Amanda Scott by Highland Fling Page A

you.” Her throat felt as if it were coated with sand, her breasts hurt, her gown was in tatters, and the knot on the back of her head ached unbearably, but with the woman still staring at her, clearly waiting for her to say more, she exerted herself enough to add, “Perhaps I might have some water.”
    “Bless her.” The woman glanced around and added, as if to an audience, “Water, she says.” Her laugh sounded like a witch’s cackle. “Ye dassn’t drink the water here, girlie. Tastes of what floats in it.” Cackling again, she reached into the road, scooped up a handful of steaming horse manure, and waved it under Maggie’s nose. “D’ye like that?” When Maggie recoiled from the stench, the crone tossed the mess away, cackling again and holding her sides until she realized that gin was spilling out of her bottle, and clapped her filthy hand over the lip.
    Maggie watched, fascinated, when the woman lifted the bottle again to drink, but she paused with it still inches from her lips, wrinkling her nose distastefully. Peering myopically at the dirty bottle, she grimaced, grabbed a handful of her skirt, and used it to wipe the opening before drinking. Then, after taking a long pull of the contents, she looked at Maggie again. “What ye looking at, girlie? Ain’t ye never seed no one take a drink afore? Ye’ll get used to such an ye linger hereabouts.”
    Drawing a steadying breath, Maggie said as calmly as she could, “I have no wish to linger. Do you perchance know what became of my servants and coach?”
    The woman chortled. “The dead don’t linger neither, girl.”
    “Dead!” The word echoed through her mind as if it were bouncing off hollow walls in a darkened room, but it did not seem to disturb her. She said simply, “They cannot be dead.”
    “Oh, aye. Put up a grand fight, didn’t they? The woman, a-screeching and a-carrying on like a banshee about what they was doing to her, so they was bound to hesh her up, and the man … Well, he didn’t fight so much, ’cause his head were broke open when they toppled yon coach ’n he come down headfirst on them stones. Sure ye don’t want a slug o’ me gin, dearie?”
    Maggie, her sensibilities numb now, shook her head, then wished she had not when new waves of painful dizziness struck her. Closing her eyes, she waited until they had passed. She was having difficulty collecting her thoughts. “What … what became of my coach?”
    The woman shrugged. “Dunno, mistress, but ye oughta be that grateful them louts forgot about yerself a-laying there. Coach were there one minute, gorn the next, and them with it. Worth a pile of money, it were, and such dassn’t linger long on streets in Alsatia. Dead bodies neither,” she added thoughtfully.
    “Alsatia?”
    “Aye, that’s where we be, right enough.”
    “Nonsense, we are in London.”
    The woman cackled again. “Lord love ye, dearie, but o’ course we be in London. Alsatia b’ain’t nowheres else.” Looking around at her make-believe audience, she added, “Poor girl be touched in the head, I’m thinking.”
    Maggie struggled to stand up, holding onto the wall for support. Her head still swam, but her legs felt steadier than she had feared might be the case. The woman was much her own height, and now that she looked eye to eye with her, she realized she was not as ancient as she had first thought her to be.
    “Please, what is your name?” she asked.
    “They calls me Peg Short.”
    “I am Margaret MacDrumin,” Maggie said politely.
    “Scotch, then?”
    “Yes, I am Scottish.” She watched Peg Short warily, knowing that acknowledging her heritage might prove dangerous, but Peg only nodded wisely.
    “Aye, so I thought from the name, but ye talks so pretty, I warn’t sure. S’pect them louts didn’t leave ye no money, mistress. How will ye eat?”
    Not only was her money gone, but Maggie discovered that the thieves had also taken a ring her father had given her on her sixteenth