The man staggered back, hand pressed to his rapidly blackening eye. "What the hell was that for?" he slurred.
"Ye're Douglas Sinclair, aye?"
"Then be glad I dinna do more. It's only that she's chosen you that stays my hand. Take care of her, aye, and see ye do her nay harm, or by God and all that is Holy—"
"Wait." Sinclair held up an unsteady hand. "Take care of who?"
"Elspeth," he said. "My wife."
Sinclair tilted his head and frowned. "Are you . . . Alec?"
"So my friends call me. I am Alasdair Colin MacGreg—oof!" His words were cut off as Sinclair's fist impacted his midsection. This one was remarkably fast for a drunk man.
"You're supposed to be dead!" Sinclair backed away, shaking his head and dropping his voice. "She told me you were dead."
"Aye, that I am, lad, that I am." Alec gripped his stomach, trying to get his breath back. "Or at least it feels that way when ye've lived in Scotland long as I have."
Dialogue: JRC.....The Next Line: Pacatrue