Free Kill or Be Kilt by Victoria Roberts

that Ruairi has done for us, I am greatly insulted by your rudeness. And frankly, you two should know better.”
    Elizabeth spun on her heel and approached the waiting carriage, leaving the men standing with their mouths agape.
    * * *
    â€œNow why did ye have to go and do that, Munro? Ye’ve fired Elizabeth’s ire,” said Fagan with a smile. “And if she’s anything like Grace, she won’t let ye forget that anytime soon.”
    â€œBastard.”
    â€œAye.”
    Ruairi lowered his voice. “ Tha thu mi-mhodhail. ” You’re badly behaved. “I’ve learned that even if ye feel the way that ye do, ’tis nae always best to tell the lasses what ye are thinking. Now let’s get the hell out of here. I can nae stand being this close to the English.” He gave them an amused look. “And notice ye did nae hear me say that in front of Elizabeth…or her kind.”
    Ian mounted his horse and said a silent prayer of thanks as they traveled out the gatehouse and into the city. At least they wouldn’t have to sleep under the same roof as all those English. Even though he wasn’t fond of the Walsingham sisters, he hadn’t meant to insult Elizabeth. After all, the lass had taken the time to talk with him on several occasions, a task most lasses would’ve avoided. He’d be sure to mind his words in the future; he owed her that much.
    As the men followed the carriage through the narrow, barely lit streets of London, Ian cringed. A pungent odor filled the air from all the rubbish that lay on the dirty roads, and he willed himself not to gag. Feeling a sense of compassion for his horse, he patted the animal on the neck. “ Tha mi duilich. ” I am sorry.
    They arrived at a nearby inn, and as Ruairi secured their rooms, Ian paid the stable master more coin than what was required to see that their horses were well cared for. He certainly hoped his own accommodations would be more welcoming than the streets of London.
    Elizabeth approached Ruairi as he came out of the inn. “There are enough rooms for us all. The innkeeper will have your trunks brought up to your room, lass. Why donna we have something to eat before we retire?”
    â€œThat sounds delightful.”
    Ruairi held open the door for Elizabeth, and the men followed her into the inn. Bawdy laughter filled the small dining hall, and the lass hesitated at the entrance. There were roughly two women and ten Englishmen who sat at the tables with tankards of ale in hand. Large, wooden beams stretched overhead, and lanterns were lit on the walls.
    Fagan gestured to a table in the corner. “Over there, lass.” He pulled out her chair, and she smiled her thanks.
    â€œThis has been a long day.” She sat and straightened her back. “I’m weary. I can only imagine what you must be feeling.”
    â€œI didn’t know we allowed their kind in here,” said one of the men who sat at the next table.
    Ruairi, Fagan, and Ian exchanged carefully guarded looks, but none of them paid the English curs any heed because of Elizabeth. Ian walked around the table and pulled out his chair. His gaze rested on one of the men. The whelp had blond, curly locks and barely looked old enough to be weaned from his mother’s breast.
    Ian removed his scabbard. He smiled at the young man, and then sat in the chair, resting his weapon against the table. Ruairi and Fagan followed suit, but they didn’t look at the bastard. If Elizabeth heard the comments of her countrymen, she didn’t say.
    â€œI’m sure you’re all famished,” said Elizabeth.
    â€œI could always eat,” said Fagan.
    Ruairi chuckled. “Aye, we know.”
    A small lass brought over three tankards of ale for the men and wine for Elizabeth. The woman was a few years older than Elizabeth and had brown hair pulled into a tight bun. As the lass returned to the kitchen, the blond whelp from the other