Provoked (2 page)

A group of men moved onto the scaffold then, to lift the bodies into coffins and load them onto a wagon for removal.

There was nothing left for the crowd to witness now, other than the inevitable clearing up. Halfway through the operation, the bored spectators began to disperse. It happened more peaceably than David could’ve imagined possible, as though when the headsman struck with his axe, he’d struck at the incipient mob amongst them.

Even the drunken fools beside David who’d been thrumming with barely suppressed violence throughout the whole proceedings had finally subsided. They turned from the scaffold with deadened expressions, calm now, and melted away with the rest of the departing crowd.

David waited, though. He waited for the wagon to be loaded up, then watched it slowly trundle away, rattling over uneven cobbles. Still he waited. Till the wagon was completely out of sight. Until James and Andrew were gone forever.

Only then did he turn away and walk back to the inn.

Chapter Two

Despite Andrew Hardie’s exhortation to the crowd to go home and read their bibles, the town’s public houses were full that night, their customers toasting the dead men, for the most part.

David was staying one more night at the inn before taking the coach back to Edinburgh in the morning and when he went down to the taproom, he found the place bustling with custom, not a free chair in sight.

The landlady spotted him hovering in the doorway. “Good evenin’ to you, Mr. Lauriston,” she said in a carrying voice, causing a large group of men in plain working clothes to look around at the new arrival. They sized him up, taking in his well-made clothes with suspicious expressions.

“Good evening, Mrs. Fairbairn,” David replied, painfully aware of his refined voice. Dropping his old dialect and adopting the King’s English had been a necessity for his profession, but at times like this, it made him self-conscious.

“Are you wanting some dinner?” she asked politely.

“Ah, yes, please.”

“Come away into the back parlour where it’s less busy, then.”

She came out from behind the bar, and he followed her out of the crowded taproom and into a cold and empty back parlour dominated by an enormous mahogany dining table. It was quiet and empty of people. Much fancier than the taproom and much less snug.

“I’ll have Katy come and light the fire. What are you wanting for dinner? I’ve got a nice meat pie.”

“That sounds excellent.” In truth, the thought of food left him cold, but it was better than sitting in his chamber all night.

“Ale?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’ll be back in a minute.” She bustled away while David took a seat at the gleaming table.

The furniture in here was much better quality than in the taproom, where well-worn benches and ancient scarred tables were the order of the day. The long dining table shone as though it was polished often. Mrs. Fairbairn’s pride and joy, he guessed. It was empty but for a stub of tallow candle on a pewter plate in the centre. A few other candles flickered on a sideboard. Beyond the door, David could hear the chatter of patrons from the taproom, occasional bursts of laughter, a dog barking. He felt a stab of loneliness, followed by one of foolishness. Was he a child to mind a bit of solitude?

After a few minutes, the girl, Katy, slinked in. She was only thirteen or so, a wee slip of a thing weighed down by a heavy coal scuttle. She looked terrified when David greeted her, mumbling something he couldn’t make out before turning to the fireplace to kneel down and scrape out the grate before laying a fresh fire.

She was just finishing up when Mrs. Fairbairn entered again. With her was a tall, well-dressed gentleman, the quality of his coat and boots unmistakable even in this poor light.

“Come away in, sir,” the landlady said as the maidservant scuttled past them. “Make yourself comfortable. This gentleman is Mr. Lauriston, my other guest.”

The man turned towards David with a polite smile. His dark gaze moved over David with candid interest, and it seemed to David that his smile grew as he took in what he saw, becoming faintly predatory. David’s heartbeat quickened in response, rising to struggle like a trapped bird at the base of his throat. Discomfited, and annoyed at himself for his reaction, he nodded more curtly than he ordinarily would.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lauriston,” the man said. “Do you mind if I join you for dinner?” His accent was the accent of the very rich Scot. Cut-glass English with just the slightest lilt. Over six feet in height, almost a full head taller than David, and far broader.

“No, of course not, Mr.—?”

“Balfour. Murdo Balfour.”

They shook hands. Balfour had removed his gloves, and the brief, icy clasp of his fingers chilled David’s own. He could still feel the ghost of their grasp once Balfour had released him.

Balfour turned away to hang his coat and hat on a stand in the corner of the room while Mrs. Fairbairn readied the table. Lifting the tallow candle stub, she set it aside and fetched a white bundle from the sideboard. With a shake of her arms, the bundle opened up like the sail of a ship catching the wind and settled over the dark wood in soft folds. She finished the table with a branch of beeswax candles, lighting them with a flame borrowed from the crackling fire.

David glanced surreptitiously at Balfour as he settled himself into a chair. He was perhaps thirty or so. Not classically handsome, but arresting, with bold, startling features. His thick hair looked black but might be very dark brown—difficult to tell in this light—and his complexion was fashionably pale. It was a startling combination with all that height and a pair of shoulders on him that had surely brushed the sides of the doorway when he walked in here. Straight nose, dark brows, a wide, sardonic mouth with a twist to it that suggested the man spent his life laughing at his fellow man. Not a particularly friendly face but a compelling one. And right now, David realised—dismayed to notice Balfour had just caught him cataloguing his features—one that was animated with what appeared to be veiled amusement.

The man’s dark gaze was very direct. Meeting it, David felt a surge of something that was part excitement, part alarm.
Could he be…?
David damned the question even as it arose in his mind. He wasn’t looking for company tonight. He wasn’t. It had been many months since his last lapse.

“What is your direction, Mr. Lauriston?” Balfour’s tone was neutral, but his gaze seemed to linger a little on David’s mouth. Or was David imagining things?

“I am due to return to the capital tomorrow. And you?” David kept his voice cool.

“It appears we are taking different roads. I am bound for Argyllshire.”

A boy entered the dining room. He placed a jug of ale and two pewter cups on the table and hurried off again, leaving the men to help themselves.

Balfour poured ale for them both and offered his cup in a toast. “To safe journeys.”

David echoed his words obligingly.

The ale was surprisingly decent. A pale ale, the colour of weak tea, hoppy and cool. They both drank deeply, and Balfour filled their cups again.

“Did you see the hanging today?” Balfour asked as he poured, eyes on the jug.

David managed to repress his urge to shudder, though only just. “Yes,” he said. “Though it wasn’t just a hanging.”

“No, they were beheaded too, I heard. Treason, wasn’t it? A pair of radicals?”

David nodded and drank again. “You were not there?” he asked when he placed his cup back on the table.

Balfour shook his head. “I’ve only just arrived in town.”

David took the opportunity to change the subject. “And where have you come from, Mr. Balfour?”

“London.”

“A long journey,” David observed. Odd, he thought, to come through Stirling on the way to Argyllshire, but he made no comment on that.

“I’m used to it. I’ve lived in London for a number of years now, but my family home is in Argyllshire, and I’m back at least once a year.”

“I guessed you were a Scot,” David admitted, “though your accent is difficult to place.”

“So I’m told.” Balfour gave a thin smile. “Most of my own countrymen think I’m English.”

Most of them would. But David came across men like this all the time—wealthy Scots who preferred to spend their time in London, where the real political power was. He’d wager that the home in Argyllshire was a large estate. Balfour seemed like the sort of man used to having his own way, and the carelessly confident way he’d looked David over fitted with that.

The boy returned, carrying two heaped plates of meat pie and a dish of roasted vegetables. He set the dishes down before them wordlessly and hurried off to his next task. David stared down at the golden pie crust and pool of thick brown gravy and wondered why he’d ordered the meal. His already poor appetite had deserted him entirely now.

“This smells good,” Balfour said conversationally. He tucked in with gusto. He probably had to eat a lot with that big, brawny body.

They made civil conversation while they ate, enquiring after one another’s journeys and commenting on weather, which they agreed looked like imminent rain. The topics they chose were safe and bland, and gradually David’s edginess began to ebb a little.

Once he’d forced down half of his dinner, David pushed his plate aside.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Balfour asked.

“Not really.” David took a long draught of ale, wishing he’d asked for some whisky as well. The ale was too light—it didn’t even touch him. He felt raw and too sober. He kept seeing Baird’s and Hardie’s linked hands, their bodies jerking against the rope. The moment he realised they were gone.

A wave of intense sadness and loneliness swamped him. Was this all there was? A few brief moments of connection—the grasp of another’s hand on the scaffold—and then you were cast out, alone, into the great universe?

Balfour’s voice, rising in a question, drew him back to the world.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” David admitted, mortified by the heat he felt creeping into his cheeks.

“I was asking how you occupy yourself day to day, Mr. Lauriston.” Balfour looked David in the eye as he spoke, his gaze disconcertingly direct. He didn’t seem to obey the normal rules of social conversation. Wasn’t it terribly unusual to stare so? Or was David seeing things that weren’t there?

“I am a member of the Faculty of Advocates,” David said. Even now, that announcement gave him a small, prideful thrill, though something about Balfour’s answering smile took away a little of David’s pleasure.

“Ah, a lawyer,” Balfour said with a raised brow. “A noble profession.”

Why did David get the sense that Balfour meant the exact opposite of what he said? He considered pointing that out, but at the last moment decided not to and took another mouthful of ale to swallow the words down with. Balfour grinned, and for some reason, David had the unsettling feeling the man had followed his train of thought.

“I practice mainly civil law,” David said after a moment, aware of the tightness in his voice, “Though I have recently been involved in some criminal cases.”

“Is that so? I may look you up when I am next in Edinburgh. I have a few legal matters that I need attended to.”

“I am an advocate, Mr. Balfour. I only deal with court cases. If you need a will or some property deeds drawn up, you will need to engage a solicitor, though I would be happy to recommend someone.”

Balfour gave him a long, unsmiling look. “I know what an advocate is, Mr. Lauriston.”

Again, David felt discomfited. “I apologise,” he said stiffly, “it’s just that people often confuse the two professions.” Now he sounded pompous.

“No need to apologise,” Balfour replied easily, returning his attention to his plate. “This is an excellent pie,” he added, changing the subject. He glanced at David’s half-eaten effort. “It’s a crime to leave so much uneaten.”

“I’m afraid I’m not especially hungry.”

“With the greatest respect, you look as though you could use a bit of feeding up.”

“You sound like my mother,” David replied before he could think better of it.

Balfour laughed at David’s waspish tone, his mouth curving deeply. “Well, mothers are usually right about these things.” The laughter lines at the corners of his dark eyes crinkled when he laughed, making him look suddenly much less cynical and worldly.

That infinitesimal change in expression inexplicably lightened David’s mood; he gave a reluctant laugh of his own. “She gets annoyed with me when I forget to eat,” he admitted.

“You forget to
eat
?”

Balfour sounded so horrified that David couldn’t help but laugh again. “Not for long, but I do miss the odd meal. I’m not married, you see. It’s easily done when I’m working—I lose track of the time.”

Balfour gave him another of those direct, amused looks. “Now, why am I not surprised to hear that you’re a bachelor, Mr. Lauriston?”

That was an odd thing to say, David thought. What did he mean by it? David didn’t want to jump to unwarranted conclusions, but he couldn’t help but wonder if the man shared David’s own inclinations.

Balfour leaned forward, his intent gaze fixed on David. “Tell me, Mr. Lauriston—” But before he could say more, the door opened again. This time it was Mrs. Fairbairn, come to clear the plates away. Balfour sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“I’ve got a suet pudding if you’d like, gentlemen?” she told them, looking disappointed when they both declined.

As she walked away, laden with dishes, David realised that this meant the meal was over and was surprised at how the thought dismayed him. Just as the landlady reached the door, he called out impulsively, “Mrs. Fairbairn—”

She looked over her shoulder, a question in her eyes.

“Could you bring us some whisky?”

She nodded. “Of course. I’ll be back directly.”

Only after the door closed behind her did it occur to David that he ought to have asked Balfour first if he wanted to join him. He glanced at the other man. “I’m sorry, that was presumptuous of me. Please don’t feel obliged to join me if you’d rather go to bed.”

“Not at all,” the other man said. “I quite fancy a whisky myself. I only drink the stuff when I’m in Scotland, and the first dram is always the best.”