The Scot and I by Elizabeth Thornton Page A

jerking Mahri from her thoughts.
    “Whisht!” whispered Dugald, holding up his hand.
    Mahri reined in her mount and looked down the slope to the road. “I don’t see anything,” she said.
    “They’ve taken the barriers away. There’s no a policeman in sight.”
    “That’s good for us, isn’t it?”
    “Let’s find out.”
     
     
    They came to a row of houses just off the main thor oughfare. It was too small to be a village but, naturally, it boasted an alehouse. To Mahri’s surprise, the taproom was doing a brisk business, and she wondered where all these well-dressed men had come from.
    “Policemen,” Dugald observed under his breath. “I’d venture that they were manning the roadblocks, and now they’re off duty. Ah, there’s someone I know. Stay close by me, and not a word out of ye, mind.”
    He ordered two dinners and one tankard of ale to go with them, then he directed Mahri to a small table and told her to wait. She watched as he approached the bar counter and tapped one of the customers on the shoulder. The stranger was all smiles and thumped Dugald on the back.
    Mahri’s dinner arrived, the ubiquitous Scotch broth and a slice of meat pie. She was so hungry that even if a fire had broken out, she would not have left the table until she had consumed every bite.
    Snatches of conversation reached her. Balmoral was mentioned, but the talk was mostly of the weather. It had been a scorching month except for the last few days, and now some of the patrons were worried. The older men talked of the great flood and how it had washed away their homes and livelihood. The younger men listened respectfully, but Mahri could tell that they weren’t really interested.
    A few moments after Dugald returned, his piping-hot dinner was brought to their table. “Here’s how things stand,” he said. “There are no roadblocks because the Hepburn has been taken into custody. It was him they was after. Seems like the policeman in charge at Balmoral got himself stabbed in the back, and there’s a witness says the Hepburn brothers did it. They’re both locked up at the castle.”
    Mahri’s mind was reeling.
    “Did ye hear me? I think we may be in the clear.”
    She put down her knife and fork. “When did this happen? When was the man killed?”
    “Not long after the guests were rounded up for questioning.”
    “It’s impossible. We know it can’t be true. They were following us. They couldn’t have murdered anyone.”
    Dugald’s big hand covered hers, and he squeezed hard. “Get a grip on yerself, lass. Pick up your knife and fork and eat your dinner. Dinna draw attention to yerself.” When she obeyed him, he went on, “They could have murdered the man before they came after us.”
    “You don’t believe that!”
    “I don’t know the man, only what you’ve told me about him. And charming rogues have been known to turn out to be murderers.”
    “Well, I know him.” Though her voice was low, it quivered with indignation. “He would never stab anyone in the back. Who says he did?”
    Dugald took a long draught of his ale before he answered her. “No one knows, or if they do, they’re not saying.”
    “Ronald Ramsey,” she said, snorting derisively.
    “We don’t know that.”
    “Well, it wasn’t Hepburn who stabbed that man. I’d stake my life on it.”
    There was a protracted silence. Finally, Dugald sighed. “So that’s the way of it, is it.” It was a statement, not a question.
    Mahri huffed. “It’s not what you think. Dugald, he would not have come to Ramsey’s notice if it hadn’t been for me. I don’t know why Ramsey would kill that policeman, but if he thinks I’ll stand aside and let Hepburn take the blame for it, he’s very much mistaken.”
    “Lass, you’re jumping to conclusions. No one has accused Ramsey of killing the policeman.”
    Mahri’s chin jutted. “I’m saying it.”
    Dugald’s bushy brows rose. “Even if were true, what can you do?”
    “I’ll go to the