Page 12 of Highlander’s Mercenary Lass

The bog-eyed farmer had his sights firmly on the lassie, still bolt upright in the center of the throng.

The situation that Andrew had thought was under control was flaring again, like a flame through a forest.

"Nay ye dinnae," said Andrew, ducking before the farmer could hit him.

He kneed him between the legs, bringing him down like a felled tree. His cries were so loud they could probably be heard all over town.

Andrew's flashing eyes shone around the barroom. "Who's next?" he snarled.

To his side, a couple of lads jostled, but Andrew swiped them with his sword. The rest backed off before he could go further.

"Come on, lads, leave it," the innkeeper said. A tall man, he moved a little closer, his sparing features towering over the room. Behind him, a couple of men with firm jaws backed him up.

The tide turning, the remaining men backed off, leaving the lass alone. When they had all gone, Andrew turned to her.

"Are ye alright?" he asked, watching her carefully. She was tall and well built, although not large. Her shoulder-length hair bounced wildly around her head, setting off her olive complexion to good effect. Her woolen cloak was simple and neat, and although she appeared unremarkable, there was something compelling about this girl.

The girl flashed her honey-colored eyes, bedazzling him. They were like gold, although Andrew supposed they were hazel-brown. She eyed him with disdain.

"I'm braw," she declared, then she looked around. "An' I would have been fine too, by mysel'."

Insouciance flared in her honey-gold eyes.

Andrew was mesmerized.

"It looked as if ye could have used a wee bit o' help," he said gently. He didn't doubt the girl's resilience, but there were limits. He smiled, hoping to mollify her. He didn't.

"Well, ye thought wrong," she hissed. She dusted herself down, smoothing the back of her hair with her hand. Taking a seat, she looked at him. "Do ye nae think I dinnae get this all the time? I can handle mysel'!"

Andrew decided there was no point in disputing it. Ordinarily, he might have felt a little put out, but there was something about this woman that disarmed him.

"Alright," he said, backing down. Without being asked, he sat down next to the girl, picking up her quaich. "But I bet ye could use a wee dram all the same?"

His eyes met hers, sparkling. For a moment, Andrew thought he detected a thaw, but a second later, she was ice again.

"Alright," she said coolly. "Thank ye."

Andrew nodded to the innkeeper, then turned back to the girl. She got comfortable on the seat, fastening her shawl around her slender frame.

Her shoulders curved gracefully, with a noble quality rarely seen in a peasant woman. But despite her demeanor, Andrew saw she was anxious to see that the men who had bothered her were truly gone.

By now, the innkeeper and his friends had ushered them out into the street. Around them, a small pocket was opening up, bringing sweet relief from the stale odor in the room.

Finally, the room was thinning. Most of the drinkers had left, leaving their corner of the room empty and still.

The tall innkeeper brought the two wooden quaichs over to the table, and the lass took a sip. But Andrew wasn't looking. He was making sure that this time, the troublemakers would not be returning. A sudden wave of tiredness washed over him.

Maybe it was the long journey coupled with the previous long journey all the way from the battlefield. It suddenly struck Andrew that he had not rested properly since leaving the laird.

Remembering Marcus, and his mission, sent a ripple of sadness through him. Andrew still could barely believe that the laird was dead. He waited patiently until the last of the drinkers had gone before speaking to the girl.

"So then, lassie, what do they call ye?"

His eyes were still firmly trained on the door, watching the men emptying out onto the street beyond. Andrew hoped that they were not going to hang about out there.

In the air around him, he caught an air of the girl's scent, sweet as roses but mixed in with a little feminine sweat. But from the aura he got about this lass, she was not a fragile flower.

Andrew sensed a reticence from her, so he tried again.

"What's yer name, lass?" he asked more directly. The double doors of the inn finally closing, Andrew relaxed a little. There was silence from the street outside, and it sounded as if the men were leaving.

"Dinnae be shy, lass."

Then he looked.

She was gone.