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“People paid him for your nose?”
“Quite often.”
“A remarkable tale, indeed.”
“Yes, well, history appears to be full of those.”
Jamie’s mouth curved, but his eyes remained thoughtful.
“So ye sailed from Boston with a husband involved in the spirits trade, lost him and most of yer party to fever after reaching Scotland, continued north with only this Calum because he claimed kin near Beauly, were robbed of yer money, papers, letters, jewelry, and baggage, then found shelter in the old smugglers’ tunnel and appeared beside my route wearing trousers and boots no cobbler I’ve ever met could make.”
She rolled her eyes. When summarized like that, her story sounded astonishingly bad, even to her.
In for a penny, in for a pound. She lifted her chin. “Yes.”
Jamie rubbed his thumb along his jaw. “Yer either the unluckiest woman in Scotland or a verra poor liar.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
His laugh took some of the pressure out of the room.
Oddly, Olivia was almost relieved he didn’t believe every word. A man who swallowed the whole story without question would have worried her more. Jamie seemed content, for now, to acknowledge that pieces were missing without forcing her to hand them over immediately.
Growing up above Grandma Bennett’s pub had apparently prepared Olivia for time travel in ways no one could have predicted.
Neighborhood police officers had taken coffee and off the books meetings at the bar. Bookmakers had used the back booth. Regulars knew far more about one another than they admitted, and Grandma had possessed an extraordinary ability to answer exactly the question she’d been asked without volunteering anything extra.
Olivia had learned at a young age that there was a difference between lying and deciding someone didn’t require the entire story. She’d never expected that education to become useful here in 1786.
Jamie pushed off from the table. “Eat before ye fall over again.”
Her stomach growled loudly enough to echo off the stone walls. “Not a word.”
“I value my life.”
“Good instinct.”
He set a wooden bowl before her with thick slices of dark bread, a crock of butter, and a cup holding something pale and faintly cloudy.
Olivia lifted it and smelled.
“Beer?”
“Small beer.” Jamie poured some for himself. “Drink it or have water. I promise not to be offended.”
She took a cautious sip. The beer was weak, lightly sour, and far less alcoholic than anything Grandma would have permitted someone to order.
“This barely counts as beer.”
Olivia set it down, reached for the bowl, then stopped.
One spoon. She looked at Jamie. He’d already torn a piece from the loaf.
“Where’s yours?”
He nodded toward the spoon beside her bowl.
“That’s yours?”
