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“I’m delighted. There’s a difference.”
He gave her the cup back. As they finished the oatcakes, Olivia told him her grandmother could recognize trouble in the pub before anybody raised his voice.
“How?” Jamie asked.
“Somebody stops laughing. Someone else moves a glass before it gets knocked over. A man watching a game starts watching the door. Half the room notices without saying a word.”
“And yer grandmother saw all that?”
“She always said the loud drunk wasn’t usually the one to worry about. He wants everyone watching. Keep an eye on the quiet man who suddenly stops talking.”
Jamie thought of excisemen pretending to be travelers, informers sitting quietly over ale, and men who watched doors without turning their heads.
“Could ye recognize an exciseman that way?”
“Not because he was an exciseman. But I might notice that he was pretending to care about something while actually watching something else.”
Once they were finished eating, they returned by the northern track to give her a different view. By the time Dunarraidh rose ahead of them, she was quiet, slumping in the saddle, though she still watched the road below.
Mally passed a patch of heather without stopping and Olivia leaned forward to pat the pony’s neck. “See? We’ve reached an understanding.”
Jamie glanced at Mally’s ears, which had gone back just enough to suggest a different interpretation.
“She’s training ye.”
“I’m training her.”
“Aye, lass, if ye say so.”
Olivia looked over. “That tone is why people throw things at you.”
Chapter 13
Olivia
The village market occupied the flat ground beside the kirk, where trestle tables had been set up and now stood beneath canvas that sagged slightly from the morning damp. There were a couple of traveling merchants, their wares on display, but mostly there were women in wool shawls selling eggs, onions, cheese, ribbons, dried herbs, stockings, and opinions disguised as ordinary conversation. Olivia discovered the last category within minutes.
She’d worn the blue gown because Morag had pronounced it respectable enough for market day, along with the pretty wool shawl and the brown wool cloak fastened at her throat by a plain brass pin. She’d given up on her hair and had hastily pulled it into a bun. As they reached the village, Morag had pressed a list into Jamie’s hand along with a few coins.
Olivia didn’t have a cent to her name in this time, a fact that bothered her considerably more than wearing borrowed clothing and forgoing a bra. According to the story she’d conjured up, robbers had taken every last coin, and although Jamie had never made her feel indebted to him, she wasn’t accustomed to having someone pay her way.
The market reminded her of the pub. Not the clothing or the chickens, obviously, because Grandma Bennett would have had strong opinions about livestock anywhere near food, but it felt familiar. Everyone knew who had quarreled with whom, which questions could be asked publicly, which answers meant something entirely different, and who had enough standing to ignore half the rules.
While she’d met a few of the women and some of Jamie’s men, most of the villagers had only heard about the American widow, which made her part of the entertainment today.
“Mrs. Bennett,” called a woman standing behind a wide basket of brown and speckled eggs. “Morag says ye’ve a fine hand with curses.”
Jamie muttered something in Gaelic beside her, and she kept walking slowly enough not to appear as though she were fleeing. “Morag exaggerates,” she called her over shoulder.
The egg seller adjusted the shawl around her shoulders and gave Olivia a look of cheerful disbelief. “Morag never exaggerates. She improves upon the tale.”
Olivia glanced at Jamie, whose mouth twitched. “That sounds about right.”
They continued past the egg table before anyone else requested a cursing demonstration and stopped beside a traveling merchant. The young man was selling wooden cups, spoons, and small bowls polished smooth. He had pale hair, a narrow face, and the nervous habit of glancing toward Jamie every time Olivia asked a question though he clearly understood and spoke English.
Olivia picked up a small cup and turned it in her gloved hands. The grain was beautiful and the rim was smooth beneath her thumb.
“How much?” She had no business asking, considering she didn’t have a penny, but she couldn’t resist admiring the workmanship.
