Maximus: A Medieval Scottish Romance (The Immortal Highland Centurions Book 1) Page 3

  Still, that wasn’t why he’d darkened the door of The Bogside Tavern, and this woman wasn’t a whore. He needed to stop looking at her as if she were part of what his silver penny had paid for.

  Maximus knew women found him attractive; he didn’t need to pay them to spread their legs for him. Yet he’d learned long ago that doing so made life easier. He avoided emotional entanglements that way—and the unpleasant scenes that always followed as a result.

  It was strange really, for so many years had passed since the mess with Evanna, yet he was still wary of women.

  Maybe I should visit a brothel in Stirling, he told himself as the lass drew close. Immortal or not, a man still had urges. But, as comely as she was, this serving wench was probably trouble. Most women were.

  “Bramble wine for ye,” she said, placing the cup and jug down.

  Maximus watched her under hooded lids. “Thank you … what’s for supper?”

  “Game pie … pigeon and grouse.”

  The woman looked boldly down at him, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. She certainly wasn’t shy. “What’s yer business in Fintry?”

  Pouring himself a cup of dark wine, Maximus favored the woman with a cool smile. “Just passing through.”

  “Heather!”

  A thin woman with flushed cheeks appeared in the kitchen door behind them, her shout cutting through the roar of men’s voices. “Stop yammering, and move yerself!”

  Heather. A bonny Scottish name, and one that suited her.

  Huffing an annoyed breath, Heather turned from him and marched off. Maximus watched the sway of her hips and the tantalizing swell of her backside as she did so.

  Once she disappeared into the kitchen, he raised the cup to his lips, taking a sip. The bramble wine was good: full-bodied with a pleasing sweetness. It was strange really. All these years away from his homeland and yet wine was still his drink of choice.

  It was the taste of a sun-drenched land he’d all but forgotten.

  Maximus swallowed, sighing as the liquid slid down his throat and warmed the pit of his belly. The first sip of wine after a long journey always made him forget his cares.

  A frigid draft gusted into the common room when the door opened once more, bringing with it three men. They were big and loud, their voices booming across the crowded space. Once again, the tavern’s patrons glanced up from their tankards, although they didn’t stare as they had when Maximus entered. Instead, a few of them grinned and called out greetings to the newcomers.

  The men sauntered across to an occupied table in the center of the space. The group of locals drinking there leaped up and vacated the table.

  Not bothering to thank them, one of the three—a hulking young man with wild auburn hair—flung himself down on a chair.

  “Ale!” he shouted. “And three of yer biggest pies!”

  The man’s two friends guffawed, enjoying his self-importance.

  A moment later, the serving lass emerged from the kitchen, carrying a platter of food. Ignoring the loud newcomer and his two companions, she circuited their table and headed toward Maximus’s booth.

  “What’s this, Heather?” The big auburn-haired man boomed. “No greeting for me today?”

  “I’ll greet ye, Cory Galbraith, when ye learn some manners,” she replied coolly, still not looking his way. “And when ye can walk in here without shouting the rafters down.”

  Rough laughter followed this comment, although the man she’d addressed scowled.

  Maximus took in the exchange with interest. Galbraith. Of course, Fintry sat at the heart of Galbraith lands. The laird himself resided at Culcreuch Castle, a grey stone tower that rose just beyond the village. If Maximus were a betting man, he’d say this loud-mouth was kin to the laird. He’d certainly sauntered into the tavern like he owned the place.

  Heather reached Maximus and lowered the tray before him. There was a large wedge of pie, half a loaf of barley and oaten bread, and some cheese. The aroma of the game made Maximus’s mouth water, reminding him that he’d hardly eaten today.

  He was about to thank the woman, when he noted that the exuberance he’d seen upon her face earlier, the spark in her eyes, was gone. Her jaw was now tense, her gaze shuttered.

  “Ye shall greet me when I wish it, woman,” Cory Galbraith called out behind her. “Come here, and show me a real welcome.”

  III

  HELL WILL FREEZE OVER

  HEATHER RESISTED THE urge to snarl. Cory Galbraith had started to pester her in earnest of late—but he’d gone too far this evening. She’d had enough.

  Swiveling to face him, she bestowed the laird’s son with a withering look. “I’d not let Aonghus catch ye saying such things. He doesn’t like it when ye pester me and Alana.”

  Cory snorted, before turning in his chair and spreading his legs in a gesture of male dominance that made Heather’s jaw clench.

  God’s teeth, he reminded her of Iain.

  Whatever did I see in that man?

  How many times over the past years had she asked herself that? These days, she marveled at just how blind she’d been. Her parents had been against the match, as had her sister. But she’d ignored them all. She still flushed hot with humiliation every time she remembered her mother’s final words to her.

  Ye are too proud, Heather De Keith. Proud and foolish. Ye are making the biggest mistake of yer life … and when ye come crawling back to Dunnottar with yer tail tucked between yer legs, I will enjoy telling ye so.

  She’d stridden out of that chamber, vowing to never give her mother the chance to crow. But five years on, she had to admit that she’d indeed made the biggest mistake of her life. And every time she set eyes on Iain’s cocky cousin, she was reminded of it.

  “Aonghus is a Galbraith … as are ye,” Cory drawled, his hot gaze raking the length of her. “And just like him, ye’ll do as ye are told … now come here.”

  “I’m busy,” Heather retorted. She frowned then. “And I’m a De Keith, not a Galbraith.”

  Cory’s expression darkened. Like Iain, he had ruggedly handsome good looks. And just like his cousin, he didn’t appreciate it when Heather contradicted him. Heather’s breathing quickened then at the memory of her husband’s blistering temper and the harsh feel of his fists.

  “Ye are still wed to Iain,” Cory reminded her.

  “It’s two years since that battle,” Heather countered. Heat ignited in her belly, dampening the fear; she knew she shouldn’t argue with this man, yet Cory’s constant harassment had gotten under her skin. “And he never came home. I think we can safely assume my husband’s dead.” Heart pumping now, she took a step toward him. “But if he isn’t … I’d like to see him beat ye to a pulp for harassing me.”

  Cory’s green eyes widened, while beside him Diarmid and Brodric sniggered, only to quieten down when their leader cut them a dark look.

  “He wouldn’t like to see ye serving ale in a tavern,” Cory growled. “I think it’s ye that would get the beating.”

  He wasn’t wrong, but Heather wasn’t going to agree with him.

  “It was either that or starve,” she snarled back, her temper well and truly fraying now. “Yer cousin left me with nothing.”

  “Ye had another choice,” he replied, his gaze boring into her now.

  Heather clenched her jaw. Of course she’d had. Actually, there had been three options open to her when she’d been forced to shut up her husband’s forge: return to her kin in the north, find work locally, or warm Cory Galbraith’s bed.

  Frankly, none of those choices had appealed. She couldn’t face her kin, especially after how they’d parted ways. And the thought of becoming Cory’s woman made her skin crawl. Working at The Bogside had seemed the best option at the time.

  Heather was aware that all the regulars at the nearby tables were staring at them, and she could feel the newcomer’s gaze upon her too. She resisted the urge to cast a glance in the direction of the kitchen.

  Where was Morag and her adder�
�s tongue when she needed her? And trust Cory to behave this way on the rare occasion when Aonghus was away for the night. He must have known.

  Placing her hands upon her hips, Heather stared her harasser down. “Let me make this clear. Hell will freeze over before I let ye touch me, Cory Galbraith.”

  With that, she stepped to one side and headed toward the kitchen.

  She’d only gone two strides when Cory lunged from his chair, grabbed her around the waist, and hauled her back, onto his lap.

  “Such a fiery lass!” he growled before his mouth fastened on her neck. “Ye were too much for Iain, but I’d tame ye.”

  Diarmid and Brodric roared with laughter at that, cheering Cory on while he pulled her hard against his groin.

  “Get yer hands off me!” Heather drove her elbow into his chest and made a grab for the edge of the table.

  Cory laughed and tightened his grip on her, his hands roving boldly now, squeezing and kneading her breasts. She could feel his arousal, pressed hard against her backside.

  Gasping as panic bloomed in her chest, Heather twisted frantically before driving her elbow into his throat this time.

  Cory’s choking intake of breath told her that she’d hurt him, yet his hold on her didn’t slacken. If anything, it tightened further. With one hand, he grabbed hold of her hair and yanked her head back. “I’ll have a kiss now.”

  “Do you mind? Some of us are trying to eat.”

  A cool voice rumbled over them, and as she continued to struggle, Heather’s gaze snapped over to the booth where the newcomer had been eating his supper. He must have been hungry because he was already halfway through his pie. The man put down the knife he’d been using to cut a piece of cheese, his dark gaze settling on Cory’s face.

  “This doesn’t concern ye,” Cory snarled. “Go back to yer supper, stranger!” His fingers tightened painfully around Heather’s hair.

  “I would,” the man replied, his handsome face inscrutable, “but the noise you’re making is ruining it.”

  In reply, Cory spat on the floor. “Too bad.” He then pulled Heather’s head down toward his. Fists and elbows flailing, she fought him, yet he was much stronger than her. His lips grazed hers, before she recoiled, her cry echoing through the common room.

  “Morag!” she yelled. Where was the woman?

  “She knows her place,” Cory leered, “as will ye soon enough.”

  “I paid good silver for this meal.” The newcomer was back, his voice edged with irritation now. “And I tire of listening to your grunting.”

  Cory went still, Heather momentarily forgotten. “What did ye say?”

  The stranger heaved a sigh. “You heard me well enough.”

  Cory let go of Heather and shoved her off his lap—the movement so sudden that she fell forward onto her knees. However, seizing the opportunity to escape, she scrambled away. Rising to her feet, she then backed toward the kitchen, her gaze upon Cory.

  Ignoring her, he rose to his considerable full height, looming over the booth where the newcomer sat. “I think it’s time for ye to leave, stranger.” Cory flexed his fingers at his sides. “Yer sort aren’t welcome in Fintry.”

  The man raised his chin, meeting Cory’s gaze squarely. His dark brows knitted together before his mouth quirked. However, he said nothing.

  “Did ye hear me?” Cory took a menacing step toward him. “Get up and leave.”

  The stranger inclined his head. “Sit back down, lordling. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

  From where she stood, Heather couldn’t see the expression on Cory’s face—although she imagined he’d turned red by now. His hands had fisted at his sides.

  The newcomer appeared to be deliberately baiting Cory. A fight was just moments from erupting.

  Cory stepped forward and swept the stranger’s meal to the floor with his hand. Wine, cheese, and pie splattered onto the sawdust. “Get up!”

  Long moments passed, and then the stranger gave another sigh. It was a weary, long-suffering response. There wasn’t a trace of fear in it.

  Heather swallowed hard, her fingers clutching at the skirts of her kirtle. Didn’t this man have any sense of self-preservation? She’d seen Cory and his friends fight in here before—the trio were brutal.

  Slowly, the stranger rose to his feet, and as he did so, Diarmid and Brodric stood up.

  “He’s carrying a blade, Cory,” Diarmid murmured, a warning edge to his voice. Now that the newcomer had gotten up, and stepped out of the booth, his presence seemed to fill the common room. His expression hadn’t altered, although his gaze had now veiled in a way that made the fine hair on the back of Heather’s neck prickle. It was a look that screamed danger.

  Around them, men started to mutter excitedly. Heather’s throat closed when she realized they were taking bets.

  In response, Cory unsheathed the dirk he carried at his hip. “Aye … and so am I.”

  IV

  A WASTE OF SILVER

  CORY LUNGED FOR the stranger, blade flashing, and Heather bit back a scream.

  He moved fast for such a big man. One moment he’d been standing there, gripping his dirk while he glared at the dark-haired man who’d dared interrupt his fun, and the next he was flying at the newcomer’s throat.

  The stranger ducked as the blade sailed past his neck, and drew his own blade. It wasn’t like any knife Heather had ever seen. The dirks her people used were long and thin whereas this dagger had a large, leaf-shaped blade.

  Cory’s roar of frustration echoed through the common room, reverberating against the rafters, and then he lunged again.

  Cory was good with a dirk—the whole village had heard him boast of his prowess—and Heather saw that he hadn’t been exaggerating his skill. He swiped the dirk, swift and deadly, and when the stranger twisted to avoid it, he wasn’t quite fast enough.

  The long, thin blade sliced into his upper arm.

  The newcomer grunted before he kicked out, driving a booted foot into Cory’s knee.

  The laird’s son roared once more, this time in agony, before he crumpled to the ground.

  Diarmid and Brodric lunged for the stranger.

  Heather watched, her breath stilling, while the newcomer dealt with them with ruthless efficiency. He head-butted Brodric and sent him crashing over a nearby table where two farmers sat drinking. The patrons reeled back as Brodric collided with them.

  Oblivious to the ruckus, the stranger then ducked under Diarmid’s swiping blade and punched him in the throat with his left hand. He still gripped that strange-shaped dagger in his right, yet he hadn’t used it.

  Diarmid dropped to his knees, wheezing. His dirk fell to the sawdust while he grasped at his injured throat.

  Meanwhile, the stranger moved to defend himself once more from Cory. Despite the fact that his knee had collapsed, the laird’s son lurched to his feet once more, his blade flying toward the stranger’s heart.

  The newcomer twisted out of range, nimble as an eel, before he ducked under Cory’s guard, grabbed him by the hair with one hand, and slammed him face-down on the table where he and his friends had been sitting.

  And then, he brought his leaf-shaped blade down, skewering Cory’s outstretched hand with a dull, meaty thud.

  Silence followed. It echoed through The Bogside Tavern. All gazes were riveted upon the knife that now pinned Cory’s hand to the table’s oaken surface.

  Cory inhaled sharply. His face had gone the color of raw liver, veins raised upon his forehead and neck.

  Still gripping the hilt of the blade, the stranger leaned forward, his mouth hovering close to the younger man’s ear. “It’s time for you and your friends to go home now, lordling,” he murmured. “Leave the rest of us to enjoy what’s left of the evening.”

  With that, the man yanked the blade free, and Cory Galbraith’s howl split the smoky air.

  Heart thundering against her ribs, Heather cleared up the spilled food and drink, and carried it into the kitchens. Inside, she foun
d Morag standing behind the large scrubbed table that dominated the space.

  The woman’s face was the color of milk. She’d heard everything, but not dared to venture out into the common room. She’d left Heather at Cory’s mercy.

  The two women’s gazes met across the table. Heather lowered the tray, and she realized her hands were trembling. Heat once more flared in the pit of her belly.

  Shock at what she’d just witnessed vied with outrage that Morag had been such a coward. A well-aimed rolling pin would have put Cory in his place before the situation spiraled out of control, and yet Morag, who was usually so fierce, had hidden away.

  As if reading the disgust writ upon Heather’s face, Morag’s throat bobbed. “Have they gone?”

  Heather nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Indeed, Cory, Diarmid, and Brodric had dragged their sorry carcasses from the tavern, wheezing and growling threats as they went. Cory had barely been able to walk, and had required his friends’ help. A trail of blood from his wounded hand now stained the sawdust-covered floor.

  “And that man—the one who started it—where’s he?”

  “He didn’t start it,” Heather replied, surprised at just how cold her voice was. “He stepped in to help when no one else would.” She looked down at the ruins of his supper. “He’s gone upstairs … he’s injured.”

  The stranger had remained silent until Cory and his friends had disappeared. He’d even held his tongue when Cory had paused on the threshold, fixed Heather with a stare, and said, “It’s not over between us, Heather. Now that Iain’s gone, I will make ye mine.”

  However, after their departure, the stranger had turned his dark gaze upon Heather. Blood coated the top of his left arm, but he didn’t seem to notice. When he’d spoken, his voice was dispassionate. “Which room is mine?”

  Heather felt light-headed and a little queasy in the aftermath of watching that fight, and yet underneath it all, she was awed by what she’d just witnessed.

  She’d never seen a man handle himself like that.