Free To Love a Highlander by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

low-beamed long room. The air was thick with the smell of stew and ale, and peats glimmered in the fine stone fireplace. But the scarred tables were empty. A few oil lanterns burned, their smoky light not enough to banish the corner shadows. The clatter of plates and ale cups came from the kitchen, the noise breaking the silence that hung so heavy in the public room.
    Sorley remained where he stood, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness, not liking the stillness.
    He knew why when a hand clamped down on his shoulder and a familiar voice boomed behind him, “You’re losing your touch, letting a beautiful woman leave your bedchamber after less time than it takes to properly kiss a lass.
    “Or”—his archfiend, Roag the Bear, stepped around him, grinning—“did she run after discovering you dinnae even know how to kiss?”
    “What have you done?” Sorley glanced around the empty long room. “Downed all of Wydes’s ale so that your wits are addled? I slept alone last night, no’ that it’s aught to you.”
    “That I know!” Roag’s grin widened. “The lady would’vesliced you with her razor-sharp tongue had you tried to keep her any longer.
    “She cannae abide you, that one.” Roag dropped onto a chair and stretched his long legs toward the fire. “We’ve known that since we were lads, what?”
    “You’re talking nonsense.” Sorley remained standing, the other man’s cheek making his head ache again. “I ne’er have aught to do with ladies, as well you know.”
    “Whate’er.” Roag shrugged, his damnable grin appearing permanent.
    Roag, too, was an agent of the crown. A Fenris Guard, much as Roag’s membership in the secret brotherhood sometimes irked Sorley. For sure, he didn’t recall any mention of the lout’s participation in dealing with the unpleasantness that was Sir Henry Lockhart.
    Hoping he hadn’t erred, Sorley did rake the arse with a narrow-eyed stare. A great hulk of a man, hence his by-name, Bear, Roag enjoyed the same dark good looks as Sorley, much to his annoyance. Even more galling, the thin knife-slash that arced across Roag’s left cheekbone gave him a dashing, roguish air that appealed strongly to women.
    Sorley couldn’t stand him.
    So he crossed his arms, ignoring the chair Roag pulled out for him.
    “What are you doing here?” Sorley glanced across the room, not surprised to see a fetching dark-haired lass peering at them from behind the kitchen door. She was Maili, a cheery, plump-breasted castle laundress who enjoyed earning a bit of extra coin at the Red Lion.
    Sorley suspected she simply had a taste for men and took delight in lifting her skirts. She did put her heart into each amorous adventure, as he knew well.
    Roag especially favored her. But Sorley’s gut warned that the buxom lass wasn’t the bastard’s only reason for being at the inn.
    Following Sorley’s gaze, Roag winked at the maid before turning back to Sorley. “I ken you’ve sampled her charms, so dinnae tell me you wonder what drew me here. There’s no’ a sweeter tumble for miles. Unless”—his grin returned, flashing boldly—“you tame Lady Mirabelle. I’ll wager she’d set the heather ablaze.”
    “The lady’s amorous abilities are of no interest to me,” Sorley lied. “If she even possesses such skills, which I doubt.”
    Roag snorted. “And Wyldes will turn out his stable of comely, well-made tavern wenches and hire shriveled, grizzle-haired crones to serve his patrons. Those with breasts hanging to their knees will claim the highest price.”
    “You deserve such a female.”
    “There speaks a man soured because he cannae enjoy the MacLaren minx in the heather.”
    “You’re a bastard, spawned on the hottest hob of hell.”
    “So I am.” Roag shrugged, looking amused.
    Furious because his archrival had struck a nerve, Sorley tore his gaze from the lout’s grinning face before he planted his fist in the middle of it. Resisting the urge, he glanced at the shadowed