Chapter Thirty-Seven
Gretchen
Kirk swerves through several alleys and down multiple streets as he races through Loch Fairbairn at rocket-ship speed.
I realize he's convinced we need to get to our destination as quickly as possible, but come on.
I'm getting dizzy from the constant high-speed swerving.
I feel like I might vomit. No joke. Saliva is creeping up my throat, and I clutch the handle on my door.
Maybe I should roll down the window and leap out.
Archie pokes his head up between me and Kirk. "Best slow down a wee bit, Mr. Stunt Man. Yer lass looks about to vomit."
"Oh God, yes," I moan. "Slow down before I spew."
Kirk immediately eases off the accelerator, his hard expression softening as he glances my way. "Sorry, lass. Didnae realize I was pushing it so hard."
The SUV slows to something resembling a normal speed, and I gulp in deep breaths, struggling to settle my churning stomach. My knuckles gradually regain their color as I loosen my death grip on the door handle.
Kirk twists his head to look at me. "Are ye all right, gràidh?"
"I will be, don't worry." I'm still swallowing hard but the situation is improving. "Could you maybe save the Fast and Furious moves for when we're actually being chased?"
He chuckles, patting my thigh. "Noted. Though I was just warming up."
Somehow Kirk makes me feel both irritated and ridiculously attracted to him at the same time. How does he do that?
Archie pops his head up from the backseat. "The lass needs something to settle her stomach, aye?"
Kirk grumbles, but he's already scanning the road ahead. "There's a petrol station with a small shop just up the way. We can stop for a minute."
"Oh thank goodness." The words rushed out of me and my stomach still feels like I've been on a tilt-a-whirl after consuming a large greasy burger. "I hope the road to that castle isn't too curvy."
"Rest assured, I will take your tummy into consideration while driving." Kirk focuses on the road again, now driving at a reasonable speed. The man seems to have only two settings---zero and one hundred---with nothing in between.
"I've got a flask of Thane Black Label in my bag," Archie offers, rustling around in the back seat. "My gran swears it cures everything from seasickness to the common cold."
"That's very sweet of you, but I don't think whisky is the solution to my nausea." The thought of that smooth, peaty liquid does have a certain appeal. Maybe I could handle a tiny sip. Ugh. No, booze is a bad idea. It might make things worse. "No whisky, please."
"What about some butterscotch?" Archie helpfully suggests. "It's a Scottish delicacy, and I always carry some in my pack."
"Sure, that sounds okay. Thank you, Archie. You're very thoughtful."
He digs around in his backpack, finding a single piece of the confection. I nibble it at first, still uncertain of how well this will go down in my tummy. But as I let the candy slowly dissolve on my tongue, I do begin to feel better. Within only a minute or two, the nausea has vanished.
"Wow, Archie, your remedy works wonders. Thank you."
"Glad to help, Gretchen. My gran's a wise woman." Archie grins from the back seat. "Some things are ingrained in the Scottish blood."
"Your gran sounds wonderful," I tell him, feeling my equilibrium returning. "Does she have any other miracle cures I should know about?"
"Oh, hundreds. Whisky for most ailments, heather honey for sore throats, and she swears by rubbing a potato on warts during a full moon."
Kirk snorts. "Don't encourage him. He'll have you believing in faeries and selkies next."
"Says the man who won't walk under a ladder," Archie shoots back.
"That's simple common sense," Kirk grumbles, pulling into the petrol station. The small convenience store glows with fluorescent light against the darkening sky. "We'll make this quick. In and out, no stopping for a wee chat with the locals. Gretchen, what do you need?"
"Just some water and maybe crackers or plain bread if they have it." I'm feeling better already, but I figure having some stomach-settling provisions for the road ahead is smart. "And maybe a ginger ale."
Kirk nods curtly and kills the engine. "I'll go. You two stay put."
"Och, come on," Archie protests. "I need to stretch my legs, and I could use a proper snack. Those butterscotch pieces are meant for emergencies, not sustenance."
Kirk gives him a hard stare that would make most men shrink back, but Archie just raises his eyebrows expectantly. These Scots are stubborn as mountains. But Kirk finally succumbs to the inevitable.
"All right, Archie," Kirk sighs. "But we move quickly and stay together."
I consider asking if this is really necessary---the whole sticking-together thing---but I won't push my luck. Kirk has already slowed down for my queasy stomach, which feels like a minor miracle considering the high-speed chase we've been through.
We climb out of the SUV, and I savor the moment my feet touch solid ground. The cool evening air feels glorious after being cooped up in that car with Kirk's maniacal driving. Archie stretches his arms above his head, releasing a theatrical groaning noise.
"Right then," Kirk says, scanning the perimeter like we're about to infiltrate enemy headquarters instead of buying snacks. "Let's move."
The bell above the door jingles as we enter. It's a typical small-town convenience store with slightly dingy fluorescent lighting, aisles of processed foods, and a bored-looking teenage clerk scrolling on his phone behind the counter.
As Kirk scans the aisles with the intensity of a hawk hunting prey, I head straight for the refrigerated section.
An older couple glances at me sideways. That's probably because I pulled open the door of a refrigerator unit and pushed my head inside.
The cool air feels so damn on my face. I grab a bottle of water and also ginger ale. I'm feeling almost human again.
"They've got shortbread," Archie calls out from two aisles over. "The proper Scottish kind, too. Not that touristy rubbish."
I grab some plain crackers and make my way toward the register, where Kirk is already standing there. He's positioned his body so that he can see both the door and the parking lot through the store's grimy windows.
He lifts his brows when I come up beside him. "Anything else you need, lass? Perhaps a paper sack in case ye vomit?"
"No need. This should do it." I place my items on the counter beside what appears to be Kirk's selections---water, beef jerky, and an energy drink that could probably fuel a small rocket. The clerk barely looks up from his phone, ringing up our purchases with the enthusiasm of a sloth on sedatives.
"That'll be fourteen pounds fifty," he drones, still scrolling.
Kirk pays with cash---no credit card trail, I notice---and we're back outside in less than five minutes. True to his word, we're in and out with minimal interaction. I must admit, his efficiency is impressive, even if his paranoia seems a bit much.
"Better now?" Kirk asks as we climb back into the SUV.
"Oh yes, much better." I twist the cap off my water bottle. "Thanks for stopping."
He shrugs, then turns the key in the ignition. "It was no bother, lass."
The engine purrs to life, but thankfully, he keeps to a reasonable speed as we pull back onto the main road. I take small sips of my ginger ale, feeling the sweet carbonation bubble down my throat.
"We'll be at Dùndubhan in about half an hour," Kirk says, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror every few seconds. "The road gets a bit winding as we climb into the hills, but I'll keep it smooth for you."
"Thank you so much for accommodating my, um, problem." I plant a firm kiss on his cheek, then lean my head back against the seat. The adrenaline from our earlier escape is starting to wear off, leaving me feeling oddly drained. "So, are you going to tell me what's waiting for us at this castle?"
Kirk tightens his hands on the wheel. "Safety, for one. It's remote and defensible. Plus, I've got contacts there who might be able to make sense of what we found."
"By 'contacts,' he means his cousin Rab Grieve," Archie explains, taking another sip of ginger ale.
"You Scots and your family connections." I'm getting a headache just trying to recall everyone's names. "It's like a medieval clan system with smartphones."
Kirk chuckles. "You're not far off, lass. Rab's been running security at Dùndubhan for the better part of a decade. If anyone can help us figure out why Dougal's men were after you, it's him."
I raise and eyebrow. "And why exactly would your cousin be an expert on mysterious men with guns?"
Kirk keeps his eyes on the road, but a small smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "Let's just say Rab's previous employment gave him a unique skill set that doesn't involve stunts or whisky."
"Military?" I guess, watching his profile.
"Something like that." His vague answer doesn't satisfy my curiosity. I can tell there's more to this Rab character than Kirk is letting on.
Archie pipes up from the backseat. "Rab's a good man. Ex-special forces. The kind of bloke who can kill you with his pinky finger but would rather share a dram and a laugh."
"Archie," Kirk growls with a slight whine in his voice, shooting Arche a warning glance in the rearview mirror.
"What? She's gonna meet him in half an hour anyway. Better she knows what she's walking into." Archie unwraps another piece of butterscotch. "Besides, Rab's the one who taught Kirk how to drive like a madman."