CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE PUBLIC ROOM of the inn was crowded. With its low ceilings and thick walls, the din was nearly deafening. What little light there was came from a pair of small windows at the street front and a candle here and there in wall sconces. The burning tallow did not mask the smell of damp rot. They had to maneuver through tables crowded with rowdy sailors and dockhands, brushing past greatcoats hung on pegs on the wall, women serving tankards of ale, and the occasional dog.
At the back of the inn, Lottie approached a man busy hanging empty tankards on hooks in the ceiling. “I beg your pardon?”
The man interjected a string of something in Danish.
Lottie blinked. “Ingoff Holm,” she said.
The man pointed to one of two rooms off the public room near the kitchen.
Lottie and Aulay exchanged a look, but Aulay put his hand to her back and guided her through the crowd to the first room. He knocked, and hearing no reply, opened the door. It was empty. At the next door, he heard a muffled reply to his knock. He opened the door and stepped into the room.
Two men were seated at a table, one of them was considerably older than the other, with a thick tuft of white hair that reminded Aulay of the snow that topped the Highlands in winter, and jowls that hung like small satchels on either side of his face. The other gentleman, tall and lanky, had not bothered to remove his greatcoat and cocked hat.
The older man watched them impassively as they stepped deeper into the room, and Aulay pulled the door to, shutting out the noise. Snowtop squinted at Lottie. “Kvinde,” he said. Whatever that meant, it seemed to amuse him and disgust him at once. “Ja?”
Lottie stepped forward. “Do you, by chance, speak English?”
The man looked her up and down, then slowly stood from his chair. He was a thick man, but a head shorter than Aulay. “Ja.”
Lottie suddenly smiled—with relief or affectation, Aulay wasn’t certain—but it had the effect of lighting that room. “If you please, I’m looking for Mr. Ingoff Holm.”
“Hvem? Who?” the old man asked as he came around the table.
“Mr. Ingoff Holm,” she repeated.
Just then, the door behind them swung open, and another man stepped in, ducking under the low header. He brushed past Aulay and eyed Lottie curiously. He smelled as if he’d not bathed in weeks. He muttered something under his breath in Danish and Snowtop responded without taking his gaze from Lottie.
“My colleague would like to know what is your business with Herre Holm?” he asked as the third man took a seat at the table.
Aulay’s misgivings ratcheted. There was something sinister about these men and this room.
“I beg your pardon, but it is a private matter,” Lottie said politely.
“There are no matters for Mr. Holm that do not include me, ja?” Snowtop dipped his head so he could see Lottie under the brim of her hat. “Ja, meget smuk...a pretty thing you are.”
Lottie took a small step backward, bumping up against Aulay. “Is Mr. Holm about, then?”
The man glanced curiously at Aulay. “Why is the lady the one to speak?” he asked, and to Lottie, “What is he, your mute?”
“I’m no mute,” Aulay said, and moved, intending to step before her, but Lottie swung her arm down and clamped his inner thigh before he could make any progress.
“He’s naugh’ to do with this. ’Tis my private business.”
Diah, but her naïveté was on full display.
Snowtop sneered. “A woman with business.” He settled back against the table, casually taking her in, as if she were a fat little lamb for sale. “No good can come of that.”
Aulay ignored Lottie’s insistent hand and put himself between her and the men, but the stubborn little wench pushed around him. The room was so small that there was no space between Aulay and the table, and she stood with her back pressed against half of him. “Is he here, then?” she insisted. “Mr. Holm?”
“Tell me your business and I’ll tell you if he is present or not. How about that?”
“You may tell him I’m selling fine Scotch whisky—”
“Uist,” Aulay said, warning her to say no more. The less this man knew, the better.
“You’ve brought fine Scotch whisky all the way to Aalborg, have you?” Snowtop asked, one brow rising. “Was it no’ good enough for you Scots? Why would a pretty little miss bring whisky all the way to Denmark?”
“My family hails from Denmark.”
“Ah,” the man said, and looked around to his companions. “Hun er dansk.”
The two men chuckled.
“And where is this whisky you’d like to sell?” Snowtop asked.
“We’ll leave that for Holm,” Aulay said, although it was fairly easy to guess that it was likely a Scottish ship in the harbor. He hoped Lottie did not offer which ship.
“I’ve a taste for Mr. Holm, if you’d be so kind as to bring him round,” Lottie said primly.
The man clucked his tongue and shook his head. “That’s not how we conduct our business, ja? I’ll have a taste of it, and if I think it is as fine as you say, I shall bring you to Herre Holm.”
Lottie jerked the flagon from her shoulder and tossed it at him. The man caught it deftly with one hand and grinned at her. “There’s a good pige,” he said. He handed the flagon to the man behind him, who took the first swig, then passed it to the next man. He drank, too, then held the flagon out to Snowtop. That one held it up and said “Skål,” and then drank.
When he’d tasted it, the three men discussed in their native tongue. When it looked as if they’d come to some agreement, Snowtop tossed the flagon to Lottie and returned to his seat. “How much do you have?”
“Twenty-two casks.”
He smiled in a manner that made Aulay’s skin crawl. “Very well, then, miss. You may wait in the public room until Herre Holm arrives.”
“Will it be long?” she asked. “We’ve others who are interested.”
Snowtop chuckled. “Go and enjoy a tankard of ale, pige, you and your mute. We’ll summon you.”
Still, Lottie hesitated. Aulay put his hand on her waist, forcing her backward and to the door, then taking her hand and yanking her out of the room.
“What are you doing?” she insisted, pulling her hand free when they were outside. “I donna trust him. I want to keep a close eye on that one.”
“Thank the saints you donna trust him. He’s a scoundrel, that one—”
“I know!” she said angrily, her eyes flashing. “You were no’ to speak!”
He grabbed her elbow and yanked her close. “You hold my ship hostage with this farce, and I canna trust that you’ve enough sense to recognize a liar and a thief when you lay eyes on him.”
“I’ll no’ leave,” she said stubbornly. “He might be a thief, and then again, he might no’, aye?” She pressed her lips together and stared down at her boots, her hands on her hips. “I am doing the best that I know to do,” she said stiffly. “But I donna know what to do, Captain. I rather thought my father would be the one to sell it.”
Aulay sighed. He brushed his knuckles against her cheek. “You do ken, do you no’, that Snowtop is up to no good?”
“Snowtop?”
“The older man. You canna trust the word of a stranger in a strange port about who to sell your whisky to.”
“What choice have I?” she said, her voice pleading. “Please, Captain, give me another choice!”
“It’s too late for another choice, Lottie.” Any reasonable choice should have been made on Lismore Island before they’d ever made sail. He muttered something about foolish women under his breath, but then wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “If you refuse to leave, then I’ll have a pint for all my trouble, and so will you.”
“I havena any coin,” she said, allowing him to lead her through the throng.
“Aye, Lottie, I am painfully aware you have no coin. Your lack of it has bedeviled me for three days now,” he said, and took her firmly by the hand and pushed through that throng to a table near the kitchen.
He didn’t notice the way she was looking at him as he pulled out a chair for her, but then he saw the shine in her eyes and felt the flow of something that felt intimate and slightly carnal between them.
He did not notice, at least not in that moment, that he had forgotten he was her captive.