Page 11 of Highlander’s Mercenary Lass

Grudgingly, the drunk man moved, allowing Andrew to pass. As quickly as it had appeared, the crowd dispersed, and Andrew approached the bar.

"A couple o' wee drams," said Andrew politely. The lad at the bar looked up, treating Andrew to a faceful of pustules. Andrew tried not to recoil, but it was hard.

"Coming up," said the lad, without looking. He busied himself filling the quaiches as Andrew looked around the room. The crowd had gone, but the hostility remained. Maybe he was imagining it, but Andrew felt them watching him, their eyes heating the back of his head.

Then, a woman's voice cut through the throng. "Take yer hauns off me, ye clarty scunner!"

"I'll do what I want, darling," leered a man, his dark straggly hair falling over the young woman's face.

The same throng had gathered, this time pressed against a dark-haired young girl. Her bright eyes flashed out from across the room. Andrew tensed; she was live bait.

"So why dinnae ye start by being nicer to us, lassie?" said the man's friend. It was the straw-haired man from earlier.

Andrew pushed his way through the crowd.

"Yer drink, pal..."

Andrew punched the straw-haired man to the ground. He ricocheted across the room, bringing down a table as he went. The others gawped but soon were jostling forward. Then, a thickset farmer prodded Andrew.

"An' who are ye, stranger?"

The straw-haired man shook himself and slowly got to his feet. In the center of the room, the

girl's eyes sparkled like a trapped cat.

For the first time, Andrew noticed her properly. Despite everything, she was not backing down. Instead, she stared ahead, her chin pushed out and her head held high.

"Dinnae fash about who I am. Ye dinnae treat a lady like that!" growled Andrew, his choler rising.

Laughter rang around the room. Without hesitation, Andrew drew his sword.

"Lady?" laughed one of the men. "Her? She wouldnae ken one if she fell over one!"

That set off the room again, this time the laughter becoming raucous.

Andrew was on his own, but he wasn't backing down. With no warning, he pressed into the center of the crowd, his sword aloft. Elbowing and kicking, he pushed his way to the girl.

Pure surprise got the better of the men. They were drunk and not equipped for a fight. Still, some of them tried.

"Get out o' my way," growled the straw-faced man; together with the greasy dark-haired man, they blocked his way.

"Nay," said Andrew, raising his sword. He hadn't wanted to use his weapon, but they were giving him no choice. "Now I'm asking ye for the last time tae leave the lass alone—by order o' the laird o' Duncan!"

Andrew brandished his sgian-dubh straight at the straw-haired man. His face did not change, but slowly, he moved out of the way. Even as he did so, he murmured, "Yer laird is nae mine, soldier." But he moved anyway. Even here in the Ferguson estate, the laird of Duncan held some sway.

One by one, the men dispersed, pouring out of the packed bar and into the fresh night air. As the door opened, it brought with it a welcome breeze, cooling the charged atmosphere in the room.

Slowly, the room was emptying, and Andrew was on the verge of going back to his drink when, with no warning, something pushed him to the ground.

"Och," Andrew groaned, nursing his head. He was on the floor, his head having hit the hard stone floor. Lights and faces swirled madly around the room. It took a while for Andrew to get his memory back, but when he did, he did not waste a second.

In an instant, he was back on his feet, his sgian-dubh in his hands, and this time, he wasn't going to back down.

Whoosh!

One flick of Andrew's wrist and the straw-haired man was toppled. He didn't even use the blade; he just pushed the sloshed man to the ground—again. But this time, he carried on.

Next, Andrew was face-to-face with a narrow-faced farmer with strange eyes.