What the Scot Hears

by Amy Quinton

  Every. Single. One.

  He was exhausted and sullen and ready to brawl with the first person to look at him wrong.

  He needed sleep.

  He needed to see Mrs. Chase.

  Now, MacLeod paced outside Ye Olde Howling Monkey Inn as he waited for her to arrive. He was in a state of agitation such that he hadn’t experienced in a long time. He couldn’t stomach doing something as mundane as sitting inside to wait for her to pop back up while sipping on a mug of ale. He needed to do something, but he couldn’t, and it was driving him daft.

  The clip clop of an approaching horse had him spinning on his heel, looking to the road, as he had countless times this morning. It was only a man of the cloth on an aging nag. The man was a local, based on the warm welcomes from the men who greeted him as he dismounted. He was unlikely to carry word of Amelia Chase.

  MacLeod raked his hands through his hair and resumed his pacing. He felt like a caged beast, tethered to this location as surely as a tiger bound in a steel enclosure.

  Next time, I’ll put her under lock and key with a more reliable guard—me.

  He actually pointed his thumb at his chest as he thought it.

  Bloody hell, he was now talking and gesturing to himself.

  MacLeod had circled the perimeter of the inn’s main courtyard another half dozen times when a familiar carriage pulled into the yard from the south.

  Oh, Christ, no’ yet.

  It was the Duke of Stonebridge, a man well known to him because he also happened to be his boss.

  Shite.

  Worse, he didn’t have a suitable excuse for missing the last rendezvous point with Dansbury, and it was glaringly out of character for him, something he didn’t need hanging over his head in the face of an unknown traitor amidst their group.

  Instead, he’d been off hunting her.

  God, who would scarce believe it of him? This strange sense of urgency had flat out compelled him to search for her, fully undermining his usual common sense. He hadn’t understood it, yet even as he’d loathed the urge, he’d still heeded it.

  MacLeod met the duke’s carriage as it pulled to a stop in front of Ye Olde Howling Monkey. He waved off the footman and opened the carriage door himself.

  “Duke.”

  “MacLeod? What the devil are you doing out here?” Stonebridge asked as he disembarked.

  “Pacing.” There was no point to lying to this man. MacLeod never lied, and he was man enough to own up to his actions, even if they didn’t always paint him in the best light.

  “Is there a particular reason?”

  “Aye.” But he wasn’t about to explain that a woman had him tied in knots. Especially this particular woman.

  It was a revelation to know that his renowned honesty only went so far.

  “Come,” the duke beckoned. “Let’s talk inside.”

  Once inside, they were lead directly to a private dining room off the main taproom, the duke’s footman having preceded them and arranging everything ahead of time.

  The furnishings were delicate and rich, incongruous with his mood of the moment. He wouldn’t have to put forth much effort to toss a chair across the room and have it splinter to bits. Not that he planned to do so.

  Stonebridge crossed the room to stand before the fireplace, but MacLeod chose instead to position himself by the front facing window, away from any unsuspecting pieces of furniture.

  Aye, and to watch for her, he admitted it, at least to himself.

  The duke didn’t waste time getting to the point. “You weren’t at the last rendezvous point with Dansbury. Are you going to tell me why?”

  “Nae.” He couldn’t. How does one explain the unexplainable?

  How does one explain that despite his utter and perfect dedication to his job, one woman had him acting so completely out of character that he’d missed a scheduled engagement with a friend who was essentially fleeing for his life? Doing so without an acceptable reason danced the line of treason, he knew it.

  The duke knew it, too.

  Still, he didn’t answer. He wouldn’t answer. Worse, he continued to look out the window rather than at the man addressing him.

  So it’d finally happened. Too many rounds of fisticuffs have finally turned me into an idiot.

  It was the only reasonable explanation.

  But the duke was also his friend, or as close to one as MacLeod could have, considering. The duke trusted him and wouldn’t press him on it, though he had every reason to do so. Hell, the man could even threaten to jail him if he so desired.

  But he didn’t. “MacLeod, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that your timing is bloody awful. It would be all too easy to question your loyalty.”

  MacLeod had zero difficulty hearing the note of exasperation in his friend’s tone. “Aye, I ken it.”

  Still, MacLeod didn’t turn away from the window to look at the duke while he spoke. The fact the duke didn’t demand he do so, coupled with his decision not to question MacLeod’s reasoning further, was a mark of significant trust.

  It left a bittersweet taste on his tongue and a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  How had he merited such loyalty?

  The duke sighed in frustration, then sharpened his tone. “Well, this thing that has you so thoroughly occupied is going to have to wait.”

  MacLeod stiffened, his gut screaming ‘No!’ though he wasn’t foolish enough to voice this reaction.

  “Dansbury has disappeared.” MacLeod started to turn around at that, but saw the duke hold up his hands in reassurance out of the corner of his eye. “To my knowledge, he’s all right; he’s abandoned the original plan due to the possible traitor in our midst.”

  MacLeod nodded, agreeing with the duke’s assessment, and returned to watching the chaotic bustle outside the window. “That’s wise.”

  The duke came over to stand next to him. “I agree, though I don’t like it. So I have a new task for you.”

  The duke paused, and this time, MacLeod looked directly at him. The duke’s face was grave as he said, “I need you to find our traitor.”

  MacLeod’s hands clenched where he held on to the window frame. His stomach felt sour for so many reasons: he knew the duke was telling him to abandon his search for Amelia Chase. At the same time, Stonebridge was also admitting he trusted MacLeod. It was significant, even in the face of everything else going on.

  Unfortunately, MacLeod knew the biggest reason for this unexpected internal—ache—was because he wouldn’t be seeing Amelia Chase again, at least for a while, possibly months…

  …which was wholly absurd yet woefully real.

  “Alaistair, I am aware you are looking for the American, Mrs. Chase, but it is of no matter. She is not significant in the face of this directive. You do realize that? Finding our traitor—” Stonebridge cleared his throat. God, even the duke had difficulty saying that word, “—is far more important.”

  “Aye, I ken.” Still, it was disconcerting to know that his gut did not agree with his head.

  Regardless, it mattered not; he had no choice. The duke was his superior, and this was a direct order. His gut might not like it, but the duke was right.

  At that moment, he could have reported his suspicions regarding Amelia Chase. Hell, he should have, but for some reason, even though it was on the tip of his tongue to do so, he didn’t. Doing so felt like a betrayal to her.

  What a fucking mess.

  But this time, MacLeod knew what he had to do. He would do his duty and no longer carry with him some measure of regret for choosing a woman—one he hardly knew and worse, barely tolerated—over his responsibility, his honor.

  He absentmindedly rubbed at his chest. Who was he kidding? He thoroughly enjoyed Amelia’s Chase’s vivacious personality, though he would never admit that out loud. Hell, he barely admitted it to himself.

  He was attracted to her on a level that utterly shocked him and he found he had a reluctant but earnest respect for her determination a
nd tenacity.

  Still, it was not enough to further destroy his career, his respect, and his friendships over.

  Unfortunately, everything else inside him intensely disagreed with that sentiment, as did the depressing feeling that blanketed his mind at the thought of doing what he knew was right.

  Stonebridge clapped him on the shoulder, jerking him from tumbling further into his miserable and chaotic thoughts. “Excellent, keep me posted, and we’ll be in touch soon. And MacLeod? Bring him to me.”

  There was no need to ask who him was. They both knew, and they both hated it.

  After the duke left, MacLeod raced up to Amelia’s room to leave her a note where she’d be sure to see it. It felt suspiciously like goodbye and he had to stifle the urge to falter, to change course and disregard a direct order.

  Instead, MacLeod returned to the stables to prepare for his departure.

  Half an hour later, he walked around his horse for a fifth time, checking once more that all his gear was strapped down correctly. It was a delaying tactic, he acknowledged it.

  But after a few more checks, and still no sign of Amelia Chase, there was nothing for it; it was time to go. MacLeod mounted his horse and gathered the reins in his gloved hands. He was turning to leave, when an unmarked carriage pulled into the courtyard, capturing his undivided attention.

  The carriage, large, black, and spotless, pulled to a stop on the opposite side of the great, bustling courtyard. MacLeod held his breath, watching. For a moment, nothing happened. It felt like an eternity passed while he waited for something, anything, to happen.

  Finally, a coachman climbed down and opened the carriage door.

  MacLeod’s heart moved up into his throat and hammered out a fast rhythm that sounded like a thousand men marching in his ears.

  The carriage dipped once and then out stepped Amelia Chase.

  As if she were some angel gifted to the people of this earth, she stood tall in a shaft of sunlight, a bright light in an otherwise dreary world.

  MacLeod’s heart felt as if it flipped in his chest.

  A man near to his own age leaned out, his face only visible in profile, and kissed her hand. He took entirely too long to get on with it, leaving MacLeod with the urge to gallop across the courtyard and wrench her hand away, while slamming his fist into the man’s cheek.

  Eventually, the man returned to the safety of his carriage and it rolled on its way in the opposite direction from whence MacLeod was headed.

  Still, he desperately wanted to chase it down.

  Instead, he looked Amelia Chase over from head to toe. She appeared unruffled and well.

  Amelia hefted her small valise and looked about. There were many people going about their business in the dingy courtyard, but she stood out like a lone bright buoy in a sea of gray.

  Then she looked directly at him, her eyes locking with his.

  And, as always seemed to be the case with her, the remaining world dimmed and faded into obscurity.

  She smiled and lifted her hand to wave. And oh, that smile…it was a smile meant for him and only him. It pierced his heart as surely as an arrow might when delivered by the hands of a skilled archer. She was happy to see him.

  Aye, the entire world fell completely away in that moment. The bustling activity, the horses whinnying, the footmen shouting, the children running amok underneath it all. It was just her standing there looking at him and he at her—so close, but so utterly out of reach. It was almost poignant. He wanted nothing more than to close the gap, racing his horse through the crowds until he landed at her feet and swooped her up in his arms.

  He felt a mixture of relief to see she was whole and disappointment their moment was over.

  He could not go to her.

  He would not go to her.

  His horse stepped back a few paces as he inadvertently tugged on the reins, and in that moment, her face fell. She surely realized he had no intention of going to her.

  It broke him to see it, yet he refused to be moved to treason by the loss of her smile, though the world seemed darker with the knowledge this was goodbye, at least for the foreseeable future. He reached up and absentmindedly rubbed at his chest, the pain there sharp and unexpected.

  He supposed he knew, deep down in the blackest recess of his mind, he knew: they weren’t through. Not at all. They couldn’t be.

  Aye. They couldn’t be.

  So with that bit of reassurance settled firmly in his mind, he tipped his hat and winked at her, a move so completely foreign to him that he frowned and abruptly turned his horse about and rode out of the courtyard before he did something truly stupid…

  Like pull her onto his horse and across his lap and take her with him on his hunt for a traitor.

  Och, he was sure he would replay their numerous interactions over and over in his mind while he was away…and quite effectively rediscover his anger towards her. It was the way his mind worked.

  Impossible as it was, he could have sworn he heard her voice above the bustling crowd as she whispered goodbye. His mind argued the sentiment.

  Nae, Mrs. Chase, we will meet again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Amelia Chase was crestfallen.

  Yes. Downright cracked up, mouth frowning, foot stomping disappointed. Dash it all, he wasn’t meant to leave her like that! They had things to say to each other. Names to call each other. Things to yell at each other. Or throw at each other. Or both.

  She wasn’t finished with him, damn it!

  Amelia turned on her heel and stormed into Ye Olde Howling Monkey, paying little notice to the odd assembly of patrons enjoying their afternoon libations. But it was difficult to overlook the stuffed monkeys perched on random shelves around the room and at either end of the long bar, all of them posed as if howling with laughter and pointing into the distance at one another or the odd patron seated nearby.

  She even stopped completely before the ten-foot-tall stuffed monkey in red livery standing next to the base of the stairs, his arm holding a white tea towel and a ring of keys. But this one was absurdly strange and impossible to ignore, no question about it. He appeared to be silently howling!

  She wanted to howl, too. Ye Olde Howling Monkey…how appropriate.

  Argh. Stupid, over-bearing brute of a man. That craven, knotty-pated coxcomb.

  Amelia harnessed her anger lest she become overwhelmed with despair. Unexpectedly, she paused in her march and gasped in a breath, almost completely losing her composure, then she pulled herself together once more.

  She was Amelia Chase, dammit. Independent American Woman.

  Amelia marched toward the innkeeper, fully prepared to take out her frustration on him. Yes. She was happy—happy!—to have this, erm, little, white-haired old man fill the part of her own personal punching bag.

  All right, so maybe she was somewhat hesitant to attack a defenseless old man.

  But then again, he was probably used to rowdy regulars kicking up a ruckus. Never mind that his face wore the deep lines of a man who lived the bulk of his life with a smile on his face and far too much laughter. It was so evident it was practically carved around his mouth and in the corners of his eyes.

  But no! She would not let that sway her, not one bit. And she would simply ignore the sweet smile he bestowed upon her now. He was a man. One of them. Strange and rude and unforgivable creatures that they were.

  Amelia glanced down at the man’s hands, then looked away immediately. Drat, not even the sight of his trembling hands as he held an old key in his gnarled fingers would leash her barely restrained tongue. Someone was going to get a tongue lashing and this man was it.

  Amelia dropped her small valise on the counter with a bang. “My husband has a room reserved. The name’s Chase. Mrs. Amelia Chase.”

  Her tone was clipped. And commanding. No ‘please’ would be forthcoming from Amelia Chase. And the innkeeper had better hope the answer to her implied question was yes.

  Or more to the point, MacLeod had bette
r hope the answer was yes.

  The innkeeper simply held up one quivering hand to cup his ear, the universal sign for ‘I didn’t hear you.’ and his smile firmly in place the entire time. “Eh?”

  Amelia spoke louder. “My husband has a room reserved. The name’s Chase. Mrs. Amelia Chase.”

  She was determined and holding on to her justifiable anger with both hands. No please forthcoming, still.

  “Eh?” came the innkeeper’s reply.

  This time, Amelia used her lungs’ full capacity, but tempered her shout with a smile. “The name’s Chase! Amelia Chase!”

  The man’s smile widened then, if such a thing were possible. “Yes, ma’am,” he hollered in return. “Right this way.”

  He walked around the bar and turned toward the stairs.

  “Thank you,” she said by mistake. She wasn’t being polite, dammit.

  He stopped and turned back to her. “Eh?”

  “Never mind!” she yelled. It was becoming quite clear that the inn was appropriately named for several reasons.

  The innkeeper reached down, grasped ahold of her left hand, and patted it with his right, all with a smile that reached his dark blue eyes, crinkling them in the corners with a merry twinkle of delight. “It’ll be all right, dearie. No need to yell.” Then, he turned back around to lead the way.

  And just like that, she was no longer prepared to make this man her personal whipping post. What self-respecting woman would take out her anger on a sweet old man who was practically deaf? Especially one with a smile as genuine as all that?

  Amelia exhaled a sigh of relief when she stepped into her room to see her personal luggage stacked neatly against one wall. At least something was going right.

  She took a moment to survey the room with an appreciative eye. It was bright and airy and decorated in white with blue flowers

  But best of all…it was clean.