Aidan scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to clear the memory, but it was no use. It’d hounded him all night. His mind brimmed with episodes he’d rather forget, and this was one more to add to the lot.

First he’d punched Cormac, and now this. Perhaps Farquharson’s accusations had been right—he was naught but a common laborer, unschooled, violent, and not to be trusted.

He upped his pace, walking the docks as briskly as he could without breaking into an actual run. The wind whipped off Aberdeen harbor, chilling him to the bone, but he embraced it. Though the weather was turning, he’d fled Dunnottar without a cloak, happy to freeze to death if it meant his mind would finally know peace.

He stopped abruptly. He’d reached King’s Quay, marking the general vicinity of the offices of Dougal Fraser and his much-lauded “Knitted Goodes” enterprise. He scowled, thinking how Elspeth’s father had raved about the man’s brilliance, his wealth.

But a fat purse didn’t make someone a man. And it certainly didn’t entitle this Fraser to Elspeth.

He stormed up one of the roads that spiked from the harbor, in search of Fraser’s offices, but slowed his pace as a flicker of doubt seized him. Perhaps this knit mer-chant was worthy. Perhaps he’d love and care for Elspeth in a way that Aidan was unable to.

Aidan made much about a man’s worth, but how could he rate when the mere blatherings of an old man had the capacity to plunge him into a rage?

He rubbed his knuckles, regretting for the thousandth time how he’d struck Elspeth’s own flesh and blood. Aidan might have spent long years away from civilization, but even he knew that this was not precisely the way to endear himself to a family. Far from it. How her father had glared, as if Aidan were the devil come calling.

But Elspeth was so refined, so good. Before they’d been interrupted, he’d come close to imagining himself as someone deserving of such gentility. So close to thinking he would someday be that man.

Then her father had come in, and with a word, he’d stolen her from Aidan forever. The man wanted her to marry an old merchant, and Aidan could see it. It was the way of the world. Rich men chose their lives and their wives, while men like Aidan served them.

He’d had enough. This Dougal Fraser might be rich, but as far as Aidan was concerned, Elspeth wasn’t for sale.

But she was a sweet and gentle creature who’d do as her father bid. So he’d simply do the fighting for her. He’d find some way to discredit the man in the eyes of her father.

Aidan might not deserve her, but he could ensure that no other unworthy man claimed her either. He’d certainly not stand idly by as she sacrificed her innocence to someone he suspected was old enough to be her grandfather.

He couldn’t get past the faint nagging suspicion that this particular merchant wasn’t who he pretended to be. Why was he connected with smugglers? And why would he choose Elspeth over a bevy of wealthy, young chits eager to be married into new money? Aidan was determined to find proof of some ill-doing.

He looked up at the sign. Dougal Fraser, Knitted Goodes. The building was modest, but it was clean, and located in a relatively upscale area of Aberdeen harbor. On the surface, it was perfectly respectable. But Aidan knew better than most how things weren’t always as they appeared.

He strode in, determined to get to the bottom of his suspicions. But he’d be discreet. There was no sense in alerting Fraser that he was under suspicion. Aidan would save Elspeth from this absurd alliance. And if he happened upon some clue about his enemy’s whereabouts in the process, all the better.

The door shut behind him, and he was taken aback by the great rustle and click of sound that engulfed him. He strode down the narrow corridor, peeking in the handful of rooms that sprouted along one side like petals on a half-torn flower. With the exception of a couple of young men whom Aidan assumed were apprentices, the rooms were filled with women and girls, all knitting.

“Is there something I can help you with?”

Aidan turned, guessing at once it was none other than Dougal Fraser who’d greeted him. The man was well dressed, with graying hair and a pinched expression. Aidan estimated that he was in his early fifties— old enough that he should’ve been married already, yet still young enough to be vital. Young enough to father children.

Aidan clenched his fists. He wanted to snarl at the man, but instead he forced himself to smile his easiest smile, bowing his most cavalier bow. “Aye, I suppose you can.”

Elspeth had recognized this Fraser’s name. She must’ve taken something when she’d riffled through his papers. The woman was clever and cunning, with far more daring than was betrayed by her innocent appearance.

Aidan put his mind back into the moment, realizing how to approach the answer to Fraser’s question. Gesturing at all the workers, he said, “I see you’ve got labor at the ready. Where do you find it?” He strolled down the hall, trying to look thoughtful. “I’m eager for slaves, you see, and ready to double the current rate.”

Though Fraser smiled politely, his eyes remained cold. “What business are you in?”

“None of yours,” Aidan replied, and upon seeing Fraser’s scowl, he affected a nonchalant laugh. “Look, my only concern is setting up a collection. Of workers,” he added, reading the other man’s confusion. “Or did you think I was eager to get into the stockings business?”

“Worsted stockings are my bread and butter. I’d not mock them.” Fraser’s lips pursed and his expression became chilly. “Pray tell, why on earth did you think I of all people might be able to help in your quest?”

“I saw this address written on a sheet of paper. Next to a name. It was an odd one. What was it?” Aidan snapped his fingers as if trying to summon the memory. “Ah yes. The Bishop.”

“Come.” Alarm lit Fraser’s features, and he spun on his heel, striding straight for his office. He turned on Aidan the moment the door shut. “You expect me to help a man I don’t even know?”

Aidan remained silent. He had no desire to have his name bandied about Aberdeen harbor.

Red splotches mottled Fraser’s cheeks, betraying his frustration. “Now you become suddenly discreet? Who are you, anyway, and why should I trust you? How can I even know you’re serious?”

“I’m serious enough.” Aidan shook his sporran, and the clink of coin was so heavy it could be heard through the thick skin of the pouch. Though he jostled it offhandedly, it represented all he owned in the world. He’d hoped to use it to find his enemy, but wouldn’t think twice to spend it helping Elspeth. If his suspicions were borne out, the two goals were one and the same. “Now tell me, where’s this Bishop?”

The merchant didn’t take his eyes from the pouch. “You don’t waste time.”

“Time isn’t a luxury I have,” Aidan retorted, feeling for the first time during their meeting that he spoke the truth. “Now, what I’d like to know is why all the secrecy?” He gestured to the four walls of Fraser’s office. “Knowing where to find affordable … help … isn’t merely sanctioned, it’s encouraged. And yet, according to my man, you hold clandestine meetings here, under the auspices of dealing in knit goods. Makes a person wonder what you’re really about.”

Fraser narrowed his eyes, looking dangerously close to snapping.

Aidan forced himself to calm. It’d do no good to make an enemy of this man. Pasting a stiff smile on his face, he added, “Not I, of course. I prefer subtlety in all things.”

He needed to help Elspeth by discrediting Fraser to her father, and that meant getting to the bottom of his business. He would not succumb to his temper.

The merchant considered him for a long while, and Aidan affected his trademark easy nonchalance. He jangled his sporran again for good measure.

Inhaling deeply, Fraser appeared to come to a decision. He took and dipped his quill, carefully writing something on a sheet of paper. “Let’s say I know where to find laborers. And, say they were held in a ship in Aberdeen harbor.

You’ll need”—he proffered the paper to Aidan—“word from me.”

Aidan stared at the sheet. He made out the words Justice Port and a ship’s name—the Endeavor.

Fraser scoffed. “You can read this, right?”

He stared for one furious moment at the merchant’s hands. They were trembling—weak, spotted, and pale. Aidan would die before he let those hands touch Elspeth. He snatched the paper. “Aye, I can read your damned scrawl.” He folded it and slipped it into his sporran, forcing a peremptory thank you from between his clenched teeth.

Fraser raised his brows. “And now I think you owe me something.”

Aidan took his hand from his sporran. “You won’t see coin until I see laborers.”

The merchant surprised him by laughing. “A man after my own inclinations. Now go to the harbor. It’s a new ship, with a new captain.” He shook his head in disgust. “My last contact sank before he’d even left Aberdeen harbor. Man was naught but a careless pirate.”

He could only be referring to one boat: the one he and Cormac had sunk. Aidan forced a cold smile. “Pirates might be skilled, but they’re not always smart.”

Fraser appeared to like that assessment, and he nodded amiably. “True, true. This one got caught up with a woman, and there’s no good ever to come from such an arrangement.”

“And yet I hear I’m to offer you felicitations on a recent engagement.” The words were out of Aidan’s mouth before he had a chance to think them through.

The merchant looked puzzled for a moment, and then pleased. “Heard the news already, eh?”

The self-satisfied prig made Aidan long to punch something. “An eligible bachelor like yourself taken off the market? It’s no surprise word got around.”

“Aye, it’s true.” Fraser leaned back in his chair. “I’m to be married. At first, I thought her a plain-faced creature. But something about her appealed.”