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“Aye, ye need to look downstairs in the storeroom.”

“Thanks,” she said.

She descended the stairs and was looking through the boxes and jars of stuff. She heard some noise coming out the door to the left of the one she knew led to the time-travel rock. It was Angus’s voice, and he sounded like he was swearing. Something within her squeezed at the sound of his low boom. She should just find the ink and go back up. She had promised herself yesterday she would step away.

Something exploded from behind the door, and before she could stop herself, Rogene rushed to the door and opened it.

Illuminated by the fire of the torches, Angus stood surrounded by a giant puddle that reeked like fermented bread and stared at her with a face distorted by anger.

Chatper 12

“Goddamn it,” Angus growled.

“Let me help.” Rogene hurried, picking up heaps of rushes and hay that lay in one of the sacks in the storeroom she’d entered from.

The uisge brewery smelled strongly like alcohol and hops. It was as hot as the depths of hell here. He’d just been brewing the malt and had accidentally hit the cauldron as he thought about Euphemia. The uisge was supposed to be ready for the wedding. The heavy, sharp spirits of alcohol hung in the small cave-like room, and as he inhaled them, he felt drunk.

Nae.

That must be the sight of Rogene, who stood in the doorway like an apparition. Her cheeks were flushed, and her big, dark eyes rested on him in an amused yet serious expression.

There was no one bonnier than Lady Rogene.

His head spun and his body was light as he grabbed a cloth and began wiping malt from the ground.

“Too bad I destroyed a cask.”

Again they were alone, and that was very bad for him, though he couldn’t remember why at the moment.

She grabbed a cloth and began wiping the stone floor, as well. “Do you brew the moonshine yourself?”

“Aye. I do. One of the only useful things my father taught me is the recipe for good uisge.”

He suddenly became aware of a very delicious, round behind that was stuck in the air as she bent down. God’s arse, he thought with his breeches suddenly too tight for his cock and his balls aching.

“What else did your father teach you?” she asked.

Angus crouched on his heels, still watching her move despite his very logical reasoning not to.

“Um,” he mumbled, his mind swimming. Good Lord, why did he have to be alone with her again? “To fight well.”

She straightened and turned to him with a cloth in her hands. A few locks of dark hair had come loose from the single braid that circled her head like a halo. Her lips were as flushed and red as her cheeks, and her eyes shone.

“Did you spend a lot of time fighting for the Bruce?”

“I fought for him since he came here in early 1307.”

At the mention of this, she completely changed. Gone was the sweet, relaxed lass. Her eyes sharpened, her mouth opened as though she wanted to absorb his every word.

“Robert the Bruce?” she said. “He was here in 1307?”

Angus frowned. “Aye. Dinna ye ken all that from yer cousin James Douglas?”

“James wasn’t with him yet, and you know it.”

He stood up and threw the cloth in the remaining puddle. “And why does that seem so important to ye?”

“I’m just curious,” she said. “I admire King Robert, and I wish I could meet him one day. I truly believe he’s good for Scotland, and I admire those who fought for him. Without him, without you and men like you, Scotland wouldn’t be independent.”