The girl was, in the end, still young and having been raised in a village so well accustomed to her strange ways, a goodly bit cozened and her wild innocence guarded. To she, he was silly, with his flair and his obvious flattery, not to mention how easily he was to be made a fool. It could not be said that she did anything out of spite or malice, for she was not the type. Rather, she flitted about like a robin in the brush, brightly lit breast and piping his tune merrily, and if she were to lead a traveler or two astray, then they had best learn to leave the birds to their hedge. 

All the same, she likewise enjoyed being looked upon and much like the male robin red-breast, preened under his eye and careless words. 

As he settled in to his table, the innkeep gave a nod and swiped his great bar rag over the oaken top. The inn keep was a man built more like a smith than a barman, with sloping shoulders and a heavy brow upon which little hair still grew. He was grizzled, had a chinful of hair to his breast, and a ready smile or thunderous frown as the mood sat him. This new cockleburr with Bess leading him in incited little emotion. The fine cut of his coat and the delight in his heralding call merely instituted the beginning of a season, a time filled with many a man entering by coin flashed and still under the thrill of the hunt, whether it be horse or foot, upon his brow. 

She, however, drew out a great scowl and the barman jerked his thick head, his beard jostling against his white placketed shirt front. “G'on, gel. Get to th' cups as I get th' man his rum.” And without a moment's hesitation, she with a bob, let loose Mr. Vaughn's arm and murmured a contrite, “Yes, Da,” as she hurried toward the back rooms where the kitchen and stove awaited. 

“One'a th' King's men, are ya?” the bar keep sniffed, ferreting a tankard from some hidden recess and setting it under a tap to pour. “Byron, there, he's back from th'Americas. You'd be too, I don't doubt.” To the side, at a small, low table, a thin man sat with sallow face and one arm about his middle. As Vaughn's attention came on him, he gave a nod, then set the hidden hand onto the table, though it was not truly there to be set anywhere. The arm stopped shy of the wrist and was bound lightly, no doubt to keep the phantom pains from pulling too much. The boy, for despite the look of age and weariness, he couldn't have been more than twenty three, had the look of a farmer, or what may have been a farmer before the battle which had stolen his hand. 

“Always a pleasure, ser, ta serve a man of th' King,” the barman gave a grim smile. At the other table, where three older men sat at their cups, there was a watered cheer of “Hear, hear.” 

“What is your name, sir? Come on, have a bit of luncheon on us and I'll keep it to yer tab,” he had already disappeared the half-crown from the bar into some unknown pocket or box. Despite Vaughn's offer, the rest at the tavern gave no indication as to asking for a drink from that money, though the barman still pulled two tankards of ale and set both atop the oak. 

Bess whisked back in then, with a basket of crusted bread wrapped in a thick towel which she set at the table with a wide, red smile, her eyes dancing. “Ser,” she bobbed to him then went to get his tankards as her father poured the rum. 

“Bess,” the innkeep halted her as she'd gathered both in hand, “one of those is to young Hammish, who was a King's man.” And by that, all but she, knew that Vaughn had been found out and none held him wrong for it. 

“Yes, Da,” the girl murmured and served Hammish second after she'd given Vaughn his. Her father gave her a meaningful stare when she returned for the rum, for it was obvious she had already chosen to dote on the fine gentleman, doing in three trips what she could have done in one, and giving him a smile each time. At the very least, this time she had the modesty in her blush and she cast her eyes to the side before she made her way to the kitchens once more.