“She is that,” Warren agreed, smiling with pleasure. “She’s a handful at times, but I wouldnae change her for the world. Sheisme world.”
“Bairns are like that,” Greta agreed, her heart suddenly heavy as she thought of her Jamie. Where was he right now, she wondered, as she often did. Was someone looking after him? Peeking into his room to check on him as he slept? Or was he alone and lonely, and…
She shook her head firmly, realizing that Warren had fallen silent, his expression thoughtful as he took another sip from his glass.
“Ye mentioned yer son,” he said at last. “Back at the tavern, when ye gave Isobel yer pendant.”
Greta looked up from her drink, surprised. She hadn’t thought the comment had registered with him, but it seemed Warren took in more than he let on.
“Where is he now?” he asked softly. “Is he back at home? With his faither, maybe?”
“I daenae ken where he is,” Greta admitted, feeling the tears that were never far away spring into her eyes at the admission. “He was… he was taken from me. Two years ago now. T’was a Northern clan that took him; one o’ the very worst. They took him, and I’ve been searching for him ever since. I willnae stop until I find him.”
Warren paused in the act of raising his glass to his mouth, stunned into silence by the fire in her eyes. There was more to the story, he realized — much more — but, sensing it would be a mistake to press her on the matter, he simply lowered his glass, his expression contrite.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I dinnae mean to pry, or to upset ye. I just assumed when ye mentioned the lad that…”
“I ken,” Greta answered. “Ye assumed he would be with his maither, as he should be.”
“As he will be again, I’m sure,” Warren said soothingly. “This clan ye mentioned, the Northmen….”
“I hate them!” Greta burst out. “Vile monsters that would take a child from his home. I kent the Northern clans were wicked, but I dinnae ken how bad they could be until I saw it with my own eyes.”
Warren hesitated for a moment, spinning the whisky glass between his long fingers as he considered what to say to this.
“And ye think this o’ all men from the North,” he asked, at last. “All northern clans are wicked?”
“They are.” Greta’s tone was resolute. “They’re all vile, and I hate them all equally.”
“Then I suppose ye must hate me too, then,” he said playfully. “Do ye hate me, Greta?”
“Hate ye? Nay, why would I hate ye?” she asked, confused. “Ye saved me life. How could I ever hate a man who did that — and for a woman he daenae even ken?”
“Ye could if ye kent that man was one o’ the wicked Northmen,” he said softly, looking her in the eye. “Ye could if he was Laird o’ one of those dreaded Northern clans. As I am.”
“Ye… yer a Laird?” Greta asked, her voice shaky. “A Laird from the North?”
Warren nodded, and she pushed her chair back from the table abruptly.
“Then I’ll take me leave if ye daenae mind,” she hissed furiously, keeping her voice low so as not to wake the sleeping Isobel. “I’ll not stay here with a man who hides his true identity from me, Laird or no!”
“Hides me identity?” Warren answered incredulously. “I’ve done nae such thing! I told ye me name in the tavern, and I’ve told ye where I come from now. Ye ken everything ye need to ken about me. I’ve told no lies, and nor would I.”
“Ye’ve told no lies,” Greta said, her voice rising, “But ye havenae told me the whole truth either. I’d never have agreed to come here with ye if I’d kent ye were a Northern Laird. I’d never have trusted ye!”
“Och aye, and what would ye have done instead?” Warren countered, leaning back in his chair. “Walked the mile back to yer lodgings in the dark, wondering if our friend Tam was about to come after ye, I suppose? Or one of his companions from the tavern? Would that have been preferable to a warm bed and a nice meal with a Northman, Greta?”
Greta hesitated, her hand on the door. Angry though she was to discover she’d been dining with the enemy, she had to admit that Warren had a point. She was not safe out in the dark streets of the village. Shewassafe here, she had to be. Wasn’t she?
“Come. Sit back down and finish yer drink,” Warren said firmly. “We’ve been talking for a while, and the hour is late. Ye can sleep with Isobel, as we planned, and if ye still daenae want a bar of me in the morn, I promise I’ll return ye to yer lodgings, safe and sound. I willnae even speak to ye if you daenae want me to.”
Greta’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He was right. She could not think of leaving at this hour. Suddenly exhausted, she dropped back into the chair, her face sullen.
“Fine,” she said resignedly. “I’ll stay until morn. And now, if ye daenae mind, I think I need to sleep.”
* * *
Warren lay on the stone floor, as far away from the bed as he could manage and with spare clothes bundled under his head in an attempt at comfort. It wasn’t working. He would never be able to sleep like this, not with Greta so close he could almost touch her.