by Regan Walker
“The name is Mr. Oliphant, Hamish. You must address me as Mr. Oliphant.”
Having been to the Panmure to speak to Captain Gower, Nash went to The Foundry, a tavern on Mary Street where he’d found a hearty meat pie, washing it down with ale.
As he watched the other men in the tavern, he thought about Ailie. Finding time alone with her in this dashed cold weather was proving a challenge. Either they were surrounded by people or alone in the freezing woods. Being with her without being able to touch her was proving tortuous. He had only to be near her to stir thoughts of his lips on hers.
Reminding himself he was supposed to be gathering information, he listened more attentively to the men’s conversations around him, but learned nothing substantial. Having finished his ale, he decided to brave the cold and seek another tavern.
He supposed he picked the St Thomas Tavern because the irony of the name appealed, a tavern in Presbyterian Scotland named for the Archbishop of Canterbury.
Becket might have been low-born and the rumored companion of King Henry in their earthly pursuits, but he became a martyr venerated by both Catholics and Anglicans.
No matter its namesake, the smoke-filled tavern was clearly one favored by the locals. Men of all sorts crowded up to the bar and most of the tables were filled. Nash slid into a chair at a small table against the far wall to nurse his ale while going over his conversation with the Panmure’s master in his mind.
Captain Gower had graciously allowed Nash to see his ship, his first mate remembering his prior appearance—which had actually been Robbie’s visit to the ship a few days before.
“Aye, we’ve two cabins sometimes booked by passengers, but they are both reserved for our sailing the afternoon of the twenty-sixth. We’ll return in a month’s time, weather permitting, and you can book passage then.”
The captain did not mention the passengers’ names and Nash did not ask for fear of rousing suspicion. If the shipmaster had knowingly promised one of his cabins to a fugitive from the law, he might warn Kinloch.
Nash returned his attention to the tavern’s customers, catching bits of conversation.
Five men came through the door. The proprietor waved them to the large round table that he must have been saving for them, as it was the only one unoccupied.
Once they had their ale, the men began to speak in low tones. All had dark hair save one whose eyes flashed fury beneath his fair hair. Had they but known a spy lurked in their midst, they might have spoken in a regular voice. Men who lowered their voices as if to hide their words when all around them raised theirs were, to Nash, like a tasty lure to a hungry fish.
The word “ship” coupled with the name “Georgie” rang in Nash’s ears like a ship’s bell. The man who had spoken them was a rough character, a great burly fellow in a stevedore’s plain clothing. His scarred face, thick chest and huge fists made Nash think he had seen many fights. But the man to whom he had spoken, the man he had called “Georgie”, who insisted he be called “Mr. Oliphant”, presented a puzzling figure. Nash scrutinized his common worker’s clothing and the odd hat that seemed to dwarf his fine-boned head. Despite being dressed as a commoner, his manner and speech shouted he was a gentleman.
Putting together the information Captain Gower had given him with the words spoken to “Georgie” in the tavern, Nash concluded the man he was looking at might well be George Kinloch, who could be sailing for France on the twenty-sixth as Mr. Oliphant.
Nash ruminated about this, thinking that when George and his companions left, he would follow them. His thoughts were interrupted when a skirmish erupted next to the round table.
One man, who had been sitting at a small table next to the wall, abruptly stood, sloshing his ale onto the floor. “I say ye’re wrong!”
His companion pounded the table. “Them weavers deserved better than tae end up deid.” His words were slurred but Nash instantly grasped their meaning.
“Haud yer tongue fer yer owin sake,” said his companion, furtively looking about the tavern. Nash judged him the more sober of the two.
By this time, every man’s attention had turned to them.
The man who had remained seated tugged on his friend’s jacket. “Sit ye doon. I hae no intention…”
From the round table, the blond man with the angry eyes rose and stepped toward the two arguing. “The two of ye need tae quit yer bletherin!”
The man seated, who’d clearly imbibed too much ale, awkwardly got to his feet and pushed his finger into the blond’s chest. “Dinna tell me what tae do, ye scunner!”
Nash might not understand all their words but the men’s expressions spoke loudly.
The blond narrowed his gaze, drew back his fist and rammed it into the drunken man’s face, sending him crashing into his chair, both collapsing to the floor.
His companion’s eyes narrowed as a scowl formed on his face. “Ye nickum loon!” He reared back and took a swing at the blond.
The blond ducked and laughed. “Away an bile yer heid!” Then, with a smile on his face, he hit the man, sending him flying into another table, causing ale to spill on its occupants.
“Now see here!” a man splashed with ale protested. He stood, brushing the liquid from his jacket.
Chairs scraped across the stone floor as other men rose and moved to source of the argument like fish to bait.
Nash rose and moved aside, staying clear of the worst of it.
More tankards of ale hit the floor. Shouts echoed off the walls as the fight widened. The men at the bar left their tankards to jump into the fray. Soon the entire tavern was involved in the tumult.
The man “Georgie” was suddenly escorted from the tavern by one of the men at his table. As the two of them slipped through the door, the one escorting George yelled, “Hamish, ye and Lachy finish this.”
“Aye, Derek. ’Twill be me pleasure.” The big man turned to drive his fist into his opponent’s jaw.
Nash decided it was time to leave. He had no intention of using his pistol or knife on a bunch of drunken Scots, not unless they threatened his life. His greater task was to follow the man he believed could be Kinloch.
Rising, he headed toward the door. A few feet from his goal, a fist plowed into his shoulder. He stumbled for a moment, then turned, confronted by a man holding up his fists in challenge.
“Not today, ye muckle haddie,” he said, remembering to speak with a brogue, as he slammed his fist into the man’s face. With his nose bleeding, the challenger fell to the floor and Nash made his escape.
Back on the street, he was greeted by a blast of freezing cold air. The sun’s light was dim as he looked down the street one way and then the other. There was no sign of George or the man who had swept him to safety.
He muttered an oath, unhappy at losing Kinloch. But if he lingered any longer, he’d be missed back at the Stephens’ and Robbie would come searching for him. He had no choice but to return.
After a few tortured hours trying to decipher Nash’s horticulture book, Robbie’s head began to nod, the words blurring on the page. Warmed by the smoldering fire and embraced by the settee, he soon drifted into a dream of a becalmed ship on a glassy sea waiting for wind.
The touch of a hand on his head brought him instantly awake.
“Nash!” said Ailie excitedly, dropping onto the settee next to him, “I might have known I’d find you here. What are you reading?”
Coming out of his stupor, Robbie shoved his spectacles back onto his nose and blinked. Ailie Stephen had the most alluring eyes. Surrounded as they were with her fiery hair, she was a most fetching creature. “Ah…” he breathed, gathering his thoughts. “’Tis a book on horticulture and greenhouses.” He showed her the cover.
She grinned. “Not a surprising choice after our morning in Emily’s orangery.” She tilted her head and gave him a beguiling smirk. “You did seem to enjoy our excursion into the woods to gather hawthorn berries.” There was something about her easy familiarity and sly smile that told
Robbie more had happened in the woods than gathering hawthorn berries.
He decided to try an experiment. “Would you like to do it again?”
“What? Kiss me here?” She looked toward the door. “Someone might see.”
Why that wily brother of mine. He kissed the girl! Robbie smiled at the pretty redhead. “That makes it all the more exciting.”
He leaned toward her.
She did not move.
He inclined his head and closed his eyes as he gently kissed her soft lips. He did not wish to frighten her. Apparently, he did not. He opened his eyes to see hers sparkling with happiness as she slid her hands to his nape and pulled him to her.
He kissed her again. This time, she joined in with greater abandon than he would have imagined coming from a green girl. Her lips were warm and oh, so inviting. How could he resist? When she opened her mouth to his tongue, he decided to indulge fully in what she offered.
The book slid to the floor and he wrapped his arms around her, lifting her onto his lap.
She tasted sweet, reminding him of summer and honey.
As the kiss ended, she said, “Oh Nash, that was wonderful, different than the first one, but still very nice.”
“I rather enjoyed it myself. However, you were right. The difference might be accounted for by the fear of discovery.” So, he and Nash kissed differently. Well, thank God for that. Robbie had no intention of spending his excellent kissing skills to improve the girl’s opinion of his brother.
Smiling sweetly, a slight blush on her pale skin, she leaned in to say, “I told you I liked it.”
“So you did.” Having taken his disguise this far, Robbie had to carry it through. Tempted to kiss her again, he thought better of it. “Still, perhaps we should go before someone sees us.”
She dropped her arms from his shoulders and he slid her from his lap, commanding his body to relax.
“But Nash, next time, can you kiss me without your spectacles? I cannot see you clearly when you wear them.”
“And next time,” he suggested, suddenly glad for his spectacles, steamed as they were, “let’s find a more private location.”
“I’ll think of somewhere we can be alone,” she said.
He got to his feet, picked up the book and placed it on the settee. When she rose to stand next to him, he removed his spectacles but did not meet her gaze. “The others will soon be coming back from their afternoon pursuits. Might I suggest we retire to the parlor for a glass of claret?”
“Aye, I would like that. But first, I must change for dinner. I’ll meet you there. By the way, where is your brother, Robbie?”
“Robbie?” he asked innocently, throwing in a shrug for good measure. “Oh, I think he went for a walk. He cannot have gone far. I’m certain he’s around here somewhere.”
Chapter 12
Twilight had descended by the time Nash arrived back at the Stephens’ though his pocket watch, identical to Robbie’s, told him it was only late afternoon. Still freezing from his long trudge through the snow, he opened his bedchamber door and pulled up short.
Robbie lay on his bed, his hands clasped behind his head, his stockinged legs crossed at the ankles and a wicked grin on his face. “You devil,” Robbie drawled, a smirk replacing his grin.
Nash took off his greatcoat and gloves and stretched his hands toward the fire. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“You might have told me you kissed the Mistress of the Setters.”
Nash whipped around, shooting a glare at his twin. “That is none of your concern!” He was about to turn back to the fire when another thought occurred. “How did you learn of it?”
Robbie crossed his arms over his chest. “Ailie, of course. Who else? She came looking for you and found me in the library, whereupon she assumed I was you. I don’t think she is aware we both require spectacles to read. After some meaningless trivialities about plants, she informed me she enjoyed your kiss.”
Nash stared at his brother. “You didn’t—”
“I did,” said Robbie blithely, getting to his feet. “’Tis the nature of the game, is it not? Should not I take advantage of her error as you took advantage of the woods to kiss her in the first place?”
Nash’s anger boiled over, a sudden need for satisfaction consuming him. His fist flew to his brother’s jaw.
Robbie stumbled back and shook his head. Rubbing his jaw, he said, “Can’t recall you ever doing that before.”
“Damn you, Robbie!” Nash spit out. “The game, as you call it, has changed!” His aching knuckles were a small price to pay for the satisfaction he gained in sending Robbie a clear message. “This competition must cease.”
“Ah ha,” Robbie said, fixing Nash with an assessing gaze. “I begin to understand. You are more taken with this girl than the others whose charms we have vied to possess.”
“What if I am?” It didn’t seem right discussing Ailie with his brother, but he could see it was unavoidable. He had to know. “Just what kind of kiss was it?”
Robbie averted his gaze. “Hardly one to brag about.” Picking up one of his tall boots, he sat on his bed and began to polish the black leather with fervor. It was one of Robbie’s quirks that, when he traveled, he preferred to see to his own boots, whereas Nash would leave it to the servants.
Nash narrowed his eyes on his twin. “Ailie is not a mouse to be fought over by two tomcats. I don’t want you kissing her disguised as me.”
Robbie glanced up. “All right, if you insist.”
Nash heard a note of amusement in his twin’s voice. Did Robbie think him insincere? “You doubt my intentions? I assure you they are most honorable.”
Robbie paused in his boot polishing. “You must admit this is new. I cannot recall an instance in our previous contests involving women when you were so… possessive, nor so violent when I made an advance.”
“Blast it, Robbie, this one is different! She is different!”
“Very well, if you’re bent on having the girl, perhaps I can help.”
“I don’t need your help,” Nash insisted. “I don’t want it.” Robbie had a way with women, an ease with seduction. Nash was not prepared to risk Ailie being attracted to Robbie’s more overt charm. Nor did he want her to be confused as to which of them was kissing her. “I think ’tis best if you just avoid her.”
Robbie snorted. “How can I do that when she mistakes me for you as we intend?” Nash was about to object when Robbie held up a hand. “However, for the sake of our brotherly affection, I will endeavor to be more circumspect.”
The anger that had exploded before welled again in Nash’s chest. “Exactly what does that mean?”
In a solicitous tone, Robbie said, “Unless she throws herself at me with full knowledge of who I am, I will be pleasant but take no liberties. That way, she will think well of you, and you need not worry I will unfairly gain ground. But I warn you, I am open to resuming my pursuit of the lass should she shift her affections. The Mistress of the Setters is a fetching creature.”
Nash frowned, returning his brother a skeptical look. He did not trust Robbie with Ailie. She was too tempting. “I would ask you be no more than ‘merely pleasant’ toward her.”
“Have you considered that when I am pretending to be you, should I fail to be warm toward the girl, she will think your affection has cooled?”
“Warm does not include kissing her,” Nash said, stuffing his legs into the same buff-colored breeches and ivory waistcoat his brother wore. Robbie had yet to put on a coat, so Nash asked, “What coat did you wear when you were with Ailie?”
“The black velvet.”
“Then I must wear that one tonight.”
“Indeed you must,” agreed Robbie. “Ailie is expecting me—or rather, you—to join her in the parlor for a glass of claret.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me she was waiting?” More frustrated with his twin than he’d been in a long time, Nash hurriedly pulled on his boots.
“Oh, you have
plenty of time. She intended to change first, as I knew she would. Ladies take an awfully long time to put on what we so quickly remove.”
Nash sighed in exasperation. “Don’t remind me of your skills in that area.”
“So tell me,” Robbie urged, “how did the visit to Arbroath go?”
Still angry with his brother, Nash forced himself to concentrate on their work. Robbie had to know what he’d learned. “Better than expected. I need that map of the town to show you.”
“Of course. I have it right here.” Robbie went to his chest, pulled out the map they had both memorized the day before and smoothed it out on his bed. Rubbing his jaw, which was now red, he said, “Your right hook has improved.”
Ignoring his brother’s comment, Nash lit another candle and brought it to the small table between their beds, determined to brief his brother and then leave. “I went to the Panmure first.” He pointed to the harbor. “The captain told me he plans to sail for France on the afternoon of the twenty-sixth. I imagine at high tide. Then I went to a local tavern called The Foundry.” He pointed to its location on Mary Street and took a seat on the end of Robbie’s bed, the map between them. “The customers were a mixed lot whose conversations led me to believe they are mere weathercocks, changing their political views with the direction of the wind.”
“Not worth a return visit to that one,” said Robbie.
“But here,” Nash said, pointing to the St Thomas Tavern, “I encountered a bit of luck.”
Robbie looked up from the map. “Luck?”
In his mind, Nash saw again the crowded smoke-filled tavern. “A group of men came in shortly after I arrived. They took the only available table, which the proprietor must have been holding for them. Fortunately, I was sitting close enough to overhear their conversation.”
Nash paused for a moment, recalling the men’s words. “One of them, a large man with huge hands, spoke to a smaller one dressed in odd clothing. The large man called the other one ‘Georgie’ and told him he would be on the ship. The oddly dressed man seemed alarmed that his given name had been used and commanded the other to address him as ‘Mr. Oliphant’. It struck me that this ‘Georgie’ who masquerades as Mr. Oliphant could be Kinloch. When a fight broke out, he was hurriedly ushered out of the tavern by one of his companions.”
