Chapter 8
Patrick
leaned back into the exquisite comfort of Conal Grant’s leather chair.
It had been a very long night, and the Learjet’s seat was a welcome respite from hours spent investigating the nooks and crannies of London for potential problems with his next charge’s proposed itinerary.
Given that he’d watched over the boy before, he was fairly certain there would be no surprises.
Unfortunately, closing his eyes brought no relief. It was a wonder he hadn’t gone completely gray with the lack of sleep he’d had over the past six years. Somehow, though, his body seemed to function quite happily on very little. He suspected that couldn’t last.
All the more reason to consider doing something else with his life.
What, he surely didn’t know. Teaching? Aye, possibly.
Writing? Nay, he hadn’t the patience for it.
There was the business of plants and such, he supposed, and he certainly was in the proper country for catering to gardeners.
But it was a long fall from high-priced, highly skilled bodyguard to a lowly tender of shrubberies.
Not a fall he fancied he could make any time in the near future.
He opened his eyes and stared out the window, watching the land beneath him from a vantage point that men centuries ago could hardly have imagined. It still stunned him at times, that view, and he’d spent countless hours traveling in planes over the past several years.
They were passing over the Lake District at present.
Patrick looked at the shimmer of blue below and decided that he really should take a proper holiday soon.
A few weeks spent in a little cottage near the water—or perhaps in a very expensive hotel where his every need would be catered to.
Aye, that was what he needed. A vacation, something more serious than just the escape from work he’d taken the previous fortnight.
That didn’t qualify as rest. It had been more of a mental health break, given the annoyance of his last charge.
She’d been a very rich, very spoiled college girl determined to spend as much of her da’s money on as many illicit pleasures as possible.
And when she hadn’t been squandering her sire’s gold, she’d amused herself by taunting him about his apparent lack of education and his obvious lack of funds if this was what he resorted to for employment.
She’d been old money from a sleepy New England town he hadn’t bothered to remember.
He shook his head at the memory of her taunts. They hadn’t been all that original, but they’d been constant. He’d been tempted to tell her that he had money her father could only dream of and that he had taken a degree in classic literature with highest honors at Edinburgh University.
Of course, she wouldn’t have been impressed to know he’d gone to school during the day and continued to work for Conal during the evenings and on weekends.
And all in an effort to impress Lisa’s father.
What a useless exercise that had been.
That young American wench wouldn’t have been impressed, either.
So he’d kept his mouth shut, his expression inscrutable, and his thoughts to himself.
He’d tossed his report at Conal as he’d gotten off the plane, then headed directly for home.
Perhaps he’d cared more than he wanted to admit about the opinion of one silly, immature wench, given how long he’d avoided contact with the general public thereafter.
Then again, perhaps that girl had merely been the last in a long line of people who were perfectly content to look down on him—often quite vocally—except for those fleeting and all-too-easy-to-forget moments when he was saving either their lives or their reputations.
Becoming a recluse for a bit had seemed a fairly mild reaction.
He wondered, not for the first time, if he’d been doing this too long.
At least his current client would be far less a pain in the arse than his previous one.
This lad came from a large family of merchants whose name Patrick would immediately forget after the job was over.
Patrick could do the drill in his sleep.
Indulge but protect. If the lad wanted to ruin his nose with drugs and his body with prohibited pleasures, Patrick wasn’t one to pass judgment.
He was merely there to make sure the boy was coherent enough to get back on the plane home—and be coherent enough himself to hoist the lad on the plane himself if the boy wasn’t.
Which was, given his own practice of abstaining from controlled substances, never a problem.
Conal was waiting as the Lear pulled up to an inconspicuous hangar.
“Any trouble?” he asked, as he had asked regularly for the past six years.
Patrick hoisted his bag over his shoulder and handed Conal a sheaf of papers. “He has a drug problem, but we knew that. I can keep him alive long enough to get him back on the plane.”
“Lads these days.”
“Too much money; no common sense.”
Conal looked at him sideways. “And it wasn’t the same for you when you were younger? If you ever were,” he added under his breath.
“I heard that,” Patrick said easily. “And your assessment of my character is sorely mistaken. I’m the happy-go-lucky one of the family, remember?”
“Or so your brother says.”
“He would know.” Patrick smiled briefly. “Winter in the Highlands is very long, my friend. We had no money, ample ale, and willing women.”
“I’ll bet you did.”
“Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, you know.”
Conal snorted, but clapped Patrick on the shoulder. “Some day I want the entire story of your youth, nothing held back.”
“I gave you a great deal of it.”
“Aye, but I didn’t believe it. I want the entire tale. Someday when I have at my disposal something strengthening.”
“You find your strong stomach,” Patrick said, “then let me know. Until then, I’ll concentrate on my nannying.”
Conal nodded. “The plane will be waiting at 1700 Friday. Let me know when you get home.”
Patrick nodded, then made his way to his car. A few more times, he decided suddenly. He would do this a few more times, then be done. He wasn’t afraid of the danger. He’d left more than a few would-be thugs crumpled up behind rubbish bins with his bare hands alone.
It also wasn’t the travel. He’d had the chance to become passably fluent in a handful of languages, see many famous sights, and eat things that would have upset all but the staunchest of stomachs. It wasn’t even the time away from home. Time away made homecoming even sweeter.
It was just the people he risked his life for. Spoiled, ungrateful children with no appreciation for the virtues of self-denial and self-control.
Maybe he was just getting old.
He stopped in to see his mechanic. It was going to be very expensive, but he had no choice. He arranged the details to suit himself, then headed home. There were no Yanks or sheep to run over, and for some reason that was almost depressing.
He rolled down the window in an effort to douse himself in cold air.
It didn’t help much.
He wondered if she could sit yet. Madelyn. Madelyn Phillips, the former fiancée of that insufferable clod Bentley Douglas Taylor III, Esquire. How she had ever gotten herself entangled with that great buffoon was beyond him.
He continued to ponder the improbabilities of that relationship—could Taylor possibly appreciate the tumbling cascade of curls that framed her face, or had he never bothered to pull her hair from its prison at the back of her head?—but it very quickly gave him a headache, so he stopped.
After two hours spent behind an enormous line of cars he didn’t have the wherewithal to pass, he signaled right, then suddenly slammed on his brakes and came to a screeching halt in the middle of the road.
The road to his house lay to the right, winding up northward.
The road before him led straight on to the village.
He’d been ready to go home, but he’d been caught suddenly off guard by the unbearable emptiness that awaited him.
He had to take a very deep breath.
Of course, he could go to Jamie’s, but he wasn’t sure he could bear that, either. The hall would be full of family, all preparing for the blessed event. Nay, he could not go there. The happiness and anticipation that would be filling the hall was simply more than he could stand at the moment.
He put his car back in gear and continued straight on, trying not to think about his destination. The pub, aye, that was a decent choice.
Pity he didn’t drink.
But he could get a decent meal there. Of course,’twas early enough in the morning that he’d have to sit outside and wait three hours for MacLeod’s Brews and Tasties to open, but it was a fine day and he had nothing better to do with his time.
Oddly enough, his car seemed to have a mind of its own. The Vanquish never did things like this, he thought with a scowl. He allowed himself to be led into the humble car park of Roddy MacLeod’s equally humble inn. He parked, then looked about him.
Taylor’s Jaguar was there, but Madelyn’s car was not.
He stroked his chin thoughtfully. Had she gone out already to pursue her Highland itinerary?
Perhaps Moraig’s brew had done a goodly work on her after all.
Either that or she’d driven herself to hospital on her own with a mouthful of complaints about Highland healing techniques.
And if that was the case, she was more than welcome to her sore backside.
He rested his hands on the steering wheel.
There was no sense in not going in since he’d come this far.
Miriam MacLeod set an uncommonly fine table for breakfast, and he would be more than happy to see to a few chores in return for a plate of sustenance.
Whoa Bullet could perhaps use a morning spent learning some manners.
He got out, then paused. There was music in the air.
It wasn’t, the saints be praised, bagpipes.
It sounded quite like a violin.
He walked into Roddy’s inn. The music was coming from down the hall.