Taming The Lion. Suzanne Barclay

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СКАЧАТЬ much will it cost me?” Brann asked.

      “Nothing for a taste. If your customers like the whiskey and want more, I’ve ten more kegs I will sell you.”

      “Ten is not many.”

      It was all Thomas Boyd had with him at the time he’d been unlucky enough to wander into Hakon’s ambush. “I’ve more at home.” Or rather, the Boyds did. All Hakon had to do was figure out how to wrest it from them. “If we reach an agreeable price, I can send ye regular shipments.”

      “Seems fair enough.”

      Hakon smiled. He always seemed fair. And open. And honest. The guise had lured more than one victim into his web.

      “If yer man’ll tap the keg,” Brann said.

      Hakon glanced at Seamus. The wiry little man had ridden with his father. He was adept at many things—spying, tracking, thieving and slitting the occasional throat—but the only way he’d ever broached a keg was with the edge of an ax. “It’s yer tavern, Master Brann. We’ll leave that to ye.”

      Brann nodded, pulled a small metal hook from beneath the bar and expertly drew the bung. Keeping one eye on them, he bent and sniffed suspiciously. He straightened so quickly it was comical, his eyes wide with astonishment and new respect.

      “Well?” Hakon asked.

      “It smells right promising. The subtle blend of smoke and fire.” Fumbling in his haste, Brann poured a measure into a wooden cup, lifted it and breathed deep. “Ah.” Reverently he sipped. His eyes closed. His head tipped back to let the liquid run down his throat. He sighed again.

      Got him, Hakon thought, winking at Seamus.

      Master Brann slowly lowered the cup and opened his eyes. “It is, er, not too bad,” he murmured, obviously a man used to bargaining. “Ye did say my customers could try a measure?”

      Hakon nodded. “Just a sip, mind.”

      While Brann called for cups and fussed over the keg, Hakon and Seamus moved away from the bar and leaned against the wall.

      “A Fergusson giving something away?” Seamus shook his head. “Yer da’s likely spinning in his grave.”

      “Nay, he’d understand. Master Brann will pay twice what we ask if his customers are clamoring for the stuff.”

      Seamus grunted and crossed his arms over his narrow chest. “So we sell the lot for a tidy profit, then what?”

      “We bribe someone inside Kennecraig to tell us if Thomas spoke true about having black powder kegs tied to his stills.” Ready to be set off if Hakon attacked the keep.

      “He was lying. What fool would blow up his whole tower to stop us from getting it?”

      “A desperate one.” Last month, Thomas Boyd had died a horrible death rather than surrender Kennecraig to Hakon. “And the Boyds will be even more cautious now their laird’s gone.” Hakon was certain they blamed him, even though he had gone to considerable lengths to make Thomas’s murder look accidental so as to not rouse their suspicions. “Damn, I wish Guthrie had controlled himself. Thomas was worth more alive than dead.”

      “Yer lad’s got his grandsire’s taste for killing, that’s sure,” Seamus said with a hint of awe.

      “Killing Thomas was damned inconvenient. With him as a hostage, we’d have gotten inside Kennecraig shck as ye please.”

      “Aye, but we’ll win. They’ve got a lass leading them now.”

      Hakon grunted. Catlyn of Kennecraig might be only a lass, but she had thus far proved to be no weak-willed miss. When Hakon had ridden over to offer sympathy and protection for her now leaderless clan, the little witch had stood atop her walls and denounced him as a murderer. She had loudly rejected Guthrie as a potential husband, though how she had chanced to hear about the maid he had carved up in Doune Town, was a mystery. She had ended her tirade by threatening to blow up the stills Hakon coveted if he tried to attack the keep.

      “Damn.” Hakon spit on the floor. “Who’d think a Fergusson could be kept at bay by a lass and a clan of distillers.”

      “Our time will come. Ye’ll think of something. Some plan.”

      “Aye, but what? Catlyn Boyd’ll not let a Fergusson within a mile of her gates. And I do mean to have those stills.” Just thinking of the piles of gold they’d bring made his palms itch.

      The door to the tavern opened, and a group of men spilled in, bringing fresh damp air and cheery laughter.

      Hakon’s lip curled. They were just the sort he despised. Young, handsome and well dressed. Sprigs off some noble bough, wearing their arrogance as naturally as their velvets and silks.

      “Dod!” Seamus exclaimed.

      “What is it?”

      “I recognized one of them. The tall one with the black hair and the pretty face.”

      Hakon picked him out of the jovial crowd. Taller than the rest, with impossibly broad shoulders, his glossy black hair swept back from a face too perfect to be believed. Apparently the maids thought so, too, for they fell all over themselves making the man and his companions welcome. “Who is he?”

      “Ross Lion Sutherland.”

      “Hunter Carmichael’s nephew?” Hakon hissed.

      “Aye. Young Ross is not a man ye’d forget I saw him from a distance at Keastwicke when I went to claim yer da’s body.”

      Hakon stiffened, hatred curdling low in his belly. Hunter had not killed Aedh Fergusson, but he had led the retaliatory raid that had ended in Aedh’s death. And the Warden had been a thorn in Clan Fergusson’s side from the day he’d taken the post. Righteous bastard, always ranting on about peace on the Borders. Thanks to his patrols, it became nigh impossible for a man to conduct a successful raid or lift a head of cattle. Why, Hunter and his ilk had practically starved the Fergussons to death.

      Through narrowed eyes, Hakon watched as a trio of chattering maids led the newcomers to a table at the far side of the room. His hatred congealed as he studied Ross Sutherland’s handsome, laughing face. There he sat like a bloody king, ordering food and drink, patting the maids on the cheek and pressing coins into their palms.

      “It would be a pleasure to bring that lordling down,” Hakon murmured.

      “Want I should kill him?” Seamus fingered his dirk.

      Hakon shook his head slowly. Unlike his father and his son, Hakon had never found death a satisfactory form of punishment. Death was too final. But if someone who had wronged you could be made to suffer...

      Ah, that was the best form of revenge.

      “Well, he’s got a way with the lassies, that’s sure.” Seamus grinned wistfully. “There’s not a one of them wouldn’t sell her soul to end up in his bed tonight. Providing he stays sober enough to satisfy her. Looks like he’s taken a fancy to our whiskey and is trying to buy—”

      “Master СКАЧАТЬ