Page 4 of Highlander’s Misfit Lass

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Trevor pulled a handkerchief out of his breeches and mopped sweat from his brow. The day wasn’t especially warm, but the riding had been hard. His legs ached from gripping the horse, and his throat was parched. He pulled out the crude map he had drawn of Scotland and turned it around, moving his gaze from the map to the horizon, trying to notice the landmarks. It was difficult to decipher, and he began to wish that he had spent some coin on a proper cartographer rather than drawing the map himself, but his problem was that he had always found it difficult to rely on other people.

He patted the horse’s neck firmly. “What do you say, Nettle, shall we get some refreshment?” he said. The horse whinnied and shook its dark mane. Trevor laughed and turned the horse around, leading it back down the road to a tavern they had passed. The smoke rose from the chimney in a straight line, and its thatched roof looked homely. There were a few other horses stabled outside. Trevor fastened Nettle with a rope. The horse immediately joined the others in quenching its thirst.

Trevor walked into the tavern and tapped his knuckles on the bar, flashing the most charming smile he could muster. This place was smaller than the taverns he was used to in London, but that wasn’t surprising, really. It didn’t look as though there was anyone eager for a fight either. It had been five years since that fateful night when he had almost killed the butcher’s son. Since then, Trevor had made a respectable man of himself. He studied under his uncle to become a solicitor and now handled important matters for important people. Coin flowed through his hands in rivers of gold. There had been rumors of marriage, especially now that he was thirty, but as yet, he remained a bachelor.

Despite his success, he had still never felt as alive as he did when in the heat of battle, but at least this venture gave him the opportunity to leave his stuffy office and see another part of the world.

“I’ve got a horse stabled outside. I’d like a meal, some drink, and a room if you have one to spare,” Trevor said.

The innkeeper, a burly man with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, squinted at him.

“Ye are English,” he said.

Trevor wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a question.

“I am, but I’m sure my coin is as good here as anyone else’s,” Trevor said, plucking a few coins from his pouch and placing them on the bar. They made a rattling sound. The innkeeper picked one up and examined it.

“Aye, it is,” he said, and gestured to a table. “I’ll bring yer meal over shortly.”

Trevor strode across the floor and took his seat at a table. The few patrons in the inn stared at him and then muttered under their breath, although he knew what they were likely saying. It was rare to see an Englishman traveling alone in the Highlands. There was no love lost between the two countries, but so far, Trevor had avoided any enmity. He kept a wary eye on the people around him as well, just in case they attempted anything dangerous.

The innkeeper brought his meal out. Thick chunks of meat bobbed in a stew, accompanied by vegetables. The broth was thick and the meal hearty, although it wasn’t as refined as some of the things he had tasted in London. Still, for a man who had been riding for hours on end, it was welcome and helped to replenish his energy reserves.

“Ye are a long way from home. Are ye a trader?” the innkeeper asked.

“Of a sort,” Trevor replied. He was often cagey with people he did not know, but the innkeeper didn’t seem to take much of a liking to this attitude. In truth, Trevor needed the help of locals as well. He swallowed a mouthful of the stew and sipped his beer. “I’m actually looking for someone. She might have passed through this way some time ago.”

“Did yer wife run away from ye?” the innkeeper asked.

Trevor chuckled. “No, I’m afraid I’ve never had the pleasure of getting married. Say, I wonder… Have you heard of an English woman around these parts, perhaps someone who doesn’t seem to belong here?” he asked, using a tone of voice that suggested the thought had only just occurred to him.

The innkeeper tilted his head to the side and stroked his chin. Trevor looked at him carefully. Being both a solicitor and a fighter did not seem to have too much in common at first, but actually, there were transferable skills. Trevor had to be observant during fights and often had to understand what his opponent was going to do next. These skills came in handy when it came time to decide if anyone was lying to him.

As soon as he asked the question, the innkeeper viewed him with suspicion.

“Ye know, for a trader, ye seem light on goods.”

“I trade in information,” Trevor said.

“And what would this information be worth tae ye?”

Trevor had suspected something like this was coming. He glanced around warily at the other people in the tavern, not wanting to display his wealth to strangers if he could help it because there had been far too many stories of people being mugged. Trevor wasn’t helpless, but it was better to avoid a fight if need be. Thankfully the people in the bar were either old or keeping to themselves. They didn’t seem interested in what was happening with Trevor. He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a coin, placing it on the table above him. The metal made a heavy thud. It was a sound that was blissful to so many, almost as though it was a drug that intoxicated them. The innkeeper was no different. Trevor watched his face for a sign. He placed another coin on the table, and then another. This was when the innkeeper’s face twitched, and Trevor knew he had found the right price. In truth, he probably would have spent a coin or two more for the information he sought. Traversing the Highlands had been more difficult than he had imagined, and he was beginning to wish that he had enlisted the help of a guide.

“I suppose I could part with this much, depending on how good the information is. I have a map, but I’m not familiar with the terrain around here, and I fear I’m lost.” Trevor produced the map, unfolding it across the table. As he did so, he pushed the coins toward the innkeeper in a smooth, fluid motion.

“So are the rumors true? Is there an English woman living around here?” Trevor asked.

The innkeeper pursed his lips and glanced at the coin. “Ye are nae gaeing tae hurt her, are ye?” he asked, for evidently, he was a man of good conscience, although even good consciences had a price.

“Heavens no!” Trevor cried out. “I simply have some information she might find of interest from her homeland, that’s all.”

“Well, I suppose there’s no harm in telling ye then. I dinnae know if she’s the lass ye are looking for, but there is one woman who came up here from England some years back now. Oh aye, it was a story at the time. Some people thought she must hae been a spy or some agent from England, but as far as I hae heard, she’s kept tae herself.”

“Is her name Lyndsay Smythe?” Trevor asked.

The innkeeper tossed the name around in his mind. “Aye, that might sound about right, although it haes been a number of years since I’ve heard of the story. I suppose she would nae be a Smythe any longer either, nae if she married one of us. Perhaps if more of yer women made their way up here, they would see that Scots make better husbands than ye English,” the innkeeper said with a hearty laugh and a wink.