Read Online Every Time with a Highlander by Gwyn Cready - Free Book Online

man on horseback, let alone a cart or carriage, and gazed at the building’s dirty daub exterior.
    The place didn’t look like a whorehouse—not that Michael had a clear idea of what a whorehouse should look like, other than the petticoat-filled bordellos above whiskey bars in the American Westerns his great-aunt Morag used to watch. It looked more like a tea shop, he thought, and then an odd frisson ran down his spine. He turned his gaze to the river, visible down the street, and back to the building.
    Jesus, it is a tea shop! Or at least it will be in a few hundred years. This was the shop Auntie Morag had taken him to on that miserable visit to Coldstream so many years ago. They’d driven down from Peebles, boring enough in its own right, in her ancient Morris to visit the Coldstream Historical Museum. He’d sat in the front window of this very building; he remembered the view of the water clearly. They’d eaten blackberry jam biscuits and lukewarm tea with no sugar (“Bad for your teeth, Mikey. Might as well floss with licorice whips.”), while he’d squirmed on the uncomfortable chair listening to her describe the afternoon of “fun” they’d be having at Coldstream’s biggest attraction.
    Christ, he could hardly be still now thinking about the place. Bloody boring bits of pottery and faded pictures of farmers with plows that had seemed to him from the Pleistocene Epoch. He’d actually looked for James IV in the photos, hoping to catch sight of his bloody, fifteenth-century battlefield death at nearby Flodden Field, the only thing that would have made the interminable visit worthwhile.
    Well, he thought with some amusement, wouldn’t Auntie Morag have been surprised to find out they’d been sitting in what had probably been the parlor at Coldstream’s favorite whorehouse.
    Ha.
    â€œThe door’s open, you ken,” said a plump, middle-aged woman with graying hair standing behind him in the alley. She held a large basket of green and purple cabbages. “Ye need no’ be shy.”
    â€œAre you, er—”
    â€œAye. Come in, come in.”
    She gave his habit a quick up-and-down and shook her head. “I guess nothing should surprise me anymore,” she said, and put the basket on a table in what was clearly the kitchen. A variety of pots hung by the unlit hearth, and the scent of cheap, flowery perfume hung in the air. A bright-red handbell stood on a shelf.
    â€œDo you have a preference, Father?” she said. “Fat? Thin? Gold hair? Brown? We even have a girl with six fingers, but she’s extra.”
    â€œOh God, no,” Michael said, horrified.
    The woman shrugged. “The men like her because she can—”
    â€œThank you, no,” he said firmly. Why wasn’t Undine here to navigate this medieval house of horrors? “I’m waiting for someone. A woman,” he added helpfully.
    She turned and crossed her arms. “Father, I ken ye must be new to this, but ye canna bring your own woman here. You must use one of ours.”
    He shook his head. “Sorry. I know this is confusing, but I’m here”—he lowered his voice—“with a delivery . The delivery.”
    She offered no sign of recognition.
    He jabbed a thumb toward his hump. “Rothwell. He needs a room.”
    â€œHe has a name ?” She moved her hand closer to the bell.
    â€œOf course he has a name. What do you mean?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    The bishop farted, and the woman glared at Michael.
    â€œIt wasn’t me !”
    A younger woman in a close-fitting leather coat stepped in and looked at Michael. “Are you Kent?”
    Before he could answer, the sounds of an argument came in from the street. Michael stepped to a window. The man who had stopped Undine had a hand on her sleeve, and even at this distance, Michael could see Undine was irritated. Michael jerked the ropes under his