ADAM LESLIE dipped his quill in the inkwell and carefully added “My” in front of “Dear Sister,” frowned, then squeezed in “est” in the middle. My Dearest Sister. There now, surely Caithren wouldn’t be miffed at his news after such an affectionate greeting.
Gazing up at the paneled walls of the Royal Arms, he flipped his straight dark blond hair over his shoulder. That he wouldn’t be returning to Leslie soon shouldn’t surprise Cait—he hadn’t spent more than a few days at home since his eighteenth birthday. But it wouldn’t hurt to be loving when he imparted the news…he did love her. And he knew that she loved him as well, though they rarely saw each other.
Och, Scotland was boring. He was happy to leave the running of the Leslie lands to his younger sister and their Da. He chuckled to himself, imagining Da’s latest fruitless efforts to marry her off.
“Are you not finished yet, Leslie?”
He glanced up and smiled at his friends, the Earl of Balmforth and Viscount Grinstead. Dandies, they were, dressed in brightly colored satin festooned with jewels and looped ribbons. Though he kept himself decked out in similar style, he considered himself lucky they let him keep their company, untitled as he was—at least until his very healthy Da died sometime in the distant future.
Da was naught but a minor baronet, so Adam wasn’t entitled to call himself anything but Mister until he inherited.
“Leslie?”
“Almost done,” Adam muttered, pushing back the voluminous lace at his cuffs before signing his name to the bottom of the letter. He sprinkled sand on the parchment to blot the ink, then brushed it off and folded the missive.
“An ale for my friend!” Balmforth called.
Adam nodded. This was thirsty work. Losh, any work was thirsty work.
He preferred not to work at all.
He flipped the letter over and scrawled Miss Caithren Leslie, Leslie by Insch, Scotland on the back. After dusting the address with sand as well, he rose and crossed the taproom to the innkeeper’s desk, pinching the serving maid on her behind as she sauntered by with his tankard of ale.
She giggled.
“Have you any wax?” Adam dropped his letter on the scarred wooden counter and dug in his pouch for a few coins. “And you’ll post this for me, aye?”
The innkeeper blinked his rheumy eyes. “Certainly, sir.”
Adam pressed his signet ring into the warm wax, then went to join his companions. He lifted his ale and leaned across the table. Their three pewter mugs met with a resounding clank.
“To freedom!” Grinstead said, shaking off some foam that had sloshed onto his hand.
“To freedom!” Adam echoed. “Till Hogmanay!”
Grinstead raised an eyebrow. “You told her you’d be gone till the new year?”
“At the least.” Adam swallowed a gulp and swiped one hand across his mouth before the froth dripped onto his expensive satin surcoat. “We’ve the week hunting in West Riding, then Lord Darnley’s wedding in London come the end of the month. Wouldn’t care to miss Guy Fawkes Day in the City. Then I might as well stay through the Christmas balls, aye?” The taproom’s door banged open. “No sense in going home, then leaving again straightaway.”
“No sense at all,” Grinstead agreed, staring toward the entrance. “Will you look at what just walked in?”
Balmforth followed his gaze, then frowned. “Do you think she might be that MacCallum woman everyone’s talking about?”
Adam swung round to watch the tall lass cross the taproom and seat herself at another table.
“Nary a chance.” Adam tossed back the rest of the ale and signaled the serving maid for another. “Emerald MacCallum dresses like a man.”
“She’s carrying a knife,” Balmforth argued in a loud whisper. “And she looks hard. Like the sort of woman who would make her living capturing outlaws.”
“If a woman could capture outlaws,” Grinstead said dryly.
Adam let loose a loud guffaw. “You’re both of you in your cups. Emerald MacCallum carries a sword and a pistol, not a knife. But if she were here, she would trounce you, Grinstead, from here to tomorrow.” Adam straightened the lacy white cravat at his neck. “And me too, I expect.”
They all burst out laughing, until another bang of the door caught their attention.
An excited old-timer stood in the opening. “Duel at the Market Cross!”