Chapter 4

“Iam nae sure this one is much better,” Bran said between gritted teeth as he and Tad stepped into the tavern. The first one they had tried was so crowded that after one drink, they had given it up and decided to come to the other. They both now stood in the doorway, angling their heads back and forth as they looked for a little space. “Maybe we should just go back tae the inn.”

“Nonsense.” Tad shook his head. “Let’s enjoy some freedom, Bran.”

“Freedom? We look like pigs packed together in a pigsty.”

“Ye ken what I mean,” Tad whispered and winked as he let the wooden door slide shut behind them.

Bran merely sighed in answer. Tad was a laird. It must have been refreshing indeed to come to a tavern where he was just looked like another man in the crowd.

“One drink,” Bran said eventually, holding up his finger.

“Aye, very well.” Tad chuckled and led the way through the crowds with Bran following slowly behind him.

Bran cast a glance around the room, wary at once. He supposed anyone who did not look in detail at this place would be enamored by the soft orange candlelight and the warm red fires. The whole effect was one of warmth, with leather and pewter tankards full of honeyed mead and golden whisky being passed around.

Aye, it’s a beautiful sight, but there is darkness here too.

Bran saw what lurked in the corners. Men watched people getting slowly drunk intently, no doubt waiting for the opportunity to pickpocket. Some of the drunkards had gone past the point of laughing with their friends and were close to starting a fight with them.

“Whisky,” Tad called to the man at the serving hatch in the tavern.

Bran leaned on the timber pillar beside him, keeping his drawstring wallet on his belt close to the pillar to make sure no one had a chance to steal it off him. He didn’t look at Tad but watched the crowd, watching Tad’s back as he would watch any of his brothers.

“Calm yerself,” Tad said, turning to face him and offering up a pewter tankard of whisky. “Ye worry too much, Bran. That is yer problem.”

“Ye think nay bad can ever befall, dinnae ye?”

“Certainly nae,” Tad said hurriedly, shaking his head. “Our families have kenned enough sadness over the last few years, havenae they?”

Bran nodded slowly. Both his family and Tad’s had lost their parents, Tad’s only recently, to sickness, while Bran had lost his father in battle some years ago. It cast a dark shadow over both families, though they did their best to carry on as if the shadow was not there.

“I’m just determined tae enjoy meself sometimes,” Tad carried on, raising the tankard to his lips. “I willnae live life forever in darkness.”

Says the man who may have tae give his sister in marriage tae a man she doesnae ken.

Bran took a swig from the whisky, keeping his thoughts to himself. He knew well enough that this situation was not of Tad’s making, though he couldn’t help his feeling of resentment.

Tad had come across his grandfather’s contract in his study one day, shortly after Laird Gilroy had written to him, declaring it was time for said contract to be fulfilled. His son, Cillian, should be married to Ilyssa. Tad had insisted again and again that the contract had not been in that study before.

I want tae believe him, but dae I?

Bran had once seen the study shortly after his father had died. His father had not been a tidy man so Bran could easily see how it would be possible for a single paper to get lost in that room.

“Ah, now I see some distraction,” Tad whispered behind the rim of his tankard with a mischievous smile. His eyes were set on someone in the crowd.

Bran turned to see a bar maid walking toward them. She was serving another man, her flowing red hair wild about her shoulders, but her freckled face was turned most determinedly in Tad’s direction.

“Ye catch them as a frog does flies.” Bran sighed and looked away again, sipping his whisky.

“A pleasant image,” Tad said with a chuckle. “Dinnae wait fer me, me friend.”

“I had nay intention tae,” Bran laughed as Tad walked away to talk to the barmaid.

Bran gulped his whisky, eager to leave now that he had done his duty as Tad’s friend. He would go back to the tavern, maybe knock on Ilyssa’s and Catreena’s door, just to check they were both well.

The thought of Ilyssa made his heart race again.

I have tae stop this.

He turned to place his tankard down on the bar, but someone stood in the way.

It was a young lass. Her soft brown hair, almost honey in color, was fastened back in a pleasant updo. The scents of bergamot wafted off her, and her eyes glistened like green gems as she stared up at him.

“Evening,” she said loudly to be heard over the hubbub in the room. “What’s yer name, stranger?”

Bran had no intention of giving her his name.

“Ah, the strong and silent type, are ye?”

Still, he did not answer her. As far as he was concerned, she was in the way, making it more difficult for him to put his tankard down and get out of here. He tried to step to the side, to put the tankard down, but she moved in the way. He stepped back, clearing his throat, making it clear, though subtly, that she was impeding him.

“Share a drink with me?” she asked.

He supposed she was pretty. Her nose was slanted, but not like Ilyssa’s. Her hair was fair enough, but it missed the luscious darkness that Ilyssa’s locks had. She also missed the fullness of Ilyssa’s lips.

“Well?” she asked, a hint of impatience in her tone now.

“Nay, thank ye.” He stepped around her again and placed his tankard on the bar. When he turned back to make his escape, she was still in the way, only this time, she was even closer. She practically brushed their hips together as she stood before him.

Any tightening that was in his gut was out of anger, not attraction.

She looked up at him with the cover of her eyelashes, probably thinking it was a coy look rather brazen.

Ilyssa would never look at me like that.

“Buy me a drink and maybe I’ll share more than just a drink with ye?”

Bran felt as if he had been struck by lightning. He glowered at the girl before him, realizing suddenly why he was constantly comparing her to Ilyssa, why he could not stop thinking about her, why the mere thought of Ilyssa not only marrying Cillian Grant, but any man, upset him so much.

Och, nae that is impossible… In the name of the wee man, how long has me heart been Ilyssa’s? How am I only understanding this now?

“I said, nay.” Bran was firm this time, his voice so harsh that the girl actually stepped back.

I have tae see her. I have tae see Ilyssa.

With renewed determination, Bran made his way through the crowd. He was trying his best to get to the door when someone suddenly bumped his arm. He looked around, only to find it was the tail-end of some drunkard’s fight. He stepped out of the way, ending up in an alcove, quite separate to the rest of the tavern.

Here, he caught sight of Tad heading up a flight of stairs with the red-haired barmaid. Bran looked away, eager to leave, when something else caught his eye.

Standing by the fire were two women. One had dark hair, one blonde. For a wild second, he thought it was Ilyssa and Catreena, then reasoned that they were both back at the inn, tucked up in bed.

“Come on,” a man leered in front of the dark-haired woman. He was so drunk that he must have not noticed how close he came to bumping noses with her. She leapt back out of his way, clutching onto the mantelpiece of the fire beside her with one hand. “One night, lass? That’s all I ask.”

Whatever the woman’s reply had been, it was lost in the loud clamoring of the tavern and never reached Bran’s ears, though he could intimate well enough her meaning. She had shaken her head most firmly, making sure that what few dark locks had fallen out of her plait danced around her ears.

The man didn’t take no for an answer. He stepped toward her and tried to slide his arm around her waist. The blonde woman pulled on the man’s other arm, trying to push him back.

“Nay!” the word broke through this time from the dark-haired lass, loud and strained as she thrust forcefully in the man’s chest.

He staggered back, startled, yet came at the two ladies again.

Bran walked forward. With determination, he pushed through the people that separated them and reached the two women fast. This close, he could at last hear everything being said.

“I ken some women like tae refuse at first, but trust me, lass.” The man leered down at her. “Lie on yer back with me fer a while, and I’ll show ye what ye would be missin’.”

“Did ye nae hear her?” Bran barked. He stepped forward around the two women.

“Bran?” the squeaking voice drew his attention. Bran jerked his head around to see that the blonde woman was indeed Catreena. Standing by the mantelpiece, her face rather red from the heat of the fire, was Ilyssa.

This man is trying tae push himself on her!

“Back off,” the man grunted in Bran’s direction. “This is between me and the lass.” He stepped toward her again, this time making a grab for Ilyssa’s skirt.

Bran saw red. He wasn’t sure what had come over him.

He could handle himself well enough in a fight. Growing up with three brothers, there was no way he could not learn something of fighting, but he usually opted for diplomacy instead.

Nae today. Only fists will make sense today.

He jumped forward, breathing heavily, and lashed out. He tore the man’s hand off Ilyssa’s skirt, sending her staggering and falling into Catreena’s arms. Then Bran jumped in front of the pair of them, shielding them. As the man rounded on Bran, his nostrils flaring in anger, Bran pulled back with his balled fist and lashed out, landing it straight on the stranger’s nose.

Bone cracked loudly.

“Ah! Me nose. Ye broke me nose!” the cry erupted loudly.

Faces turned in their direction. Some broke off from their drunken laughter to stare.

“Brawl!” another man shouted.

Before Bran could make sense of what was happening, fists were flying at him from all directions. He barely managed to duck in time to dodge the first blow. The second glanced off the side of his head, barely brushing him at all. The third cracked against the mantelpiece, far too slow to keep up with Bran’s movements.

“Get him. Get him!” the man who had approached Ilyssa was demanding loudly.

As all three men came at Bran again, he acted fast. He snatched the poker up from the fireplace and wielded it before him like a sword. He struck the first man in the gut, winding him, so that he fell down like a sack of potatoes. The second man he struck across the shoulder, knocking him into a group of squealing ladies behind him and their drinks. As Bran turned to look at the third man, a short and squat stranger, he clearly thought of his chances and turned away and ran through the crowd like a lamb searching for its mother.

“Out. Now,” Bran barked at Ilyssa and Catreena.

Neither of them argued. They hastened out of the tavern with him behind them, still carrying the poker in case anyone came at them again. The cries of the man with the broken nose still followed them, but no one tried their luck after what had just passed.

Out in the snow, as the door closed behind them, Bran threw the poker into the snow nearby and pointed down the road. Catreena ran ahead, but Ilyssa walked much slower, her face as red as the flames had been back in the tavern.

“Bran, I’m so sorry,” Catreena said repeatedly, running ahead and slipping in the snow. She kept glancing back at him, her face pleading in the moonlight to be forgiven. “We didnae think it would end up like that.”

Bran stayed silent. He glanced at Ilyssa again, unsure which emotion rose in him more. Was it anger that she had put herself in such danger? Or fury that another man had tried to touch her in that way?

God damn it, I cannae stand another man being near her.

He was now in no doubt of what it was he was feeling for her. It was as plain as day as she walked alongside him in the snow, and it was damn shame that he needed her to be betrothed to another man to finally have clarity and understand his feelings.

When they reached the inn and clambered in together, Catreena was still pleading for forgiveness. Bran ignored her, climbing to the top of the stairs and halting on the landing.

“Please, Bran, I’m so –”

“Go tae yer room, Catreena.” It was the first thing he had yet said. It made both Catreena and Ilyssa flinch in surprise. “Go.” He pointed again. This time, Catreena didn’t hesitate. She nodded, her face flushing red, and hurried off toward the bedchamber door.

Ilyssa tried to follow but Bran held up his hand.

“Ye are talking with me,” he said, his voice deep and gravely. He reached for the key to his own room, turning to open it. “In here.”

She showed no surprise at being asked into his bedchamber, but flushed beetroot purple now.

He led the way inside, then kicked the door shut behind him.

She stood in the very middle of the darkened room, her silhouette the only thing that was visible. For a minute, neither of them said anything. Bran’s heart raced and his lower gut trembled.

We are alone…

Such imaginations filled his head of what they could do alone that it was suddenly overwhelming. He pictured kissing Ilyssa, of having her hands upon him, of trailing his fingers through her long dark hair until it was wild about her. He pictured the two of them toppling down onto the bed together, reaching beneath her skirt, and showing her exactly what it was like to be adored. His imagination let him get as far as entering her with his fingers, hearing her gasp, when her words startled him.

“If ye are tae reprimand me, get it over and done with.”

He turned away from her, the thrilling daydream leaving him in an instant. He reached for the mantelpiece and lit a candle from a tinder box, then he made up a fire. He shrugged off both his cloak and jerkin, so he was in nothing but his shirt and trews as he turned to look at her. Now in the growing firelight, he could see her animated gaze. Her eyes darted up and down him, as if she was searching him for something, but what, he did not know.

“Dae ye nae realize what ye did tonight?” he said at last. She flinched. “The danger ye put yerself in.”

“I couldnae stay in that room.” She waved a hand toward the door, as if that explained everything. “Ye expect me tae lay peacefully in a room when me mind is running this mad? How can ye expect that of me? I needed… distraction.”

“Ye are starting tae sound like yer braither.”

“Hey!” she barked, stepping forward. She no longer flinched but looked furious as she came near him.

Dinnae come that near.

He was thinking of her eyes flashing in this same way, but with passion rather than anger, as she looked up at him.

“I am nae me braither. I dinnae distract meself from the woes of life with an hour in another’s bed. I went fer a drink, Bran. Aye, a drink, that was all.”

“A drink?” he spluttered, stepping toward her too. They were so close, there was barely a strip of air between them, though the thought of stepping back was an impossibility to him now. “What if that man had tried tae force ye tonight?”

“He wouldnae –”

“He looked seconds from it,” he countered fast. She blinked for the first time, a momentary acceptance of the danger she had been in. “Ye wouldnae have been strong enough tae fight him off. What if I had nae been there tae stop him? It was reckless.”

“What dae ye care?” She waved both of her hands at him. “Ye are nae me faither, Bran. Ye are nae even me braither.”

“What are ye saying?! That doesnae mean I dinnae care about ye.” He suddenly marched forward. The words had tumbled out of him. She backed up with the movement, going all the way to the wall beside the fire. She reached the wall, and he stopped in front of her, his hand on the wall either side of her. He hadn’t thought this through – he had just thought it would somehow help her see the strength of his words. “What if ye had been taken against yer will?”

There was sudden silence. Her eyes were raking up and down him and he sensed something that hadn’t been there before. They were so close that the air practically crackled, just like the fire in the hearth nearby.

“Ye ask me that?” she whispered, tearing her eyes back to his. “Bran, I may be forced by me future husband, Cillian Grant, any day now. What is the difference?”

Bran’s anger left him as if a gust of wind had snatched it from his body.