Page 52 of Highland Spy

A blonde wench stopped in front of them and cocked a hand on her rounded hip. “She in’t one of us. She don’ work here.”

Ariana’s heartbeat came a little faster.

She hadn’t anticipated one of the women would have taken the time to disprove her. In truth, Ariana had expected this town to be as busy as the previous one, where she could have easily blended.

It was a foolish mistake she would note and ensure she did not make again.

Before she could stagger out a pathetic lie, the noblewoman spoke. “If I’d wanted something from you or your women, I would have asked. I want her.”

The wench did not attempt to shield her irritation. She rolled her eyes heavenward with such exaggeration, the whites of her eyes were easily apparent. With a slight huff, she turned toward a table of men and altered her rigid steps to more of a saunter.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Ariana offered with a smile.

After several inquiries, Ariana procured a hearty pour of wine for the woman who had taken a seat at a table by herself. Murdoch was at the table beside hers, engaged in conversation with a dark-haired, older man.

Ariana stared hard at Murdoch in an attempt to get him to see her before she approached the noblewoman. To no avail. He’d glanced at Ariana once, but without recognition. Doubtless due to her blonde wig.

It was quite apparent she would not be able to coordinate anything with him as a result.

Her efforts were rewarded with the noblewoman’s smile, a pretty expression displaying a mouthful of straight, white teeth.

She took the wine and indicated the bench across from her. “Please keep me company.”

Ariana hesitated. It was one thing for a wench to join a table of men. But a lone noblewoman?

“My maid died on our journey here,” she said with a sad smile. “I’m in sore need of a reprieve from the onslaught of male companionship.”

There was something pleading in her pale blue eyes, something lonely.

Ariana understood loneliness all too well, all the stark times in London after her brother had died when the flow of friends and visitors had ceased, and she found herself on the hard bench despite what dictated propriety for a serving wench.

“I’m Isabel,” the woman said. She lifted the cup to her lips and muttered, “MacAlister.”

The name MacAlister snagged in Ariana’s consciousness.

But there were many men with the last name of MacAlister. Suddenly she was glad she had taken Isabel’s offer to sit. Perhaps she knew who Angus might be.

Isabel had set her glass on the table and was staring plaintively at Ariana. “I assume you have a name as well?” The smile hovering on her lips was not malicious despite her teasing tone.

“I’m Bess, my lady.” Ariana spoke with a Scots-laced accent, but while she was confident in her ability to pull it off, her pulse pounded with the lie.

She’d been instructed on how to deal with men in taverns, men who were distracted by too much bosom or flirtation, but not women of high birth.

Isabel raised a brow. “Just Bess?”

Ariana wanted to collapse in on herself until she was small enough to disappear. “Bess Mackay, my lady.” She’d once heard the name in court and knew it to be a Scottish surname.

Both Isabel’s brows raised this time. “You’re a long way from your clan, Bess.”

“My husband’s clan, my lady,” Ariana amended. “But he’s long since passed.”

“You must have been extraordinarily young when you wed. Doesn’t surprise me. Men often take what they want.” Isabel’s gaze wandered toward the dark-haired man speaking with Murdoch. “I find myself envious of you, Bess.”

Her candid reply startled Ariana. No lady ever spoke so openly to a servant, especially when others were within earshot.

“Have ye been married long, my lady?” she asked.

“A fortnight, but it’s been enough.” Isabel’s stare hardened, then she ripped her gaze from the dark-haired man and settled once more on Ariana. “Why do you do this job?”