Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. The Yale spirit! Ah Cum smiled whimsically. The strong fingers of one hand secured both her wrists there, and Melusine found herself chest to chest with him as he threw off his hat, and began to pat at her petticoat, searching for tell-tale protrusions. ‘Let it fall!’ ‘Brute!’ she spat, struggling, and he knew at once he had guessed aright. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. Hoddy. That’s the wonder of it. ’ ‘You saw? Where were you? How did you see?’ ‘Your heroic milice are not as clever as they thought.
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