The inside of the warehouse was dusty and dark. The swirling, cloudy window glass did little to allow light in, especially since the glass hadn’t been cleaned in a long time. Perhaps it never had been.

A glance at Broc told Derek he noticed, too, and was like as not comparing the place to the warehouse they’d taken such pains to care for back in Kincarny. The glass had fairly shone, the floor always swept clean. He’d paid several in the village to help with upkeep and had been happy to do so, seeing it as a way to provide wages to more than just the men serving on his ships.

As a result of this, the villagers had considered him sort of a benefactor, someone who added a great deal to the livelihood of the village in which he transacted business. He’d never once been vandalized, not even something as commonplace as a broken window.

That was not the case here.

Derek’s practiced eye noted the presence of rat droppings in the corners and webs near the ceiling. Dust covered most flat surfaces. The air was dry, dusty, stale with the odors of pipe smoke, sweat, and flatulence. The plank floor creaked underfoot as the two of them made their way to the small desk in one corner, piled high with what looked like orders.

A man sat in front of the desk, a large man whose girth strained the seams of his stained tunic.

MacBride, Derek surmised.

A man who clearly enjoyed life’s pleasures, so long as they had to do with food. He marveled at the strength of the stool on which the rotund man perched, wondering how much longer the thing could possibly last without giving out.

“Excuse me,” Derek began, his voice strong and confident. He could match wits with this slovenly creature, he had no doubt.

The man turned his head just enough to catch sight of his visitors through the corner of his eye. “Aye?” he barked. “I’m busy today, so make it quick.”

Derek exchanged a look with Broc. “My name is Derek McInnis, and I’m here—”

“Hold everything.” The man turned fully, finally showing his visitors a bit of respect. “You said McInnis.”

“I did.”

“Would ye be the Derek McInnis of McInnis Shipping, then?”

The man’s eyes narrowed, and Derek instantly understood why others referred to him as shrewd. His brain was already weighing his options in this meeting without the benefit of knowing why Derek was visiting.

“I would that. This is my first mate, Broc McFadden.”

“And I’m Ian MacBride.” He extended a hand—large, dry, rough—which Derek shook firmly.

A strong grip, the grip of a man who knew who he was and what the world held for him. They were cut from the same cloth, to be sure.

“This is your warehouse, then?” Derek asked.

“Aye, for these twelve years,” the man replied with a great deal of pride. “I’ve seen Kirkcaldy grow in that time, you can be sure of it, and I like to think that growth is due in no small part to my business.”

“I’m certain you’re correct. I remember the village from my youth, and was shocked at how it had grown since the last time I passed through.”

“You’re from the area, then? I assumed you’d always made your home in Kincarny.”

“Nay, I was born and raised in the Highlands.”

“A Highlander?” The man’s eyebrows arched until it seemed they would leave his sweaty forehead. “Well, I must say that’s a surprise.”

“Why a surprise?” Derek laughed. “You expected a savage?”

“I admit, yer a bit more civilized than I’d ever expect from a Highlander.”

MacBride spat on the floor, an action so well-timed that Derek had to bite the inside of his cheek to squelch more laughter. A man such as this, speaking of civilized manners.

“I take that as a compliment.” He looked around the warehouse again, as though he hadn’t taken it in upon first entering. “You’ve done well for yourself here. Just the sight makes me long for what I’ve lost.”

“Aye, I’d heard of that.” The man’s face darkened before he spat again—this time in anger. “A foul turn, that was. And the beast who set the fire, a Norwegian pig.”

“Aye, but he met his end. I made certain of that.” Derek smiled at the memory of hearing the enemy ship tearing itself to pieces on the shoals. The screams of the men on board. He would never have rejoiced in such a turn of events otherwise, believing it bad luck to wish harm on another ship, but this was different. They had tried to kill him, his brother, his sister-in-law. “I only wish the harbor hadn’t suffered as a result.”

“The last I heard, they were rebuilding,” MacBride offered. “I hear they should be ready for new shipments by the end of next month, perhaps early May.”

The news lifted Derek’s spirits somewhat. They would rebuild, and life would go on. “That’s good to hear. I had worried.”

“And you? You’ll rebuild?” A note of interest leaked into the man’s voice, belying the true nature of the question. He was not merely asking out of courtesy. He understood without being told the purpose of Derek’s visit.

“If I do, I don’t believe it will be in Kircarny. I’ve family in the Highlands, as I explained, and I would prefer to remain close to them now.”

“You’ll be setting up along the northern coast, then? Perhaps Clachnaharry?”

The north wouldn’t do, though Derek wouldn’t expect a lowlander to understand the intricacies of clan relations. Traveling south was far less treacherous than traveling north of Duncan land, seeing as how those lands belonged to the opposition. He couldn’t possibly hope to run a stable business there, with threats from the Orkneys and others hanging over his head.

“Nay, I don’t believe so.”

“West, then?” MacBride offered.

Derek had the unpleasant certainty that he was being toyed with, something which didn’t sit well. He sensed Broc’s growing impatience, too.

It was time to get serious. “In truth, I had considered setting up here. In Kirkcaldy.”

The man blinked. “You canna be serious.”

“I am, sir. It seems to me there’s more than enough to go around. I have my own ships—three, as a matter of fact—and am confident that any of the merchants I’ve worked with in Kincarny would be pleased to open shipping lanes to Kirkcaldy if they knew I was in charge.”

“And where would that leave me, then?” MacBride sputtered.

“Exactly where you are, sir. I would have no need for your business, as I’d have business of my own. Of course, if any of my contacts have already made arrangements with you, I would be happy to step aside. I have no interest in taking anything from you.”

The truth was, Derek was nearly certain that MacBride would lose business even without his interference. Who would choose to ship with such a slovenly, undisciplined, and likely not entirely honest man such as the one before him when they had another choice? And Derek had always prided himself on honesty, forthrightness, and fair dealing. He was notorious for it.

MacBride’s demeanor changed. He hadn’t been exactly friendly or warm, but he’d been somewhat welcoming. Suddenly, he was blunt and unsmiling. “I don’t take well to competitors, no matter what you say now. A man’s mind can change rather quickly when silver is involved.”

“I have no doubt of this,” Derek agreed, dropping all pretense of friendliness in favor of a businesslike demeanor. “However, ask anyone I’ve ever done business with, and they’ll tell you the same thing: Derek McInnis is a man of his word. If that weren’t the case, I wouldn’t have built such a strong business.”

“If yer business was so strong, why come here? I don’t buy this story about family in the Highlands. It’s a good four days’ ride up there.”

“And far more from Kincarny, but that’s none of your concern.” He placed his hands on his hips, as did Broc. He looked forward to hearing his first mate’s thoughts on the situation, since his silent observations often proved invaluable. “I was considering an alternate plan, but your entire manner has persuaded me to think otherwise.”

“What would that be, then?” the man snarled.

“I had considered asking whether you could use another three ships, as I may be interested in selling them.”

Once again, MacBride changed in the time it took to blink an eye. He nearly licked his lips in eagerness, then took pains to disguise his interest. “That’s another story,” he observed.

“Indeed. I’m uncertain that I wish to sell, you see, and I’m not certain that I’d wish to sell them to you after the reception I’ve enjoyed here.”

MacBride rose, hefting his considerable weight off the stool with a soft grunt. “You think you’re going to wear me down until I give you whatever you ask for. Is that it?”

“I’ve said nothing of the sort.”

“Yer hinting at it, though.” MacBride’s cheeks went deep red before the color spread over the rest of his fleshy face. “I want ye out of here if ye think you can put the squeeze on me.”

“Fair enough.” Derek exchanged a look with Broc before the two of them left the warehouse,

MacBride’s grumbled curses following them out the door.

“What do you think about that?” Broc asked once they’d left the harbor and were on the other side of the wide street separating it from the village.

“I think we got his attention. And he’ll be in touch before long,” Derek surmised, feeling rather grim.

When MacBride found him and pressed him for the ships, would he want to sell them?

Had he just set something in motion before being fully aware of who he was speaking to?