Chapter 5 #2
“And the others obviously knew their mate was murdered.”
“Aye.”
“And no one but the girl knows who you are?”
I nod.
He works his jaw before he finishes his whisky. Though he doesn’t speak, I can feel the silent judgment.
Tavish wouldn’t have fucked this up.
“You think I should’ve handled it differently, then?”
He shakes his head. “It’s not up to me to question what the Clan Captain does. It’s not up to anyone. Not your brothers, your sisters, your parents, or anyone, son.”
I nod. Understood.
“I’m only asking so I’m informed.”
I watch the fire flicker in the hearth.
“Tomorrow, you’ll find out everything you can about her, then?”
“Aye, sir. That’s the plan.”
He nods. “That’s a good plan, Leith. Let’s find out everything we can about her, and see if we can’t piece things together. She could already be missing somewhere for all we know, people looking for her as we speak.”
For some reason, I think it unlikely, though I have no idea why.
I yawn widely. It’s been a long fucking day. “I’m heading to bed. I’ll question her more in the morning and see if anyone in town’s said anything about a disturbance. I think we escaped relatively unseen, though, truth be told.”
Dad nods. “Excellent. And you made it clear they’re not to threaten MacGowen again?”
“Aye.”
He nods again. “Good night.”
I should be happy he’s giving me rare praise like this, but I can’t help but note the worry lines that crease my mother’s forehead, or the way my father won’t quite meet my eyes as he stares at the flickering flames in the hearth.
No one questions the Captain, so no one wants to say I fucked up tonight. I was sent to teach a lesson, not kill one of our rivals.
I was sent to defend our priest and pay back our enemies, not bring home a pretty, helpless hostage and her mangy mutt.
I was sent to make things better, only I fucked them up.
I finish my drink and get up to leave.
“Leith?”
I turn to my father. He looks up at me and tips his head to the side curiously. “What are your plans with the girl?”
I’m angry at myself for botching up the evening, for bringing home someone that will prove problematic in the long run. “Make fucking sure she doesn’t snitch on us.”
Whatever it takes.
He holds my gaze for a moment before he looks back at the fire.
“A good plan. Assuming you’ll stay here for the night.”
“Aye.”
“Good night, son.”
As I leave the room, I can hear him talking in low tones to my mother. Both of them are speaking Gaelic, and though all of their children speak it as well, it’s the language of the northern highlands, old-fashioned and cumbersome. I haven’t spoken it in ages, and I wonder why they choose it now.
I leave the room and head to the hallway. I check the front door. Though the main locks have been tended to, no one’s drawn the deadbolt. I slide it into place, satisfied my family’s locked in safely for the night. I turn and listen, for any sound at all. I’m not even sure what I’m listening for.
A clock chimes in the kitchen. It’s one in the morning. A witching hour in some cultures.
I walk upstairs to my room, but before I go down the hall I pause and go up the second flight of stairs to the third floor.
I don’t go down to her room, though. I stand on the landing and listen.
Is she afraid? Is she cold?
Do I care?
I go back downstairs and march to my old room, the one I had as a wee lad growing up with my brothers.
I bang the door open harder than I need to.
I look around at the room I haven’t inhabited in a while.
It’s spacious and rustic and impeccably clean.
This home was built as a hunting lodge initially until my father bought it three decades ago, and had it built up and extended to accommodate the growing needs of our Clan.
I don’t go to bed, not at first. I find a bottle of whisky I keep in the cupboard and pour myself a second drink, then a third. I light a fire, then pace back and forth in front of the flames before I finally feel the effects of the alcohol. The events of the evening play like scenes from a movie.
The dark graveyard. Father MacGowen’s pleas, the worried look on his face.
The man who tried to kill the woman tonight.
The way his neck snapped in my hands, the sudden knowledge I’d decidedly taken a human life.
It’s not a first for me, and I don’t regret it, but it’s a sort of numbing tragedy every time it happens, like a part of my soul is stripped away each time.
Then the woman… God, the way she looked at me when I defended her life. Her small hand in mine when I took her to the car, the way she looked at me with the utmost trust.
She shouldn’t trust me. My God, what is wrong with her that she’d trust the man who’d murdered right in front of her?
The way her eyes looked straight into mine as if she was reading my very soul before I threatened to punish her. The way she looked small and uncertain when I laid her in the bed.
Who is she?
There’s something about her that sets her apart from other people, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
I strip out of my clothes and toss them into the hamper, then quickly get ready for bed.
Will she speak when I ask her tomorrow? Or will I have to punish her?
And why does the thought of punishing her not sound like a terrible thing at all?
I punch down the pillow and slam my head on it, as if I can suddenly will myself to sleep. Doesn’t work, of course. Naturally.
I close my eyes, but every time I do, I can see her looking at me, those wide, almost innocent eyes meeting mine in some sort of unencumbered honesty.
They aren’t quite innocent, though, are they? Something tells me she’s seen more than an innocent would, long before tonight.
I reach for my phone and type a few things in. Did anyone hear anything at the graveyard? Any tweets or posts or mentions online about the events of this evening? But I find nothing at all.
Our mission was covert, then.
I text one of our enforcers that didn’t join us tonight.
Meet me first thing in the morning. I want you at the library by eight o’clock sharp.
Yes, sir. Of course. Anything amiss?
Aye, but it will keep until the morning.
I scroll a little more but find nothing. No missing person reports. Nothing at all except the mass times Father MacGowen posted an hour ago. Does he want to keep up a sense of normalcy or the like?
I poke around online but find nothing of interest. Finally I type in Can you train an older dog to be a guard dog?
I find an article and read until my head droops and my eyes feel heavy. I slide it onto the table beside me and fall into a weird, dreamless sleep.
I wake the next morning before the sun rises. I typically like to get up before everyone else does. Puts me in a good mindset for the day.
I don’t go straight to the workout room this time. My mind is on the girl upstairs.
Did she sleep last night? Does she have anything to say to me today?
I quickly shower and change, toss on a pair of joggers and a tank so I can work out later, and instead of heading down to breakfast, go straight upstairs to her.
Is that someone walking in one of the rooms down the hall?
I pause on the landing, listening, and hear the distinct sound of someone in another room.
Instead of going to her room, I head in the direction of the noise I hear.
I creep quietly so I can see whoever it is without them realizing I’m here.
I walk wordlessly down the hall and peer into a room.
Ailsa, wearing her black and white staff uniform, busies herself dusting the room and humming to herself.
She’s a young, attractive young woman, the niece of one of our staff members.
Her light blonde hair’s pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, and she’s got headphones in as she softly sings to herself.
She turns to dust a mirror and nearly screams when she sees me.
“Oh, Mr. Cowen, I didn’t see you there, sir!”
I stand in the doorway, my arms crossed on my chest. "Didn’t you, then?”
She swallows hard. “No, sir.”
“What brings you up here?”
She blinks in surprise. “It’s Thursday, sir. We always dust the upstairs of a Thursday.”
Do they? I had no idea.
“Did you go down to the guest room at the far end of the hallway?”
She shakes her head. “No, sir. Islan made it clear we weren’t to go there.”