Chapter 12
Patrick
climbed down the jet’s stairs and walked across the tarmac, yawning. He’d finally managed to get his charge onto the plane home about six A.M., twelve hours after he was supposed to be on board. That was one boy who hadn’t wanted to go back home.
For himself, he was more than ready to be home. He would catch a couple hours’ sleep, then call Roddy’s to see what new disaster had befallen Madelyn. He’d been gone two and a half days. It could have been anything.
A part of him wondered—more anxiously than he wanted to acknowledge—if she had decided not to wait for him and left already for the States. He told himself it wouldn’t matter. Roddy would have her address. She could be tracked down if he was all that interested.
He refused to examine that interest level. He had a good heart; she was having a lousy vacation.’Twas his duty as a Scot to see her left with a good impression of his country.
He studiously avoided any memories of kissing.
Or patting, for that matter.
Conal was waiting for him in the hangar. “Well?”
“Here,” Pat said as he handed the other man his report. He set his shopping bag down on the tarmac, rubbed his hands over his face, and yawned hugely. “Nothing exciting.”
“Went well?”
Patrick shook his head to shake sense back into himself. “No arrests and all body parts still intact. I’d say it was a success.”
“Good enough. I have something else for you tomorrow—”
Patrick shook his head. “Can’t.”
Conal blinked. “Why not?”
Patrick almost squirmed. “Duty to one of Roddy’s guests. She, um, well, she—”
“She?” Conal asked with interest.
“Aye, she.”
“Is she a model?”
“A lawyer, and’tis nothing serious.”
Conal’s look of interest didn’t fade. “I’ll reserve judgment. And don’t let her turn you into a recluse again, though I suppose I should be overjoyed you’re seeing someone. I’d fancy a wee chat with her, of course, just to see—”
“The saints preserve her, nay,” Patrick said, with feeling. “I daresay I want to see a bit more of the wench without you frightening her off.”
“Sounds serious.”
“It isn’t. But I’m still not available tomorrow.”
“I suppose Bobby can handle this next one.”
Bobby was perfectly suited to the work. Handsome, patient, and lethal. Patrick was always happy to know Bobby was on his side in a fight.
“He’ll do well,” Patrick agreed.
Conal looked at him searchingly. “Is this temporary?”
“Madelyn? Of course it’s temp—”
“Nay, not her. Your lack of enthusiasm for your work.”
Patrick smiled briefly. “Conal, my friend, you think too much.”
“I’m generally spot on.”
“Even worse,” Patrick said with a sigh. “Nay, I am as eager as ever to give my all to the cause.”
Conal snorted. “Right. Oh,” he said suddenly, “Roddy MacLeod’s been trying to reach you. Something about not having seen your Madelyn since he dropped her at your house—”
“Damnation, Conal, why didn’t you say so immediately? Why didn’t you call me?” By the saints, anything could have happened to her. She could have wandered into the forest and gotten lost.
“Your mobile is, as usual, dead. And I couldn’t exactly send a messenger after you now, could I? And I didn’t tell you right off—”
Patrick didn’t hear the rest. He pulled Conal’s mobile phone out of the man’s own suitcoat chest pocket and dialed.
“Roddy?” he said.
“Oh, Patty,” Roddy said, sounding frantic, “she’s nowhere to be found. No purse, nothing left behind. I never should have left her—”
Patrick listened to the rest of the ramble with only half an ear. She had disappeared without a trace. Given that he had firsthand experience with that, the possibilities of where Madelyn had gotten herself lost to were simply staggering.
“Is Taylor still there?” Patrick interrupted.
“Left two days ago. Moved his stuff to MacAfee’s, who dumped two of his lodgers to make room. Now I’m scrambling to find beds for them all.”
“Unsurprising. Well, I’ll be there as fast as the law allows.”
“Faster, even,” Roddy said. “I’m worried.”
So was he.
He handed Conal back his phone. “My thanks.”
“Trouble?” Conal asked.
“Aye. It may take some time to sort out.”
Conal waved him away. “Off with you then, and mount up on that white horse.”
Patrick flashed him a brief smile of thanks before he ran quickly to the car park. He threw his gear into the boot of his car, tore out of the airport, and flew for home.
Ten minutes from Roddy’s, flashing lights went on behind him. He pulled over with a curse, then cursed some more at the man who appeared at his window.
“Well, who have we here?” the officer drawled. “Speeding, as usual.”
“Fergusson,” Patrick said shortly.
“That’s Officer Fergusson to you, MacLeod,” Hamish Fergusson said.
“And that would be my lord to you,” Patrick said. Perhaps there was some pleasure in having a title, however small. It threatened to drive Hamish Fergusson quite mad each time Patrick reminded him of it. “Now, what do you want?”
“Let me just look at your license—my lord,” he said with a sneer, “and marvel at the points you’ve acquired.”
“Just give me the bloody points and have done. I’ve things to do.”
Hamish looked at Patrick coolly. “You should be thanking me,” he said.
“For what?” Patrick snorted. “Continually annoying me?”
“I caught a trespasser on your land.”
Patrick blinked. “In truth?” Taylor grew bold, it seemed.
“She was trying to steal one of your cars.”
“One of my—she?” Patrick echoed. “Madelyn Phillips?”
He shrugged. “So she claims. Had no identification on her. Claimed that was stolen as well. ‘My purse was just on that wall,’ says she. ‘That’s what they all say,’ says I. No proof of theft, and there’s a truth for you. No proof of who she was, either, which is why she’s still where she is.”
Patrick suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “And where would that be?”
“In jail. Has been for two days.”
Patrick could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Hamish, you idiot, I told her to take a car!”
“And you weren’t around to verify that now, were you? Off on one of your damned stupid secret missions,” he said with a grumble. “Besides, the tip I got was a good one.”
“Who called? Another American? Pompous, overbearing lout?”
“How did you—” Hamish wiped the look of incredulity off his face. “My sources are secret.”
Patrick grunted. “Aye, well, there’s a comfort.” He thrust out his hand. “Give me my license back. Then get out of my way.”
Half an hour and at exactly the posted speed limit later, he was walking into a very small police station with a single cell, followed closely by the good Hamish Fergusson.
Ten minutes and several shouts later, he had Madelyn out of the cell and shivering in the entryway. He fixed Hamish with a steely glance.
“A poor excuse for a blanket and nothing but survival rations. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
Hamish thrust out his chin. “Even the vilest sort of thief can have—”
“More sense than you,” Patrick growled. “She’s a lawyer, you imbecile. When she sues you, I’ll be her first witness.”
“Get out of here, MacLeod,” Hamish growled.
“That is My Lord Patrick to you,” Patrick said coldly. “You forget your manners.”
“What I’ll forget is the key to the cell when I get you inside it,” Hamish shot back.
Madelyn slipped her hand into his. “Could we just go?”
“Of course.” Patrick took off his jacket and put it around her. He gave Hamish one final glare, then led Madelyn from the station. He put her in the car, then went around, got in, and locked the doors. He looked at her.
“You look as though you need a vacation,” he said quietly.
Two great, fat tears rolled down her cheeks. “I’m not a crier,” she said, then promptly burst into tears.
Patrick looked around for a tissue. Finding none, he cursed, marched back into the station, and appropriated the first box he saw.
“Oy, you can’t—” Hamish said.
Patrick looked at him.
Hamish shut his mouth abruptly.
Patrick got back in the car and handed Madelyn a handful of tissues. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Not your fault,” she gulped, then continued to sob.
His brother would have been terrified by the prospect of comforting a sobbing female.
Fortunately for Madelyn, he was not his brother.
He stroked her hair, he made soothing noises, he held her and let her drench his shirt.
And when she was finished and had pulled away, he handed her another wad of tissues.
“Sorry,” she said with a sniff. “This was just too much.”
“Aye, it was. And it sounds like Taylor was behind it.”
“Geez, does the guy never give up?” she asked, dragging her sleeve across her eyes. “You’d think I was the one who dumped him.”
“You would think,” he agreed. He didn’t say as much, but he knew Taylor’s kind—a man who would destroy everything he owned or coveted to keep anyone else from having it. A very, very dangerous kind of man.
Not the kind of man to provoke without being prepared to do whatever was required to finish the battle.
“Do you have anything left at Roddy’s?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I have absolutely nothing. No money, no clothes, no passport, no violin, and no plane ticket.”
Patrick considered. First, he had to get her out of Taylor’s scope of influence.
He’d demanded that all charges against her be dropped.
Hamish was pushing for an inquest in two weeks, but Patrick was certain another visit to the station would make that go away.
But if Taylor knew where she was, he could continue to harass and annoy her.
His house was out. Jamie’s was as well. Elizabeth didn’t need any upsets this close to her baby’s birth.
That left his cousin Ian and his wife Jane. They had plenty of room, even with two bairns. And Ian, being of Patrick’s particular background, could certainly keep Madelyn safe should that be required.
Patrick put the car in gear, backed up, then drove through the village.
“Duck,” he said suddenly.
“What—”
“Bentley.”
Madelyn hit the floor without hesitation, then groaned. “I think I broke something.”