on her filthy apron. “Too much strong liquor has dulled yer brain, eh? This ‘ere is Ainslie Tavern. ’Tis my establishment. Named for me.”
He had never heard of a woman owning a tavern. “And what be the name of this place, the environs?” he asked.
She shoved him, hard. “Ye dinna ken ye’re in Edinburgh?” she scoffed.
He gripped the edge of the trestle table, impressed by her strength. Not even Braden could knock Callum off his feet. But Edinburgh? His afterlife was more confusing by the moment. He rubbed his bicep, feigning discomfort. “That’s a powerful punch ye’ve got for a wee woman.”
A grin split her face, robbing her of any beauty Callum may have imagined she had when a mouthful of rotten teeth were revealed. For a second or two he believed he’d suddenly been carried off to Hell in the company of a witch. She brandished the wicked knife at him. “Enough with yer flattery. Ye’re underfoot. We’ve a supper to prepare.” She winked. “And I hear a wedding to celebrate.”
“Aye,” he replied. “I fear in my besottedness with my bride, I’ve forgotten the names of our guests.”
Ainslie eyed him suspiciously. “Dinna fret. They be men who prefer to remain nameless. They ken Ainslie can keep her mouth shut.”
He nudged her with his elbow, nodding to the Cyclops. “I ken their business is secret,” he whispered.
“Aye,” she whispered back, “they dinna worry about him. He’s mute. However, ’twill be known soon enough once they’ve signed their agreement and then I suspect there’ll be no doubt who’ll be our Queen’s next Consort.”
This was puzzling. James Stewart was King of Scotland. Who was this Queen she spoke of?
She retrieved a cracked wooden bowl and scooped the chopped carrots and parsnips into it, apparently warming to the conversation. “Aye, mark my words,” she whispered, “since ye’ll soon be counted among Bothwell’s kin when ye take his niece to wife, I wager the Earl will wed Queen Mary before the end of this year of Our Lord Fifteen Hundred and Sixty-Seven. My wee tavern will be famous.”
She shuffled off to dump the vegetables into the cook’s massive cauldron, leaving Callum dumbfounded. How had he’d ended up more than one hundred years in the future, betrothed to an Earl's niece, a lass whose name he didn’t know, but who made a man’s toes curl with her kiss.
DROWNING IS THIRSTY WORK
When Braden came to his wits slumped against the side wall of a building on a deserted street he recognised immediately he wasn’t in Inbhir Nis. He was heartsick that his plan to return to Charlotte had evidently gone awry. He felt immediately for the amber stone, relieved when his hand closed over the precious gem.
The few bedraggled men who ambled by gave him a wide berth. Their mode of dress confirmed his suspicions he hadn’t made it to the year 1746. The odors were different too. He got to his feet and wandered to the front of the dilapidated structure. A roughly made sign clinging to a strip of wood over the door proclaimed it as Ainslie’s Tavern. No wonder folks were anxious to avoid him. They thought he was a drunkard.
The name struck a cord. Something Charlotte had told him concerning one of the Stewart monarchs. But which one? Her love of history had shone through in their many conversations. He missed his wife keenly and wondered how she fared. She’d be distraught he hadn’t returned.
He tried the door, disappointed when it failed to open. A draught of fine ale wouldn’t go amiss. This drowning business was thirsty work. He was on the point of wandering off down the street when the door creaked open and two men emerged. Hats pulled down over their faces, they soon disappeared into the maze of dusty alleyways beyond where Braden stood. Their clothing and bearing indicated they were noblemen. He was pondering what such men were doing in a seedy part of whatever town he’d landed in, when two more similarly clad gentlemen emerged
He had never heard of a woman owning a tavern. “And what be the name of this place, the environs?” he asked.
She shoved him, hard. “Ye dinna ken ye’re in Edinburgh?” she scoffed.
He gripped the edge of the trestle table, impressed by her strength. Not even Braden could knock Callum off his feet. But Edinburgh? His afterlife was more confusing by the moment. He rubbed his bicep, feigning discomfort. “That’s a powerful punch ye’ve got for a wee woman.”
A grin split her face, robbing her of any beauty Callum may have imagined she had when a mouthful of rotten teeth were revealed. For a second or two he believed he’d suddenly been carried off to Hell in the company of a witch. She brandished the wicked knife at him. “Enough with yer flattery. Ye’re underfoot. We’ve a supper to prepare.” She winked. “And I hear a wedding to celebrate.”
“Aye,” he replied. “I fear in my besottedness with my bride, I’ve forgotten the names of our guests.”
Ainslie eyed him suspiciously. “Dinna fret. They be men who prefer to remain nameless. They ken Ainslie can keep her mouth shut.”
He nudged her with his elbow, nodding to the Cyclops. “I ken their business is secret,” he whispered.
“Aye,” she whispered back, “they dinna worry about him. He’s mute. However, ’twill be known soon enough once they’ve signed their agreement and then I suspect there’ll be no doubt who’ll be our Queen’s next Consort.”
This was puzzling. James Stewart was King of Scotland. Who was this Queen she spoke of?
She retrieved a cracked wooden bowl and scooped the chopped carrots and parsnips into it, apparently warming to the conversation. “Aye, mark my words,” she whispered, “since ye’ll soon be counted among Bothwell’s kin when ye take his niece to wife, I wager the Earl will wed Queen Mary before the end of this year of Our Lord Fifteen Hundred and Sixty-Seven. My wee tavern will be famous.”
She shuffled off to dump the vegetables into the cook’s massive cauldron, leaving Callum dumbfounded. How had he’d ended up more than one hundred years in the future, betrothed to an Earl's niece, a lass whose name he didn’t know, but who made a man’s toes curl with her kiss.
DROWNING IS THIRSTY WORK
When Braden came to his wits slumped against the side wall of a building on a deserted street he recognised immediately he wasn’t in Inbhir Nis. He was heartsick that his plan to return to Charlotte had evidently gone awry. He felt immediately for the amber stone, relieved when his hand closed over the precious gem.
The few bedraggled men who ambled by gave him a wide berth. Their mode of dress confirmed his suspicions he hadn’t made it to the year 1746. The odors were different too. He got to his feet and wandered to the front of the dilapidated structure. A roughly made sign clinging to a strip of wood over the door proclaimed it as Ainslie’s Tavern. No wonder folks were anxious to avoid him. They thought he was a drunkard.
The name struck a cord. Something Charlotte had told him concerning one of the Stewart monarchs. But which one? Her love of history had shone through in their many conversations. He missed his wife keenly and wondered how she fared. She’d be distraught he hadn’t returned.
He tried the door, disappointed when it failed to open. A draught of fine ale wouldn’t go amiss. This drowning business was thirsty work. He was on the point of wandering off down the street when the door creaked open and two men emerged. Hats pulled down over their faces, they soon disappeared into the maze of dusty alleyways beyond where Braden stood. Their clothing and bearing indicated they were noblemen. He was pondering what such men were doing in a seedy part of whatever town he’d landed in, when two more similarly clad gentlemen emerged
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