn, and her reticence only fuelled his thirst to know more.
Chapter 7
Adair spent what remained of the night lying awake on his pallet, thinking more about Keila than who had attacked him and why. When he could no longer lie there alone with his jumbled thoughts, he rose from his bed and peered out of the shuttered window at the new dawn. The sound of footsteps descending the stairway in the next room drew him to the doorway.
Moira eyed him with a hint of disdain before marching into the kitchen. The dragon didn’t like him and took every opportunity she could to let him know. A knock sounded on the back door.
‘That will be Rory,’ Moira stated, not bothering to look his way again. ‘You may let him in.’
Adair did her bidding and opened the door to the white-haired man who’d given him his temporary name the day before. The weathered features of the older man folded into a frown as he peered at Adair and said, ‘Who are ye?’
Adair returned Rory’s look of confusion. Had he forgotten they’d met the previous day?
‘This is Mac, Rory,’ Moira said in a level tone. ‘He’s staying with us for a while.’
‘Welcome, Mac,’ Rory said, clasping Dair’s hand and offering a cheerful smile. His expression altered into a grimace. ‘But blessed Christ, my face hurts just lookin’ at yers. What happened to ye, lad?’
Adair studied the older man in silence as he moved passed him through the doorway.
‘Well, that’s a fine greeting, Rory,’ Moira said over the sound of sizzling. ‘Mac was beaten and can’t remember who he is.’
‘Ah, never mind, lad. I often forget things.’ He took a seat at the large table. ‘Give it time. It’ll come back to ye.’
Dair looked from Rory to where Moira stood beside the open fireplace, holding a griddle over the flames. Her eyes met his and narrowed, as if she dared him to say anything regarding Rory’s forgetfulness.
‘Close the door, Mac.’ Her eyes clung to him. ‘Find a seat.’
Adair closed the door and pulled out the wooden stool beside Rory. Moira turned back to her cooking.
‘Any idea who did the beating, Mac?’
Dair settled onto his stool and looked at the man beside him. ‘Nae.’
‘Looks to me like it had to be more than one,’ Rory said, appraising his size.
‘I was thinking the same thing,’ Dair said.
‘Well, I’m sorry for ye, lad. These old bones of mine are sorer than they were yesterday and from what I can remember, I didn’t take a beating. Must have caught a chill or somethin’.’
Rory had obviously forgotten his wild ride on Demon the day before. Adair looked away, concerned his efforts to hide his pity for the older man would fail. His ruse of not remembering his name had him wondering how a man must feel when he genuinely forgot who he was and what he’d done the day before.
‘You definitely caught something, Rory,’ Moira said, turning about and throwing a glance in Adair’s direction before sliding several steaming oatcakes onto a large platter.
‘Must be old age,’ Rory said, taking the top oatcake from the pile.
‘Must be,’ Moira said. ‘Help yourself, Mac, else Rory will eat the lot.’
‘A compliment to yer cooking, lass,’ Rory said, smiling between bites.
‘What would Netti say if she heard you?’ Moira filled a cup from one jug and pushed it in front of Rory. She then poured Dair a drink from another.
‘They’re that good, my Netti would likely want to know how to make them.’
Rory’s Netti obviously liked to cook as well as make baskets. Dair suspected she needed to have something she could do, being crippled after her fall.
Moira made a scoffing noise. ‘They’re oatcakes, Rory, and nothing special.’
‘They are if yer hungry.’ Rory grinned and took another mouth-filling bite.
Adair tasted his and swallowed it down. ‘I’d have to agree with Rory, Moira. They are good.’
‘Your flattery is lost on me, you ken. Now away with the pair of you. There’s work to be done.’
Moira turned away, but not before Dair spied the faint tinge of pink staining her high cheeks. She might not admit it, but as hard as she acted and claimed to be, Moira enjoyed being praised, just like most women he knew. A heart did beat beneath her tough exterior.
Rory scraped back his stool and stood. ‘If ye’re up to it and have nae other plans, I’d appreciate yer help loading the cart, Mac.’
Adair lowered his cup and realised Rory was talking to him. Being called another name would take some getting used to. He hoped it wouldn’t be too long before he uncovered what had happened and he could go back to using his real name. He could then continue his search for his origins.
‘I’d be grateful for something to do, Rory, and as I said, I must look worse than I feel.’ Adair stood as Rory snatched another oatcake from the table and emptied his cup with a lip-smacking sigh.
‘My thanks for the meal, Moira,’ Rory said and headed into the next room. ‘Come, lad. The herbals are packed and ready to be carried to the stable.’
The same ointment Keila had smeared over the stitched gash beside his right eye twice now. The area pulsed at the thought of her gentle touch and the way she tucked her lips inward while she concentrated on her task. Hiding her lips only made him want to find a way to draw them out. Despite her withdrawal from him in the ale shed, he hoped she planned to apply a fresh coating of salve to his stitches again, and soon.
***
The midmorning sun lost none of its lustre, no matter how hard Keila frowned at it through her upstairs window. After last night’s brief shower of rain, today was a beautiful day and she’d already missed almost half of it by oversleeping again. Even if she’d spent most of the night straining the ale, she needed to get other chores done too. The force of her frown doubled, yet the sun still made her squint with its beautiful glare.
She turned away from its glow, and with her back to the cold stone wall, she squeezed her eyes shut tight to fight her annoyance at herself. Fatigue pounded at her temples and the weight of her restlessness dragged at the flesh beneath her eyes. Why had she invited Mac to sit last night in the ale shed? She should have bid him hello, thanked him for rescuing Rory and focused all her attention on the first straining of the ale.
She pushed away from the wall, and removing her nightgown made use of the bowl of cold water she’d carried up with her in the wee hours of the morning. Splashing water over her face for a second time, she stared at the ripples disturbing her reflection. She would have happily chatted to Mac about the brewing process all the night through. She’d enjoyed their short conversation, something she hadn’t experienced with someone other than Moira and Rory in a very long time. And as she’d stared into the bruised face of the man they’d given a temporary name, she’d believed he had been enjoying her company too.
Then he’d mentioned Mortlach Inn and everything had changed. Had he stayed, not because he’d wanted to, but because he’d wanted to find out information about the inn? She banished a twinge of hurt at the thought. It was only natural that he wanted to discover what had happened to him, but the inn was one place she had to protect, no matter what.
She couldn’t risk creating any trouble between herself and Euan, the owner. She couldn’t risk the loss of their greatest source of income. T
hey weren’t the only ale makers who supplied the inn and although the market day was held every week, due to the distance they travelled to get there, Keila only sold her ale once every month. She wasn’t the only one who relied on the profits she made from selling the ale; Moira and Rory and his wife relied on the gains too.
Not once in the twelve years since she’d moved to Drummin House had she had any trouble with anyone in the vicinity and she refused to allow an injured stranger, who would only be staying temporarily, to stir up trouble now.
She dropped the cold washcloth into the water, and dried herself off before pulling a fresh shift down over her head and donning another of her practical gowns. There were still tasks to complete and she only had half a day left to see them done.
Keila wrung out the washcloth and hung it and her drying cloth on the two hooks nearest the open window. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the bowl of water out the window and onto the vegetable garden below and placed the basin on the shelf beside the hooks. With long strokes, she combed out her red tresses and used fast fingers to create a soft braid that hung to the front of her left shoulder. Finally, she toed-on her leather ankle-boots, and with a last look around her tidy room she was ready to face what remained of the day.
Moira was in the kitchen using the mash Keila had strained from the brew to make dough for the loaves they’d cook this evening. There was no sign of Rory or Mac.
‘I was wondering when you’d wake, lass,’ Moira said, looking at her over her shoulder. ‘Hmm! Mayhap you should return to your bed and actually sleep this time.’
Keila self-consciously wiped her hands over her face and then lifted her chin. ‘I’ve much on my mind.’
‘O’ course you have,’ Moira said, filling the next loaf tin with dough.
‘Forgive me, Moira. I know you worry too.’
‘Naught to forgive, Keila. I’m used to your worrying more a day or two out from market.’ She pressed the mixture firmly down into the tin. ‘But the worrying doesn’t get things done any faster. It only robs you of much-needed sleep.’ She paused and gave Keila a you know I’m right look.
The Rogue Page 7