Dani Renee
Edinburgh, Scotland — 1730
Tabitha burst through the ornate library doors with a whoosh of her gown and flopped onto the nearest settee. Deliciously alone.
“Och, these dances will be the death of me. Gangly Alistair raced after me like a wee terrier nipping my heel.” Eyes adjusting to the dimly lit room, she blew an errant curl away. “Heel, Alistair. Heel.” She pointed to the imaginary man and popped off her shoes.
“Do ye always compare men to dogs? Or do ye save that for special occasions?”
Flustered by the voice, Tabitha darted her eyes to the massive desk where a man stood. He was everything Lord Alastair was not. Braw, tawny from the sun, a sense of the world about him. In fact, he made Alastair look like a ghost of a man.
“Only when the mood fits. But he is like a yapping dog.” She shucked her shoes out of sight. “I prefer a setter. If a dog cannae protect its owner, pray tell what use is he?”
“Ye are a sensible lassie. No comfort dogs to sit in yer lap.” He leaned against the desk. A breeze from the open window rustled his curly mop of auburn hair.
“Och, if ye talked with my da, sensible wouldn’t be the word on the top of his list.” She ticked her fingers one by one. “Brash. Headstrong. Reckless.”
“Does anyone truly ken their place in society?” He shoved a few papers out of the way and hoisted himself onto the desk, boots dangling over the edge. “We think we do, but I gather most hold themselves more highly than they really are.” He snapped his fingers, and she sat upright, wondering how she’d missed this man at the gathering.
“And who are ye again? I dinnae believe we’ve met.” As much as her feet screamed, she’d readily accept a dance with this man.
“Obadiah.” He tipped his head. No surname, but he didn’t require one. “Obi for short. Only my mam calls me my full name and only if I’ve done something rotten.” A wee smirk gripped the corner of his mouth.
“And is that often?”
“Is what often?” He shuffled more papers away and leaned back on his palms.
“That ye have done something rotten.” She found this man fascinating and imagined his mam shouting his full name frequently.
“Depends what ye think of as rotten.” He winked.
“Tabitha. But if ye care for me at all, ye will call me Tabby.” She’d never introduced herself without her full name. Tabby was an intimate name her da called her, not how she introduced herself to strange men.
“Tabby.”
Her stomach warmed hearing it from his lips.
“Why have I not seen ye before tonight? With the amount of dances, we should have had a run in before now.” How she wished they had. This man seemed to demand her attention. Alastair whined to his mam about his aching feet. She couldn’t begin to compare the two.
“Possibly because I dinnae attend dances.”
“Och, but ye are here now.” As the words tripped out, she had her answer.
“Never said I was attending the gathering.” He hopped off the desk.
“Why are ye here?” She stood, despite her feet begging her to sit.
“Now, if I told ye, then I wouldn’t be doing my job well.” He stepped toward the fluttering curtain.
The mud turned clear in her mind.
“Ye are a common thief.” She studied the stacks of paper. He could have easily stuffed a few into his coat.
She barreled toward him, unsure of what action to take next.
“A thief, there ye are correct. But I dinnae ever claim to be common.”
She halted at his words.
“Who are ye?” She inched closer. Both stood before the window, the night air dancing between them.
“Obi. I told ye.”
“The common thief.” She crossed her arms.
“Och, I told ye I wasna common.” He perched on the windowsill. His somewhat worn kilt and sporran should have been a clue. Different social classes, but how she wished class didn’t exist.
She shook her head. A thief. She shouldn’t want to ken a thief more.
“What are ye stealing from Lord Billington?” The stuffy old man had riches galore, but something more seemed afoot.
“Knowledge.” He tapped his fingers against his forehead, curls bouncing against his brow.
“Ye cannae steal that.” She traipsed one step closer.
“Aye, but ye can.” He pushed away from the window and studied her as if he wanted to say something else.
“Ye are one of them.”
“That depends on who them is, doesn’t it?” He leaned in, a mere gap between them.
“The rebels.” Men fighting for Scotland. Ones Lord Billington aimed to tear down with the help of the British. She darted her eyes to the papers on the desk. A rumpled mess now.
“See, ye can steal knowledge.” He brushed a knuckle over her palm. “And papers.” He patted his coat. “Wee scraps of information, when woven together, create a larger picture. That’s how this cat-and-mouse game is played.”
“Will ye be back?” Tabby crept forward, though her parents’ nagging voices in her head screamed for her to back away.
“I have the information I need for tonight.” He brushed a lock of hair from her face. “I wouldn’t mind coming back to ye, though. But a thief dinnae often return. Remember, I’m not a welcome guest. But I willna forget ye, Tabby.”
He burst through the window, disappearing into the inky night air.
“Och, but there ye are wrong.” She studied the dagger in her palm. “Two can play thieves in the night.” Her brothers had taught her well in their nursery games. She always had made the better thief. “Ye will be back for this dagger, I ken it.”
She clutched the dagger close. Aye, he’d find her again and when he did, she wouldn’t let him go so easily the second time.
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