Chapter 11 #2
“What? She ruined a perfectly gorgeous copy of Brown’s poetry, and you know how I feel about such things.”
Islan sobers. “Aye. Fair point.”
The staff refills teacups, and I tug on Fran’s hand. We have to go.
“She’ll be staying with us for a few days, won’t she?” Islan asks. I texted her earlier this morning, and she hasn’t asked many more questions. My heart thrums in my chest.
Four million quid or one of the girls.
I’ll kill them. I’ll fucking kill them all.
“Aye.”
“Good. We’ll get her what she needs.”
Fran sniffs. “As if your bloody size zero clothes would fit the likes of me.”
Islan grimaces. We can’t go back into town, not again. We have work to do, investigations and the like to pursue.
Bryn enters the room on Mac’s arm. “What are we looking for, girls?”
“I need to borrow some clothes, and I haven’t fit anything in Islan or Paisley’s size since I was about ten years old.”
Nan snickers. “For me, I was three years old, so I’m impressed, lass.” She empties her teacup.
“I’ve got plenty you could use,” Bryn says. “Come upstairs with me?”
Fran makes a move to get up, but I shake my head. “Not yet. We’ll get them later.” We don’t have time. I’ll have one of them drop clothes off later.
There’s an awkward silence, but Nan quickly fills it.
“Anyone finish the last Clan Chronicles yet?”
Honestly, Nan.
That didn’t help.
I feel Fran tense beside me, but she doesn’t look at them. Her eyes are focused on the platter of pastries in front of her. She selects a golden brown croissant, and eases it onto her plate.
“Well, I for sure haven’t,” she mutters under her breath. I don’t look at her but keep drinking my tea. “I mean, I haven’t read it.” I give her a sidelong glance. She's acting as if she doesn't want to tell a lie, but she's not really sure how to get out of this now.
The girls discuss the book for a bit, and Cairstina looks a little uncomfortable. She shifts on her seat and catches Leith’s gaze. He only nods at her.
“Was bloody good,” Islan mutters, stifling a yawn.
“Did you finish the paper?” I ask her.
“Paper?” Paisley snorts, but Islan elbows her hard, and Paisley shoves a pastry in her mouth and quickly chews, as if to stop herself from saying anything more. Mum looks at them curiously.
“Weren’t you working on schoolwork last night?” she asks. Islan flushes a light shade of pink. What the bloody hell is that?
“Mum,” Leith asks, his deep voice drawing the attention of everyone. “Do you know anything about Dad’s connections in Wales?”
Fran looks up, and her eyes widen. Islan goes perfectly still.
Something’s going on, and Fran owes me. I’ll get the truth out of her.
Mum places her mug on the table thoughtfully. Her eyebrows knit together, but she doesn't speak yet. This is her way, though. She always thinks before she speaks, unlike my sisters. Unlike me.
“I know that the McCarthy Clan in Ireland had a run-in with them a few years back. I know that they are brutal, that they hold a grudge, and when they make up their minds to seek revenge, decades could pass before they let it go. They let old wounds fester.”
“You say ‘they’ as if they act like a unit,” Islan says. “There are individuals within family units, you know.”
“Of course,” Mum says. “But don’t be na?ve about things, Islan. Families have codes of honor and conduct, and you know what’s good for the goose…”
Islan rolls her eyes. “I think it’s unlikely an entire Clan is rotten to the core.”
Is she speaking of us?
I mull over what Mum said about the Welsh.
“They are brutal," Mac says. That's rich coming from him. I’ve seen my brother interrogate men twice his size and bring them to their knees. He’s the quickest bloody draw on a gun, too, his aim perfect every time.
“That they are,” Mum says. She looks at Fran and doesn’t speak for a moment. I wonder if she’s trying to figure out if it’s wise for her to tell all in front of Fran, but what she doesn't know is that Fran knows more than we do most likely.
“They were the only ones in these parts that had anything to do with human trafficking,” she says quietly.
“They were in on Afghani trade with the Russians.” A chill creeps over me.
She isn’t talking about trading drugs or guns but far more sinister transactions.
She frowns. “It was partly why our friends in Ireland didn’t want anything to do with them. ”
Leith drums the table thoughtfully. “We’ll have to give Keenan a call,” he says.
Fran’s eyes meet mine. She knows something.
“Aye,” I say. “You do that after breakfast and we’ll reconvene?”
“Aye.”
“Why do you ask?” Mum asks him.
Leith shakes his head. He’s smart enough to know that if he tells her the girls are threatened, she’ll lose her mind. She’s a strong, capable woman, strong enough to raise every one of us and go toe-to-toe with Bram Cowen. But her girls are her babies, and she won’t take a threat to them lightly.
“We’ve some investigating to do,” he says noncommittally. “I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.”
That he will. She looks from me, to Mac, to Leith. “Aye,” she says. “I trust you boys will keep me apprised of anything urgent?”
“Of course,” Leith promises.
I stand up from the table. I reach for Fran's hand. There’s no point in pretending that she isn’t with me, that she didn't spend the night at my place and that she won't tonight. Bryn stands, too. “Have a moment to get some clothes?”
Bryn is a former Aitkens, rival mafia. She doesn’t ask questions.
“We don’t right now, can we meet you later? I’ve got some things to work on.” I want to fill Fran in on what we know about the Welsh and see what she can shed light on.
“Of course,” Bryn says. “I’ll drop some things off for you.”
“Thank you.”
Nan’s eyes twinkle at me as she makes air quotes. “Things to work on,” she says, snickering into her cup of tea.
I groan. “Honestly, Nan, will you get your mind out of the gutter?” Leith says, as we leave.
“Now why would I do a fool thing like that?” she says behind me. “What is this, a convent?”
The door shuts behind us with a bang.
“Your gran’s a hoot,” Fran says. “I’ve always loved her.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I mutter. “Alright, lass, we’ve got to talk.”
She shivers, and I drape my arm instinctively around her shoulders. She draws closer.
“About what?”
“The Welsh.”
She grimaces. “Why?”
“I can’t tell you, not yet. Can you tell me what you know?”
A shadow crosses her face, and I can tell this costs something for her. Not sure why.
“Aye, I can.”
Why does she look pained when she says that?
“Your brother knows I’m the writer, doesn’t he?” Fran says quietly when we reach the door to my house.
“Which brother?”
“I suspect Leith, though maybe at this point it’s both of them.” She blinks rapidly, as if she’s fighting back tears.
I don’t deny it. There’s no point. “He’s likely guessed it, aye.”
“Does that mean I’m in grave danger?”
“You’re in grave danger already. But for now, he trusts me to handle this. He gave me a job to do, and I’m going to do it well.”
“Right.”
We enter my house, and I gesture for her to sit on one of the loveseats in the living room.
I take a seat across from her, lean forward, and rest my elbows on my knees. I hold her gaze, and she squirms as I don’t relent. The next few days will put both of us to the test.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispers. “Please, Tate, seriously.”
“Why not?”
“Because you look like you want to eat me alive.”
Heat flares between us, fast and furious.
My voice is husky and affected when I whisper, “I do.”
Her cheeks heat, and her jaw drops open. “You did not just say that.”
“Actually, you did. Want me to repeat it?” I love teasing her. Fran’s no wallflower, but when I push her buttons, I love the way I make her squirm. The image of her splayed out on my bed, bucking under my punishing stripes, sends heat coursing straight through me.
She shakes her head. “All good.”
I pull us back on task. “Everything, Fran. Everything you know about Wales.”
“Well…” she looks to the left and winces a wee bit. It’s barely noticeable but I’m trained in watching for micro expressions. She’s hiding something.
Again.
“Your Mum filled you in quite a bit, didn’t she?”
“Not enough, though.”
She flinches, then nods. “Right, then. Okay, so… first, Aisla’s cousin works for the Welsh.”
What?
How could we have had someone right under our noses be affiliated with our enemies?
She shakes her head. “Don’t blame yourself or anything, seriously. When Aisla was hired by you, she passed every background check, and for good reason. It wasn’t until after she began working for you that her cousin was hired.”
“So it was the Welsh that failed a proper background check.”
Fran shrugs. “Well… not necessarily. It could’ve been intentional, couldn’t it have been?”
I blow out a breath angrily. “And you and Aisla never thought it prudent to mention this to us.”
“Well… no. My job was to get information for my books, Tate, not spy for you.”
She’s right. I exhale.
“Go on.”
“Aisla has the inside scoop with the Welsh, which is a good thing.”
I growl. “Good if you’re a romance writer looking for dirt.”
“Precisely.”
“Bad if you’re a high-ranking member of the mob trying to keep his family safe.”
She winces and gives me a sheepish look. “Yes.”
There’s a knock at the door.
“Must be Bryn. Stay there.”
I leave Fran sitting on the sofa, while I go to answer the door. By force of habit, I look through the peephole to see who it is.
“Not Bryn. Islan’s come.”
Fran sighs. “I was afraid of that.”
What?
I open the door before I can ask her to elaborate.
Islan gives me a bright smile. Too bright. She’s positively glowing.
“Brought you clothes from Bryn,” she says with a smile. “She’s occupied with the children, so I told her I’d do her a favor.”
“Thanks.”
She looks over my shoulder, looking for her friend. "Need anything else?"