Hunting Memories by Barb Hendee Page A

because no man ever stirred her.
    That all changed one night after supper when Seamus suddenly announced he felt like going to the pub.
    “The pub?” she asked. “When did you ever feel like going to the pub?”
    “Tonight.” He smiled. “Come with me.”
    She picked up his plate. “There must be some crowd from the horse fairs visiting?” she ventured, teasing him. “Some men you want to buy a colt from cheap? Or maybe it’s a girl you’re chasing?”
    He shrugged. “A few men from the horse fairs. I see nothing wrong with sharing a pint and starting a conversation.”
    She laughed and got her cloak. In truth, a pint and a little company appealed to her tonight. Spring was just around the corner, and the gray days of winter would soon be past.
    She did not remember what she and Seamus chatted about that night as they walked into the village proper and down the main path toward the Black Bull—one of only two pubs in Loam. She remembered going inside, feeling the welcome warmth, closing the door while removing her cloak . . . and then hearing a voice from somewhere across the room behind her.
    “This ale is first rate tonight, Gareth. What did you do, wash out the mug first?”
    People laughed.
    His accent was smooth—English, not Scottish. The sound of it melted into her skin as she turned around slowly to find its owner.
    A man she’d never seen before stood by the bar, chatting with the pub’s owner, Gareth. The stranger was neither tall nor short, with a medium build. He had dark brown hair and green eyes that she could see all the way from the door. He wore polished boots, new breeches, and a white shirt. His black jacket hung over his arm. Although well-heeled, he was not particularly handsome—at least not by Scottish standards—and yet everyone in the place was watching him, listening to him. She should have been warned by this, as the English were not well liked this far north.
    But even Seamus stopped and stared.
    “Ah, Edward,” Gareth said. “You insult me. You know I never wash my mugs. Kills all the flavor!”
    Edward. That was his name.
    She moved deeper into the room. He looked her way and froze. His green eyes locked into hers. His gaze slid upward, to the top of her head, and then down her long silver streaks. She could not read his expression, but he seemed so . . . interested.
    He glanced quickly at Seamus and turned back to his banter with Gareth.
    Rose’s heart was racing. She tried to recover.
    “So, where are your horse traders?” she asked Seamus.
    He looked around and then pointed. “Over there. I may have to pry their attention. Who is that Englishman?”
    “I don’t know.” Several tables were empty. “I’ll just sit here awhile. You go and do your business.”
    “You don’t mind?” he asked.
    “Go on.”
    In truth, she needed to gather her wits. Every time Edward spoke, his voice seemed to penetrate right through her skin. Seamus made his way toward a small group of men, and she sank into a chair, grateful for a moment to herself.
    But a moment was all she had.
    Then she heard Edward say, “Gareth, would you introduce me to that lady?”
    She looked up. They were coming to her table!
    Other patrons murmured disappointment as Edward left the bar.
    Dressed in a faded purple gown with brown laces and her hair hanging down her back, Rose hardly felt like a lady. Her thoughts were wild. Whatever would she say? But why did she care? In all her life, she’d never cared what others thought of her.
    “Edward Claymore,” Gareth said, arriving at the table with a sweep of his arm—like some foppish gentlemen. “May I present Rose de Spenser, Loam Village’s own midwife. And a good one, if I may say.”
    “De Spenser?” Edward repeated, his voice landing like music on her ears. “French?”
    “No, sir,” she managed to answer.
    Up close, she realized he was handsome, with fine features, and he was so charming, so polite. She’d never noticed nor favored such