To Desire a Highlander (25 page)

“I hope the food and ale are no’ so strange as it’s called,” he added, sounding doubtful.

“You willnae leave empty-bellied,” the Wolf assured him, starting forward again. “The name is no’ so common as our friend William Wyldes’s Red Lion in Stirling town, for sure.” He cast Sorley an amused glance. “There is nae tavern or inn name more rampant in all the realm than the Red Lion. Likewise to the south in England, for their innkeepers are equally fond of the name. Or so it is said, for I have little time or interest in journeying about down there to see if such a claim is true.

“There is a story to the One-Eyed Mermaid’s name.”

Sorley waited, knowing well that, like all Highlanders, Alex Stewart loved to tell a tale.

“Word is,” the Wolf began, “that a previous innkeeper in a century long past had a one-eyed daughter and couldn’t find a husband for her.” He slowed his pace, speaking as if he’d known the man and sympathized with his plight. “No one rightly kens where this innkeeper hailed from, though many suspect Aberdeen. Truth is, when he arrived in Inverness and took over the alehouse and its rooms, he changed the name to the One-Eyed Mermaid in honor of his poor daughter. He put out word that she wasn’t his true blood, but a mermaid he’d found on the beach, saving her from a scaly serpent who’d sought to drag her back into the sea.”

“A good legend.” Sorley slid the Wolf a smiling glance.

“I tell you true.” The Wolf stopped where he was, turned to Sorley in the crowded alley. “Ask Hector Bane, the present ale-keep,” he suggested, his tone serious. “All ken the tale hereabouts and nae man who has been long in these parts would dare say that suchlike couldnae happen.

“True, or no’, the long-ago innkeeper swore that the mermaid knew of a great treasure and the scaly serpent meant to put out her eyes so that she couldn’t lead anyone to the wealth he guarded as his own.” He paused, stepping aside as two back-bent women hurried past, the herring-filled creels they shouldered filling the damp air with the reek of fish.

“The innkeeper fought off the serpent, chasing him back into the sea, aye?” Sorley watched the women nip into a small, even darker side alley. When the shadows
swallowed them, he turned back to the Wolf. “He spread word that he’d spared the mermaid from losing her sight entirely and that”—his smile now matched Alex’s—“with her one remaining eye, she’d still be able to locate the treasure, if a man cared to marry her.”

“You have learned our Highland ways well, my friend.” Alex looked pleased, and more than a little proud. “That is the tale that was put out, by all accounting. Our storytellers claim the lass wed well and soon bore so many sons that her husband no longer cared about a hidden treasure, or that she lacked one eye. He had sons to man his galleys and work in his shipyard, wealth enough, he believed.

“In gratitude, or perhaps for fear of his deception coming to light, the father kept the inn’s name.” Alex stopped before the establishment’s door, set his hand on the latch. “Now, these long centuries later, legend claims that all who sup, drink, or sleep at the One-Eyed Mermaid shall aye be safe on sea journeys.”

“A last blessing from the mermaid?” Sorley guessed.

“So men say.” The Wolf glanced at him, not yet opening the door. “Superstitious as Highlanders are and given our reason for being here, we might as well gather in a place known to smile on those who take to the sea. It cannae hurt.”

“But the lass wasnae a mermaid.”

“Who can say?” The Wolf shrugged, as if Sorley’s objection was inconsequential. “Perhaps she was. There is a kernel of truth in every tale, even the most outlandish.”

Sorley set his jaw, knowing when not to argue.

There wasn’t time anyway, because in that moment, the Wolf pushed the door wide and they entered the inn’s
crowded main room, stepping into a swell of noise and bringing a cold, damp wind with them.

The One-Eyed Mermaid was popular.

Men filled every table and others stood at the long trestle-bar that ran the length of the room. Fashioned of hull planks from a long-forgotten ship and topped with a surface of age-darkened oak, the bar was packed with men who stood three and four deep, all quaffing or hollering for ale.

Smoke haze and kitchen clatter hung in the air, as did the smell of peat, ale, fish, and roasted meats, along with the sharper reek of frying onions. But the stone-flagged floor was swept clean, and if the whitewashed walls were a bit smudged from centuries of hearth fires, the tables that filled the long, narrow room appeared well-scrubbed. The low ceiling’s oak beams glistened blackly, proving the One-Eyed Mermaid was truly as old as legend claimed.

“Our friends are here.” The Wolf started forward, making his way through the public room to the far end where three men sat at a corner table near the fire.

A pile of peat bricks glowed on the hearth stones and the flickering orange-red light shone on the bearded faces of the rugged, plaid-draped men who now lifted their ale cups in salute as the pair drew near.

“Ho, Alex, Sorley!” The largest of the Highlanders stood and came forward to embrace them. Tall, strongly made, with wild black hair and a full beard, he was clearly a fighting man. Heavy silver rings lined his arms and warrior rings glinted in his beard. Mail shone beneath his plaid, and a silver Thor’s hammer amulet hung at his throat.

He was Grim Mackintosh of Nought territory in the Glen of Many Legends. And although he was a man who’d not die in his bed, and was even known to wield a Nordic war ax with greater skill than any Viking of old, his smoke-gray eyes warmed in welcome and his proud face split in a grin.

“ ’Tis good to see you,” he greeted them, stepping back after giving each man a quick, crushing hug. “The One-Eyed Mermaid isnae known for festive spreads, but Hector the innkeeper has outdone himself this night. He’s served up enough good viands to fill our bellies and warm us.”

Taking their arms, he led them to the corner table, already set with platters of smoked herring, sliced, roasted mutton, a large assortment of cheeses, and baskets of fresh-baked bread. “There’s plenty of ale,” he added, nodding to a serving girl as she hurried past, carrying a tray stacked with empty bowls. “Ellice kens to bring fresh jugs as soon as you’re settled.”

At the table, Caelan the Fox half-stood, his dark auburn hair gleaming in the light of a wall sconce. “Praise be, you’re here—we didnae want to eat without you and my stomach’s growling.”

“I can vouch for that!” Andrew the Adder slid him a mock-sour glance as he, too, pushed briefly to his feet in greeting. Dark as Sorley and Grim, he was also a Fenris. Only Grim was a nonbrother of the secret order, although he was trusted by all, as witnessed by his presence.

“If you hadn’t arrived soon, I’d have changed seats,” Andrew added, lowering himself back onto his chair just as the serving wench, Ellice, plunked down two large jugs of frothy heather ale before hastening away to clear another table.

“I swear thon lassie thinks the belly rumbles were mine!” Andrew grinned, already pouring himself a brimming cup of ale, which he tossed down in one swig. “Why else would she cast moon eyes at Caelan when I was sitting right next to the flat-footed, cross-grained lout?”

“Why, indeed?” Sorley and the Wolf exchanged glances, both claiming their own places.

“Truth is it’s a wild night.” The Wolf stretched his long legs to the fire, likewise helping himself to a cup of ale. He sipped slowly, sent a meaningful glance at the inn’s diamond-cut windows where candlelight glistened against the darkness of the thin glass panes.

“There’s a fine north wind blowing,” he said easily, using the code phrase to warn the others that Fenris matters would now be discussed. As aye, in low, casual tones and secret words so none of the other patrons might guess that anything but the night’s rainy gloom concerned them. “Thon wind has been blowing awhile,” he added, refilling his cup.

“So it seems.” Grim lifted his own ale, nodding almost imperceptibly as he gave the correct response.

His assurance that, as a Fenris confidant, he understood the gravity of their meeting—a gathering held largely because of tidings he’d gleaned on a recent sea voyage from Ireland, where he’d visited the in-laws of his Irish wife, Lady Breena.

“Aye, ’tis a foul wind, by its howl,” Sorley agreed, foregoing ale to pile his plate with cold sliced mutton.

“It will worsen before the night is o’er.” The Wolf kept his relaxed pose, his legs now crossed at the ankles, his ale cup in his hand. “Such weather will be fierce out in
the Isles. Huge seas and black winds are no’ good for trade. I wouldnae wish to be plying those waters in such conditions, no’ when the currents run so fiercely a ship could tip o’er and sink to the bottom of the sea before a man could blink.”

“I journeyed back through such weather.” Grim set down his ale, dragged the back of his hand over his beard. “Ne’er have I seen such rough waves.”

“How rough?” Caelan and Andrew spoke as one, their gazes flicking briefly to the Wolf before they glanced again at the big, ring-bearded Highlander from Nought.

Grim leaned forward, fixing them with his piercing gray gaze. “So fearsome that the merchant ship I journeyed on lost half her goods when we were hit by steep seas in the dead of night during one of the worst storms. Indeed”—he sat back, his hands flat on the table—“when we made land, we learned of another trader, sailing up near the Isle of Lewis, that sank that night.”

Sorley frowned. “So far north as Lewis?”

The Wolf’s face hardened—a sign to those who knew that talk wasn’t of a trading ship, but a crown vessel carrying men loved and valued by the King.

“Aye, Lewis is what we were told.” Grim looked round at all the men, his smoke-gray eyes earnest. “The ship went down with priceless goods onboard. Talk was of a hull filled with Frankish oils and wine, finest leather from Spain, and sack upon sack of rare spices from even farther afield.

“An irreplaceable cargo, lost to the brine.” He drew a deep breath, his gaze flicking to Alex Stewart.

“So it was, indeed.” The Wolf drew a dirk from his belt, turning the blade in the table’s candlelight. “My brother
was grieved to hear of such riches disappearing into the sea, gone before they could reach their destination.”

“ ’Tis a sore loss.” Hector Bane, the innkeeper stepped out of the throng, rapping thrice on the table’s aged, scarred wood, then once again after a pause.

Another coded greeting, his promise that no men possessing long ears or lingering eyes lurked anywhere near the corner nook where the Fenris men had gathered.

Tall, and with a seaman’s weathered face, he wore a long leather apron and had braided his thick rust-gray hair in a thick plait that hung down his back, reaching near to his waist. His eyes were the same color as the ale he served, and lined at the edges as if he was fond of smiling, or had spent years squinting into the sun.

“I’m suffering a loss myself,” he declared, setting his hands on his hips. “Though naught so troubling as ships sinking into the sea. My eldest lad, Dougie, has taken himself south to run a friend’s inn down Stirling way. The innkeeper is gone to visit his brother who’s wed some lass out on a Godforsaken rock of an isle in the Hebrides.” He leaned in, lowering his voice, his gaze moving from one Fenris man to the next, significantly.

So tellingly that no one at the table misunderstood.

Fenris friend William Wyldes, who owned and ran Stirling’s Red Lion Inn, was on his way—or soon would be—to join Roag the Bear on Laddie’s Isle.

Wyldes didn’t have a brother.

But he looked on Roag, Sorley, Caelan, and Andrew as the family he never had.

And only one of them was currently keeping himself on a wee spit of rock in the Western Isles.

Roag.

The Wolf leaned forward, his eyes confirming it. “ ’Tis no small thing when a man takes a bride.” He lifted his ale cup, saluting the others, a smile quirking his lips at their astonishment. “Sometimes we’re surprised to hear the like, but it doesnae mean the match isnae a guid one.

“Indeed”—his smile broadened—“his friends ought to be there to celebrate with him, leastways a few of them.”

“My wife, Lady Mirabelle, is in a delicate way.” Sorley put down the forkful of mutton he’d been about to eat. “We’re still staying beneath her father’s roof at Clan MacLaren’s Knocking Tower. Our own home is close by, but no’ even halfway built.

“She wasnae pleased I left her long enough to journey here.” He glanced at the door, as if he should be headingback to her now. When he turned again to the table, a frown drew his brows together. “I dinnae want her fashing, given that she’s—”

“She’ll have you back anon, my friend.” Alex slung an arm around his shoulders. “My Mariota has given me more sons than I can rightly count, but I worried each time she quickened with a new one! Nae man here would expect you to hie yourself off into the wilds of the Hebridean Sea. No’ now, of all times.”

He spoke as if it was settled, then withdrew his arm and looked to Caelan and Andrew. “I’d rather send the errant bridegroom a shipload of gifts to lend comfort to his new home. Truth is, that tower is little more than a cold and windy heap of salt-crusted stones. He shall have a well-made bed and proper sheeting, a richly carved laird’s chair to suit his new station, and”—he grinned—“perhaps a trusted friend to cook for him so long as he’s stuck on such a bleak, sea-washed isle?”

“A cook?” Andrew glanced at Sorley, and then Caelan.

All three men frowned.

“ ’Tis true we were raised in Stirling Castle’s kitchens,” Sorley spoke for them all. “But we spent our youth chasing after serving lassies and laundresses, no’ stirring cook pots.”

“That I ken!” The Wolf didn’t look concerned. “I had another, much more skilled spoon-stirrer in mind,” he added, smiling again.

Hector Bane nodded once, his own expression lightening. “I have heard that a fast-running galley called the
Sea Star
is anchored off the headland no’ too far from the town’s usual moorings.” He leaned toward the table, lowering his voice. “It could be that a certain Stirling innkeeper didnae journey directly into the wild, wind-whipped waters of the Hebrides.”