“What’s taking so long?”

Margery winced as the sharp bark of the tavern owner rang through her head.

Gone was the shy, quiet man who’d refused to step foot over the threshold of her room the night before—a room which belonged to him, after all.

In fact, he’d become very nearly threatening seemingly overnight.

He glared at her as she fumbled through filling four mugs with ale.

“I’m on my way,” she promised, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes as she finished pouring. She owed ale to four sailors at one table, bread, cheese, and boiled eggs to another table, and wine to a pair of men at a third table.

And there were more coming in all the time for their midday refreshment.

She had never worked so hard in her life, not ever. A day full of chores and gardening and washing was nothing compared to what she’d been through since dawn alone.

The tavern didn’t open for business until late morning, but the work had begun before the sun rose when Hamish had announced at the top of his lungs from his living quarters above the tavern that it was time to get out of bed and get moving.

Without a window through which to gauge the time of day, Margery had been fuzzy-headed, confused. How could she have slept a full night when she was still so tired?

The answer was clear when she’d hurried out into the tavern. It was still full dark outside, and dawn wouldn’t arrive for another hour.

“If you aren’t accustomed to this sort of work, it’ll come as a shock to ye,” Hamish had acknowledged when he brought out their simple meal—boiled eggs, bread, and wine. She had never been one to drink much wine, but it seemed as though this was the only choice she had.

The wine had warmed her stomach and her head, and had given her the fortitude to get through a morning full of grueling work. She’d scrubbed the floor and applied a fresh layer of straw to absorb spills and the spittle of countless men. She’d scrubbed down the tables, too, and washed the mugs and crockery. After that had come cleaning the hearth and building a new fire.

In the meantime, Hamish had worked in the kitchen. She wished he would let her do that, too, since the conditions in there were so unpleasant. It couldn’t help to give the entire room a good scrubbing—perhaps another day, after they’d closed for the night. As it was, by the time they opened for business, she was sore in places she hadn’t even known existed up until that very morning.

“We fell behind in the cleaning,” Hamish had admitted early on, as he’d raked out the filthy straw which had previously covered the wood floor. “After the last girl left, there was no way to keep up. The lads in the village want too much money for the work, and I can’t afford to pay both one of them, and a lass to help with the patrons.”

She had bitten back a sigh of dismay at that statement, seeing as how she was doing the work of two people but being paid barely enough for one. So that was why Hamish had been so amenable when she’d approached him the night before. He had been looking for cheap labor.

And at the rate she was going in delivering food and drink to hungry, thirsty men, he wouldn’t be willing to pay her for long. She was strong enough to perform menial tasks for hours on end, but running back and forth from the kitchen while remembering what several groups of patrons wanted all at once was enough to make her head throb.

She placed four mugs on one table, forcing a smile as the men seated there leered at her. They didn’t bother to hide it, either. No gentlemen, they, but she had at least gotten their order right, and was busy enough to have an excuse to hurry off and fill the next order.

When one of their hands brushed against her backside, she blushed in shame, but pretended not to notice the caress—or the raucous laughter the four of them broke into. She had never been so humiliated, not ever. She’d had no idea what men were capable of.

Derek had been right.

Him again.

When would she stop thinking about him? It was bad enough that he’d haunted her dreams throughout the short, broken night, that she had gone from imagining his strong arms around her to wondering what it would feel like to have his lips pressed to hers…

Crash!

“What in blazes was that?” Hamish screamed over the low roar of conversation in the increasingly packed room.

Margery’s stomach dropped as she looked down at the jug of wine she’d just dropped. It wouldn’t have broken had it not hit the leg of a table.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She bent to pick up the pieces, cheeks burning and eyes blurred with hot tears.

“That’s coming out of your wage, lassie!”

“I know,” she whispered, wishing she could melt into the floor rather than face him or any of the men around her ever again.

What had she been thinking, taking a position like this? She was no match for any of them, nor for the work which needed to be done. She wasn’t meant for this place.

“And hurry up with it, or I’ll take out even more!” Hamish bellowed. “You’re keeping the men waiting!”

She kept her head down and worked as hard and as fast as she could, wishing desperately for the day to be over though it had only just begun. They wouldn’t close until well after dark, when the worst of the village’s drunkards came out to share a jug of ale.

And she would have to serve them that ale and likely endure even further abuse.

She delivered bowls of stew—thin, almost like gruel, but they seemed to be grateful for it—and ran a hand over her head in an attempt to smooth her hair into place. She knew she must look a fright, all bedraggled and sweating as she was. She felt soiled, stained, and knew she wouldn’t be able to take a proper bath that evening. Just another sad fact in her increasingly sad life.

Just as she entertained that thought, her eyes locked onto a familiar face with eyes which seemed to burn as they watched her.

How had she not noticed him? He must have only just come in. There was no way that she could’ve avoided feeling his eyes boring into her otherwise.

Why did he have to be here? He would see for sure that she was no match for the work she had to do. He would see how right he was, and how very wrong she was.

You weren’t wrong. You can do this. You can do anything.

She wasn’t certain Beatrice knew what she was talking about. If she were there, watching her sister fumble through the simplest tasks and hearing the way she’d been threatened and humiliated, she might not sound so bossy.

She held her head high, blowing another strand of hair out of her eyes as she strode to the table at which he sat. “Alone today?” she asked.

“Aye.”

“Where’s Broc?”

“Is that any of your affair?” he challenged, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

She bit back the retort she wished she could throw at him. She wished she could throw more than that. “I’m very busy. What can I bring you?”

“Ale, if you please.”

“Nothing to eat?”

His eyes shifted to the next table over, where bowls of stew were being eaten. “No, thank you,” he replied with a wry smile.

She couldn’t argue with his observation—the food looked barely edible.

On turning to fetch the ale, she passed a table at which a pair of men had been arguing quietly since their arrival. She hadn’t had time to slow down and listen to what they discussed, not that she cared very much. It was none of her affair. So long as they paid and avoided touching her, they could talk about whatever they wished.

Until one of them stood and slammed his fist into the face of the other.

She screamed and scurried away to the farthest corner, unable to stop watching even as her stomach churned at the sight of flying fists. She had never witnessed such violence before, had never heard the sound of a nose breaking or of a bloody tooth being spit out of a bloody mouth.

Several of the surrounding patrons tried to break up the fight, only to be shoved aside in favor of more violence and blood.

It was only when Hamish wedged his way between the two of them that the fighting ended. “Get out of here, and stay out!” he roared, taking the two men by the collars of their tunics and nearly throwing them outside.

The table they’d sat at was on its side, the mugs and bowls scattered on the floor. Along with spattered blood.

Margery fought back a fresh wave of nausea.

“Well?” Hamish glared at her. “Clean up that mess! I’ve enough to do already.”

Her soul shrank just a bit further than ever before. She would have to clean…

She looked to Derek, who had been watching her all along from his table. He no longer looked as relaxed as he had on first arriving, every muscle now tensed. Ready to spring into action. The entire room was between them—but she had the feeling that he would’ve leaped to her aid had she needed it. Just as he had along the docks.

There was pity in his eyes, and concern. He had warned her, after all, but there wasn’t a trace of smugness about him.

Somehow, his pity stung even worse than if he’d rubbed in how right he’d been.

Why did he have to be there at that moment? Instead of offering comfort, he merely reminded her how foolish she had been to accept work in a place such as this.

She swallowed back her fear and disgust, fetching a jug of ale and a mug and taking it to his table. It meant walking through the bloody straw, but she did it as though the straw were still as clean as it had been that morning. Even when it soaked into the bottom of her kirtle, she pretended not to care.

“Here you are,” she said, pouring the ale. “I’ll be busy cleaning up the mess, but please, call out for me if you require anything else.”

He didn’t reply, choosing instead to stare at her.

She managed to wait until the rush ended and the village went back to work for the day before escaping to the storeroom to weep behind her shaking hands.