Free Thief by Linda Windsor

you can see, sir—”
    “Caden,” he reminded her.
    “You can well see, Caden, I’ve no need for anything you have to offer, so step aside.” And why should it matter so much to him whether she went or stayed?
    “You heard her. Off with you, now.” Gemma, who’d been helping Utta make beds on the floor about the hearth, tugged on the stranger’s tunic as though to pull him away.
    Caden gave the little woman a cursory glance. “I will, mite , when I’ve finished with the lady.”
    Gemma marched off, mumbling under her breath as if to make the man think she might be conjuring some sort of spell, but his chuckle belayed any concern he might have. Yet, when he turned back to Sorcha, his purse was no longer at his side.
    Oh, Gemma, not this one! Every alarm in Sorcha’s body told her this Caden was not one to be trifled with.
    “There’s nothing left to say, sir,” Sorcha declared. Maybe if she could get Gemma alone, they could figure a way to return it. “Tell her to keep her land.”
    But the man moved to block her path down from the raised gallery. “I have lots more to say, milady. I’ve not come all this way to leave unheard. Have you Sassenach no sense of hospitality?”
    “Sorcha, we’d best be goin’ home soon,” Utta called to her as she drew on her shawl, making ready to leave. “Mind if I walk with ye?”
    “We’ll talk a bit more, thank you, miss,” the stranger told her.
    Polite, but bullheaded.
    “That would be lovely, Utta. I was just saying good night to this fine gentleman,” Sorcha replied to the coded question. It was a signal among the tavern staff for discerning when a patron caused, or looked as if he were about to cause, trouble.
    The unsuspecting Caden was about to take a trip to the land of temporary darkness and painful awakening. Mann, the tavern keeper, waited just around the partial wall on which Sorcha had hung her cloak—with a club that had sent many an unruly patron on such a journey.
    “Leave me be now, sir,” she warned him, her voice loud enough to garner the attention of the people trying to settle on the floor. “I’ll have none of your nonsense.”
    Sorcha made to push past him, but Caden grabbed her arm.
    “Let me go,” she demanded, “ then I’ll talk.”
    But as she pulled away, he mistook her action as intent to escape. His fingers tightened like iron tongs, making her wince in pain. Yet there was a plea in his words. “It wasn’t like you thought, lassie.”
    What? Sorcha looked past him, widening her gaze as if to shout “No!” at the tavern keeper before he carried out his intent or gave himself away.
    “Your father died,” Caden continued, “trying to find—”
    But it was too late. Down came the club. The tall stranger crumbled to his knees, his face a mirror of surprise, and sprawled forward on the gallery step. Sorcha jumped back with a gasp.
    Across the room, some of the Cymri guests who’d witnessed the attack started to their feet, but Mann held up his hand. “I’ve no quarrel with you, sirs. This ’un was in his cups and manhandlin’ the lady,” Mann explained hastily. “I doubt yer countrymen take that sort o’ thing any more kindly than mine.”
    The two men hesitated, uncertain, glancing from Sorcha to the unconscious Caden … and to a few of the Saxon patrons who were also stirring, ready to defend Mann and the ladies.
    “But I’d forego yer lodgin’ coin, if one of ye’d help me settle him amongst ye, till he comes around.”
    Money talked to Cymri and Saxon alike. They came forward, eager to help.
    Fingers shaking, Sorcha pinned her cloak, her mind racing as to how to get the man’s money back to him without being seen.
    “Go home, lassies,” Mann told her and Gemma, who stood ready by the door. “I’ll tend to this ’un as always. No doubt he’ll think better of botherin’ women, come tomorrow.”
    “We’ll see you tomorrow’s eve, Mann,” Gemma said, stepping outside and leaving Sorcha little choice