LITMIR.BIZ

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now-rapt audience. “Bandits?” said Lachlan, bristling, his eyes surveying the room as though they might be among us. “What bandits?”

      “Aye,” replied Hamish. “Five of them. They wore black masks and capes and they rode black horses. Ruthless, they were. Killed our escort right in front of our eyes. Speared him through the heart with a silver-hilted sword.”

      A twinge of pain brought me to the realization that I had bitten my own lip. I hoped Hamish’s imaginative yarn wasn’t too creative. I didn’t like the thought of what these war-hardened men might do to us if they suspected we were deceiving them. But there was no point correcting my nephew; it would only make them more inclined to doubt us. Strangely, I felt an uncharacteristic sense of regret that we were in fact deceiving them, these beautiful sisters with their kind eyes and their enviable lot in life. I would never have thought to wish for such a thing, but I couldn’t help feeling a sense of wonder at their fortune. Their manly band of escorts, all rugged good looks and masculine protectiveness against any and every potential threat these sisters might face; their dark beauty; their innate sense of style that was only enhanced tenfold by the wealth that so flatteringly showcased it.

      Ah, well. Overblown luck was not something I sought out, or even valued especially, having experienced so little of it. Which was why I had made a point of learning the tricks and mathematics that ensured something akin to luck. My kind of manufactured luck, however, was only useful at the gaming tables. It didn’t translate further afield than that. And even my skills at trickery in the gambling den hadn’t been enough to keep my brother-in-law’s broken, corrupt business afloat. Or my sister safe. It was best to carry on and appreciate the smaller fortunes in life, like this hearty meal we were almost finished with. And this fine brew of sweet tea.

      “We’ve been forced to make our way on foot,” I said, before Hamish could elaborate further. “We were fortunate to get a ride part of the way on a farmer’s wagon, which explains our somewhat ragged appearance. And then we saw this tavern.”

      “We’ve come from Edinburgh,” continued Hamish. “To search for some long-lost relatives whose names we don’t even know.”

      “You have relatives in the Highlands?” Christie asked, intrigued.

      Hamish answered before I could. “We do, but we know nothing about their identity. Our father’s final words to us, as he lay pale and choking for breath on his deathbed, his life seeping away from the disease that tragically stole him from us, were these—‘Go to the Highlands and seek out my cousin. He’s a good man and he will take you in. He’ll care for you as if you were his own.’ Of course, we were asking him, ‘Who, Father? Who is this cousin you speak of? Why have you never told us of him before? What’s his name?’ But it was too late. Father’s eyes had gone dull and lifeless. His final breath rasped from his body in a weak sigh. And then he was gone.” Hamish’s eyes, the little puck, were shiny with emotion. And he was still clutching the lethal-looking knife with both hands, which somehow only added to the performance. “We buried him next to our mother.”

      “Oh, you poor child,” exclaimed Christie.

      “I have Amelia to take care of me,” Hamish told her, with what I knew to be genuine relief tinting his words. “And I take care of her. We’re not alone.” I’d practically raised Hamish, since his parents had been so busy running the club, and I’d loved him madly from the moment he was born. In the nine years between then and now, my role in his life as aunt and guide had offered me as many moments of joy as any relationship I’d ever had. His complete trust in me—a trust that shone now from his seraphic face—strengthened my resolve to keep him safe and to give him every chance in life, despite our significant hardships. If I had to stoop to servitude or to spinning a few harmless lies to do it, then so be it. “And so,” Hamish continued solemnly, “with no living relatives left in Edinburgh, we’ve come to seek out this cousin. But then, out of nowhere, a band of renegades surrounded us, attacking as one! Ours was a fine enough carriage, filled with all our belongings. They took everything. James tried to protect our family heirlooms. We told him to let them have it, that it wasn’t worth his life, but he wouldn’t listen. He was loyal to his bones.”

      James. His father’s name. An odd choice for our fictional driver. But then, I knew Hamish’s bond with his father had never been a strong one.

      “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Katriona said, her mild empathy laced with more pronounced vestiges of disbelief. “Who are these bandits in black? I had no idea such people even existed.”

      Unfortunately, Katriona’s skepticism aggravated the little devil in me, the whispering contrariness that resided persistently within my character no matter how hard I tried to banish it. That she would so immediately question Hamish’s sincerity irked me, even if she had good reason to do so. I found myself yearning to bolster my nephew’s story to support him, and to silence her. “Oh, I’d never heard of such a thing, either,” I said. “At first we thought them an apparition, a wayward fear that might have stepped out of the fathomless pages of medieval history, traveling as we were through such unfamiliar territory. It was why our escort was so unwilling to cooperate with them. We simply couldn’t believe we were being robbed so aggressively, and in such an idyllic setting. And when they demanded we step free of the carriage, I was relieved, at least, that they intended to let us go. I willingly bargained with them, giving them all our possessions, my jewelry—most of which belonged to our dearly departed mother—our horses and the carriage itself in exchange for our freedom, even if it meant we might wander for days on end without any sign of shelter or assistance. But James was worried about our safety under such conditions. He argued. He refused to relent.” I faltered here, almost getting swept away in the emotional momentum of my tale. “’Twas a brutal end,” I finally said. “But thankfully, Hamish and I were allowed to flee. We hid behind the incline of a small hill until they were gone.”

      “If I’d had this knife,” Hamish added, “I’d have run after them.”

      Christie’s eyes sparked with concern as she pictured our harrowing ordeal. Lachlan, however, sported a completely different expression as his gaze flicked back and forth between Hamish and me. If I wasn’t mistaken, he appeared faintly amused, more relaxed than a soldier should have been when confronted with news of this kind: that evildoers were loose in his near vicinity, that his noble charges might be under dire threat. I had no way of knowing if he was reading our lie with ease. I suspected it. Maybe, as a seasoned soldier born of these lands, he knew that there were no black-clad bandits wreaking havoc; he’d know of them if such people existed. Maybe he’d banished those that once prowled these lands himself. Or he’d listened at the knee of his warrior father, who’d killed them off one by one.

      If Lachlan did detect our dishonesty, he made no effort to expose it. His concentration returned to his ale, from which he took a long drink. For this I was profoundly grateful. I decided I liked him, and if there was ever a way I could ever reciprocate the favor, I would.

      I realized that Hamish was now holding something in his right hand, the hand that was not currently occupied with the glinting, oversize weapon. A bag, small and blue. Exactly the same fabric, in fact, as the dress that Christie wore. A matching accessory.

      My heart thumped with a clenching realization. Nay, I thought. He hasn’t. He’s pickpocketed her! I knew only too well how deftly skilled he was. One might have argued that our predicament was severe enough to warrant theft, or worse. But it was exactly what had put us in this position of vagrancy in the first place, and I wanted nothing more to do with it. This lady, given her hefty bodyguards and their abundant weaponry, was quite possibly the worst choice of target ever in the entire history of thievery.

      Hamish spoke, with the utmost politeness. “Milady. Your bag. You dropped it. I wouldn’t want you to leave it behind mistakenly.”

      Christie looked confused. Her hand ghosted to the now-empty pocket of her coat, where her bag had been. Then she reached to take the small purse that Hamish held out to her. “Thank you. What a kindhearted lad you are.”

      With that, as my heart rioted in my chest, Christie looked at Ailie somewhat beseechingly. “Knox would want to

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