Page 2 of Blood & Claw

Catching herself, Ailsa marched on. Maybe she’d make a fool of herself, or maybe she wouldn’t. Either way, she was done hiding, cocooned by safety and comfort. Exactly as she’d always been. If Kayla had her way, another year would pass. Then another. She’d remain trapped.

Ahead of her, the fire at the heart of the market ground roared, flames licking high into the inky sky. Its brightness called to her while the jaunty strains of a bone whistle drifted upon the night air.

Ailsa drew a deep breath.

She could do this.

She’d talk to him, damn it.

Entering the market square, she squared her shoulders and sucked in a lungful of air scented with woodsmoke.

It seemed as if everyone in Braewall had squeezed into the dirt space lined by stacked-stone roundhouses with turf roofs. Ale and mead flowed, drawn from oak barrels at the edge of the ground, and women in dyed tunics, bronze and iron rings upon their bare arms, handed out thick slices of oaten bread slathered with butter and honey. One of the women offered Ailsa some bread, but she shook her head.

Her belly was too tight to eat.

Setting off through the crowd, she cast her gaze around, searching. A moment later, she spied a tall, dark-haired man standing on the other side of the fire, cup in hand, by the dancers.

Lewis!

She stumbled, and an elbow jostled her. “Watch where you’re putting those big feet, lass,” snarled a rough, drunken voice.

Ailsa cut the man a glare. “Rude bastard,” she snapped back, yet he’d already moved on.

Leashing her simmering temper, she cast her gaze across the crowd once more.

Gods, Lewis was a fine sight. Clad in leather, his skin tanned from the long, hot summer. Blue woad tattoos covered the young blacksmith’s brawny arms. Kayla had done most of them, but Ailsa had inked the hammer on his left bicep. It had been the most distracting job she’d ever done. His nearness, the scent of him—smoke and leather and raw male heat—had made her sweat.

Lewis had stayed on after the tattoo was done. Kayla had offered him a cup of ale, and they’d drunk together around the fire. He’d tried to converse with Ailsa, yet she’d gone tongue-tied, cheeks burning as she responded in breathless half-sentences.

That had been six moons earlier, and she’d kicked herself for not responding properly to him. Lewis had shown interest in her, and she’d sat there, stammering like a halfwit. He’d caught her off-guard, but that was no excuse.

What was the matter with her? They’d been bairns together, run barefoot through the wynds of The Reek. Then they’d grown up, and things had changed.

After he’d left the workshop, she made herself a vow: she’d approach Lewis at a gathering and make it clear she was interested.

Swiping a cup of mead as she threaded her way through the crowd, she took a fortifying gulp.

Too late, she realized Lewis wasn’t alone.

Curse her. She should have been paying more attention. A group of lasses and lads their own age had gathered behind him, and Ailsa’s gut clenched.

None of these people were her friends.

One of the lasses, Una, saw her, smirked, and whispered to the girl next to her. Una was a beautiful lass with thick fair hair and curves. All the lads lusted over her, and yet growing up, she’d always been the worst of the bullies.

Ailsa’s skin prickled, her fingers tightening around her cup. The bonfire’s heat licked her face, and sweat dampened her skin.

Hold your ground. You have as much right to be here as anyone else.

Drawing in a steadying breath, she cleared her throat. “Good eve, Lewis.”

He turned, eyebrows raising when his gaze settled upon her. “Don’t usually see you at these gatherings, Ailsa?”

“No.” She lifted her chin and smiled. “But I thought that should change.”

She noted the unfocused gleam in his eyes then.

He was drunk.