Rivals for the Crown (11 page)

"I am pleased to have you with us, sirs," Angenhoff said.

"And we to be here," Rory answered, thinking that the attraction of Angenhoff's inn for Keith had more to do with the blond lass than any improvements the innkeeper had made. "Where did ye come from, sir?"

Jacob paused, then smiled. "London."

"What would make ye leave grand London for Berwick?" Kieran asked.

Jacob's smile froze. "Have you been to London, sir?"

"No," Kieran said. "But I'd like to see it someday." He spilled a few coins on the table. "For our meal and ale, sir."

"No, sir. Keep your money," Jacob said. "You'll pay for nothing while you stay with us. I'm grateful for your protecting my daughter Rachel. Ah, here she is with the food. I'll see to your rooms." He left them with another smile.

Kieran nudged Rory. "Rachel Angenhoff. I dinna even have to ask."

Rachel served the food quickly, not looking at any of them, her manner pleasant but subdued.

Kieran smiled up at her. "Are ye a'right, lass? Still feeling shaky?"

"No, sir, I am well now, thanks to you."

She glanced at Edgar Keith and walked away. Kieran watched her.

"She's angry with me," Keith said. "That's her sister I was talking to, and Rachel does not approve."

"Why not?" Kieran asked.

Tmnot...She'sa..." He stopped. "I'd be grateful if you said nothing to Jacob. He doesn't know, and he certainly will not approve."

"Ye're not what?" Kieran asked, draining his cup. "So her father willna approve of a younger son wooing her, or is it the smell of wool about ye?"

Edgar grinned. "That's it, I'm sure. I tell the world I come to Berwick to talk about wool with the merchants here, but the truth of it is I come to see Sarah."

"From London, are they?" Rory asked.

"Aye," Edgar said. "Newly arrived. I thank ye for yer help earlier."

"Canna let a man do that," Rory said.

Kieran flashed him a grin. "My cousin has appointed himself champion of all women, it seems. He rescues them regularly."

Edgar blinked. "That's it. I've just remembered where I recently heard the name MacGannon." He lowered his voice and looked at Rory. "There are men here in Berwick, asking for a Highlander by that name. I was told you had raped a lass and killed her husband."

Rory made a disgusted sound and shook his head.

"It was the other way 'round," Kieran said. "
Rory
saved the lass, then killed the man attacking her."

"Then you need to get that word out."

"Who were they?" Rory asked. "The men asking about me. Who were they?"

"Hired thugs, I'm thinking. Not Highlanders, certainly," Keith said. "Look, everyone's on edge already with different factions lining up to claim the throne. There's lots of men just looking for a reason to fight someone. Your name is being bandied around, and I

heard there's a reward for your head. You stand out here, sir. I would suggest you at least change into less conspicuous clothing. You saw what happened here tonight. Look around you. It could erupt again at any moment."

Rory scanned the room. "The men here look ordinary enough, for a port town."

"Then let me explain. See the man there, with his wife and two children?"

"Aye?"

"And the woman and her maid at the table next to them? That's his mistress. He never travels without her. Jacob puts her in one wing, the wife in the other. His last mistress was poisoned. So who's to blame? And the strange-looking man with the long neck, the one that slides his head like a snake? He's a French marquis, drummed out of his home for crimes no one will speak of. And that one, the fat man with all the rings on his hands? A wool merchant who cheats all those who work for him. Two have tried to kill him. One died, one disappeared. And the tall, thin man, with the five sailors? Captain of a ship that preys on smaller vessels, runs them aground, and splits the proceeds with those waiting on shore to strip it clean. Mind yourselves here, sirs. Our noisy companions from earlier are not the only dangerous ones here."

He took a long draught of his ale. Rory looked around the room again. And he'd thought they all had looked so innocuous. He felt very green. Their food arrived then, hot and delicious, their plates

filled twice without comment. Not by Rachel, nor her sister, but by another woman, who seemed to be more comfortable serving in a tavern.

Rory and Keith talked for an hour or so, drinking Angenhoff s fine ale, talking of the queen's death and all it might mean for Scotland. Kieran left them after a while, joining a dice game and drinking far too much. And in a comer of the room, a man watched Rory. He'd not moved all evening but had sat, slowly sipping from a wooden cup, watching
Rory
's every move.

"Claret is the answer," Keith said. "The nobles love their wine, and claret's the
favourite
. I'm convinced that there's a fortune to be made."

"Claret?" Rory asked, watching Kieran sink lower in his seat. His cousin must be losing badly, hardly surprising, given the amount he'd drunk.

"In England," Keith said, "the king takes a tun of wine before the mast from every ship that lands from the Continent, and another from behind the mast. Every ship. Two tuns. We need to be paying attention, for if Edward decides who rules Scotland, will he also decide our laws?"

"So what do ye think will happen?"

Keith shook his head. "I think we'll be sold to the highest bidder."

"A dismal prediction.

"And one I hope will be proved wrong. I bid you a good night, sir."

Rory finished his ale. The tavern room, he realized, was almost empty now. Kieran sat with one last dice player. The man in the corner had gone about the same time Edgar Keith had left. Perhaps he'd been wrong about that one after all.

From the doorway, the dark-haired lass—Rachel—watched them. She'd not looked at Keith as he'd passed her, nor answered whatever it was he'd said to her. Obviously Rachel did not approve of Edgar Keith's suit at all.

Rory shrugged. None of that was his concern. It was time for him and Kieran to find their beds. And bar the door.

Rachel leaned against the door
jamb and watched Rory MacGannon help his cousin to his feet. Kieran MacDonald swayed but stayed upright, which was surprising, considering how much ale he'd imbibed. Highlanders, both of them, tall men wearing the strangely patterned clothing that their kind
favoured
. She'd seen a few in Berwick, most of them big men, and, until tonight, she'd thought them as uncouth and barbaric as they were reputed to be.

These two had changed her opinion. Kieran had made her laugh from the first moment, introducing himself and bowing like a courtier, telling her his appearance did not reflect the refinement of his heart. And they'd been the only ones—along with Edgar—who had stepped forward to help her. It did not happen often that a patron overstepped himself, but when it did the situation often turned ugly quickly.

She was more than grateful that they'd rescued her—she was delighted, for it gave her another reason to speak with Kieran MacDonald. She was not sure she'd ever seen anyone so wonderful looking, even in London. He was so tall. His eyes were so blue, his dark hair thick and wavy. And his cousin Rory was also a fine- looking man. Highlanders, she thought with a smile, and suddenly she missed her friend Isabel, who would have spent hours discussing them with her.

Rory had spent the evening with Edgar, whom she had ignored when he had bid her good night. He'd told her their names and had said he'd tell her more if she stopped lecturing him about trying to see her sister secretly. She'd not answered him, for she would not speak to him about Sarah again. Tonight she'd learned that she was already far too late to stop whatever tender feelings had sprung up between them.

The most bruising part was that she'd had no idea of their relationship until this evening, when she'd found Sarah and Edgar Keith, heads bent together, whispering in the foyer like lovers. She was shocked that her sister had not told her that there was something between them.

Her sister had kept her secret well. Sarah was most fortunate that it was she who had seen them, and not Papa. And not Mama, who lectured her daughters daily on the evils of offering anything more than food and drink to their customers. Edgar Keith's attentions seemed genuine, but no future was possible between them, and Sarah should know that as well as Rachel did.

When they'd moved into the inn, she and Sarah had been forbidden to even enter the tavern area and had been confined to the kitchen, performing the countless menial tasks required to run an inn. But Mama was a far better cook than either of them and Papa a far worse server than they, so they'd begun to take the travelers orders and serve them food, at first only during the day. But gradually their time as servers had increased, and now they did little else.

On nights like this, when the tavern was full and it took all of them to serve their guests, she almost did not mind the work, for she was too busy to think and the customers did not expect more than the food she was offering. But on the days when few entered their door and those that did wanted to talk—or more—she truly hated her new life.

From the start her parents had established the inn as the kind of place where women were welcome, and a sizable number of the travelers who passed through Berwick were wives or mistresses. Berwick's port was always busy, and it seemed that every sort of person imaginable had walked its streets.

For the most part the men were content to eat and drink and flirt a little. It was serving the women that Rachel hated the most. She was ignored by them sometimes, or saw pity in their eyes, or

kindness mixed with their knowledge that she was the serving girl and they the customers. She hated that most of all, and the pride that she could not seem to suppress. She knew there was no going back, that her former life was over and this was now her lot. And that she'd better learn to make the best of it. But she hated it.

And now Berwick was drawing more travelers and was already changing from the Berwick they'd first discovered. Since the Maid had died, the mood of the town had grown more restive, and every week brought more Englishmen to the port. If the
rumours
were true, Edward of England would be coming to Scotland himself to decide who would be king. Her father brushed away her fears, saying that Edward had not forbidden them to go to Scotland, and the Scots were unlikely to welcome English rule or laws. But Mama checked the coins that were still in the hems of their clothing and reminded Rachel that they could always move on again. Of course they could, but her parents were no longer young. And so she worried.

They'd changed their name, and now they worked hard to acquire a local accent. Rachel worked less hard than her family at perfecting a Scots accent for she was loathe to give up all her ties to London. But occasionally, as Rory MacGannon had done tonight, someone paused at the sound of her voice to study her. And that was dangerous. To look as she did, and to be identified as English, might give them away. They were not hiding who they were, but neither were they announcing it.

Which led her back to Sarah. What was her sister thinking, to dally with Edgar Keith? He did not seem like a man who would

trifle with her, but it might be better if he were. What were they thinking, to look at each other like that?

"Pardon us, Mistress Angenhoff."

Rachel started, looking up into Rory MacGannon's blue eyes. He nodded at his cousin, half-asleep and leaning precariously despite Rory's grip on him.

"I dinna think we'll fit through the doorway with ye there. If ye could?..."

She jumped to the side. "Oh, I am so sorry! Do you need help?"

He smiled down at her. "Ye, lass? He's twice yer size. No, I'll manage."

"I meant my father, or one of our men."

"Aye, ye're Jacob's daughter, are ye not?" His look was long and appraising.

"Yes..."

His cousin lifted his head and squinted at Rachel, then turned to Rory, his head bobbing loosely and his dark hair falling over his forehead. Even in this condition he was as handsome as she had thought him to be earlier.

"Look at her, Rory!" he said now, his accent heavy. "Look at the lass. She's beautiful! A bonnie lass, standing here before us. Rachel. Her name is Rachel and ye owe me my wager. We should say something to Rachel. What should we say? Just tell her that she's a bonnie lass. We should tell her, aye?"

"We should say good night. Sorry, mistress, he means no harm."

"Here," her father said, hurrying in from the kitchen, "I'll help you, sir."

She stepped back, watching while her father helped the Highlander carry his cousin up to the room that they would share with the others. She waited until the sounds of their struggle to maneuver on the narrow stairway were faint, but then she heard him sing, a ribald song that lasted only for a moment or two before being silenced. He had a lovely voice, if not a proper choice of songs. She laughed softly.

And then she went to find her sister.

FIVE