Free Sins of the Highlander by Connie Mason Page B

the narrow inland sea’s “tide,” according to Angus. His friend knew more about Loch Eireann than any soul alive, so there was nothing to do but wait till the wind and water were more favorable to their cause.
    Rob scooped out a dollop of soap from the stone jar Angus had loaned him and smeared his whole body with it. He even gingerly sudsed up his hair, working out the matted blood and hoping not to reopen the gash left when he knocked himself out in that fall against a log.
    The savory smell of richly spiced sausages frying wafted out to him.
    He turned around to look at the house. Elspeth was behind one of the vellum-covered windows. Did she wonder where he was? If it had been high summer and the windows left uncovered to let in a breeze, would she have peeked out at him as he stood on the shoal, naked as God made him?
    He soaped up his groin. Just the thought that Elspeth might spy on him at his bath made part of him happier than it ought to be, considering the temperature.
    A cloud covered the sun, and the air cooled even more.
    Rob turned and dashed into the loch, the chilly water snatching his breath as he ducked under the waves to rinse off the tallow soap. Then he splashed back out to the shore and rubbed his body briskly with the cloth Angus had lent him.
    He sincerely hoped Elspeth wasn’t looking now. After a November dip in Loch Eireann, no man was at his best.
    “Ye half-wit,” he mumbled to himself as he pulled the fresh thigh-length shirt over his head. It was an old one of Fletcher’s, so it was a tad long and worn thin in spots, but at least it was clean. “Ye muckle-headed blatherskite!”
    Why should he care whether she looked or no’? She was his prisoner, not his sweetheart.
    If he muddled that fact, he was destined for trouble.
    He wrapped one of his friend’s plaids around his waist and cinched it with a belt. There was plenty left to sling over his shoulder.
    And he still had plenty of rage left for Lachlan Drummond. Unfortunately, it was becoming increasingly hard to connect Elspeth Stewart with her betrothed. She was a bonnie lass with more courage than half the men he knew. She certainly showed her quality when the wolves surrounded them. Most lasses—hell, most men—would have shite themselves.
    But if his plan for revenge was ever to work, he had to keep thinking of her as Lachlan Drummond’s bride.
    He suspected he wasn’t thinking clearly from lack of sleep. During that brief nap with Elspeth in the cave, Fiona hadn’t come to him. He’d merely sunk into a black oblivion. His dreamless slumber hadn’t rested him one whit.
    The sausages called to him again, a greasy, flavor-ripe summons.
    He followed his nose back to Fletcher’s house.
    Some folk said the Scots race had a miserly streak that ran wide and deep. Angus Fletcher would have argued he was merely thrifty. And because of this, he never threw away anything. His home was crammed to the ceiling with bits and pieces of broken tools, moldering animal hides, and scraps of wood that used to be a chair or an ax handle—things he fully intended to repair someday. A body never knew when something might come in useful.
    Rob found his friend squatting by the fire. Plump sausages sizzled in the iron skillet bedded in the low flame. Angus speared them and flipped them over to brown both sides.
    “Och, laddie, ye smell almost human again,” Angus said with a laugh.
    “I dinna think ye’ve been over concerned about bathing yourself, from the looks of ye.” Rob thought it wise to refrain from mentioning that his friend smelled a bit like damp wool.
    “I had me bath just last month, thank ye kindly, and won’t be due for another again till spring.” Angus slanted him a sour look. “Unless I spend a night like the one ye just had.”
    Rob chuckled. A lifelong bachelor, Angus Fletcher kept his home in an order only he understood. In contrast, his boat, an echo of an old Viking longboat, was as spotless as any goodwife kept her