Chapter eight
Tilly
My life has always been horrendous. I have no memories of a time when life was carefree.
As a young child, all I remember were raised voices and many hours spent locked in a cupboard in the hallway.
The loving looks and warm hugs I see portrayed in movies are something I don’t recall—perhaps they never happened to me.
Or maybe the few I had are buried deep, meaning I don’t need to grieve so hard.
The men sent to kill me wander over the cold ground below. The mulch of the forest floor below cracks beneath their heavy boots. The morning sun is rising and casts a dim light through the trees. From up here, I can see two men dressed in all black. They’re speaking Russian.
Greyson is perched beside me on the next branch along. He has a stillness to him that’s unnerving. If I didn’t know he was there, I’d most likely not notice him. It’s as if he isn’t even breathing.
The taller of the two men looks up in our direction and I stop breathing.
He lifts the gun in his hand and fires upward twice.
The man beside him punches him hard on the arm and tells him, in Russian, to stop wasting bullets.
They both turn away from us and walk off.
We stay in position for a few minutes, then Greyson signals we should descend back to the ground.
Once both our feet are back on the forest floor, he takes my fingers and leads me in the opposite direction of the men.
We walk through the woods without speaking, his large, warm hand holding my smaller freezing one. Eventually, we find a small track and follow it to a larger road. To one side is an old bus shelter. He leads me inside and sits me down on the broken seat.
“Do you think there will be a bus service?” I ask him, and he shakes his head.
“Most buses in Scotland in places like this have been discontinued, but we can take shelter here for a while.” The snow has started falling again, not as heavy, but enough to make walking uncomfortable. “I wish I knew what they were saying,” he mutters to himself.
“They’ve been hired to kill me,” I confess, and he glances up. “They can’t return without proof the task is complete. They were talking about trying to get an I.D. on you. Something about consulting with Nexus.”
“You speak their language?” His face lights up with what I think is surprise but also admiration.
“It was Russian. My cousin used to come visit in summer from Moscow when he was learning English.” I shrug my shoulders. “He taught me so we could talk without my parents understanding. He would…” I trail off, not wanting to admit the information on my lips. I miss him.
“He would what?” Greyson prompts, stepping toward me and cupping my face. “Did he hurt you?” He searches my face for clues at what I’m going to say next.
“No,” I stammer. “He protected me. When my father was enraged or angry, I had a safe word and Rodion would step in. Either he’d create a distraction or he’d do something worse so he would get beaten.”
“Were you and him?” Greyson bites his lip, then shakes his head. I can tell he is chastising himself for showing interest beyond what is polite. “Apologies, Miss. I shouldn’t ask for more information than you’re willing to give.”
“Were you going to ask if I was fucking my cousin?” I say directly, all the time trying to hide a smile. He stills as if assessing a threat.
“Maybe not in so much detail,” he grumbles.
I roll my eyes, and his narrow. He moves from sweet and embarrassed to deadly in a heartbeat.
But I’ve learned enough about him in our short time together to know he won’t hurt me.
Underneath it all, he’s as soft as butter, I think.
A man navigating a life with no instruction manual.
He must have so many stories to tell. I’d love to hear them.
“No, Greyson, I haven’t so much as kissed my cousin, never mind slept with him.” I haven’t slept with anyone, but he doesn’t need to know that. “He was more of a big brother to me.”
“Was? Past tense?” I can’t help but notice the lilt of relief in his tone. He was expecting the worst. It says a lot about my family’s reputation when the men closest to us expect the secrets we keep to be pitch black.
My heart sinks a fraction as I recall the last time I saw Rodion, the day my father threw him out of our home because of a disagreement between our families. In that moment, I lost the only person I could truly call a friend.
“Our families no longer speak. There was an argument over a business deal. My father was accused of stealing from them.”
“Could they be the ones trying to kill you?”
His question is like a bolt out of the blue. Even after hearing the Russian voices, I hadn’t even considered the possibility that it was my own family at the bottom of this.
“I…” My mind whirls trying to find a reason it won’t be them. My senses tell me it most likely is.
“It would make sense,” he says. I look up at this man, who’s here only because he’s paid to be.
I’ve always thought the staff our families hire know far more than they let on, that they’re well aware of how our world works.
Greyson is confirming that fact with every word passing through his lips.
“If your father stole from them financially, they would respond by taking his most important asset.”
“My father doesn’t love me,” I mumble as the emotions I’ve crammed down for years surface. To him, I am nothing more than a commodity to be used as required.
“Perhaps not. That’s why I used the word asset,” Greyson agrees bluntly. “But you’re to be traded in a business deal with the Lombardis, that makes you valuable. If an alliance is formed between London and Rome, that could be detrimental to Moscow.” I gape at him as the pieces fall into place.
“A pawn,” I whisper. “I’ll always be a pawn in a rich man’s game.”
His warm fingers rest on my cheek. I close my eyes, willing him to lean down and kiss me.
I’m desperate for any form of comfort, even from a man who will never be available to me for keeps.
At least he’s real, and whatever these emotions are swirling between us right now are happening.
There’s no doubt we both want something to happen.
Greyson crouches down in front of me and lays his palms on my thighs. Dark eyes hold mine as we stare at one another.
“I have every confidence, Miss, that you are more than capable of playing the queen in this game. Nothing about you exudes being a pawn. You, Miss Tilly, are a remarkable young woman with more fire than anyone I’ve met before.”
The corners of his lips turn up into that fucking smile which causes my palms to sweat.
Not wanting to disappoint his assessment of me, I take his face between my hands and kiss him.
He freezes under my touch, then grabs my wrists and pulls them away from his cheeks.
Our lips part, and I’m left with the cold sense of loss.
“You wanted it,” I whisper angrily as tears of embarrassment prick my eyes. I drop my head to look at my knees. He releases my arms, and a single finger lifts my chin so we return to looking at each other.
“I did, but your kiss is not mine to have. We can’t cross that line.”
Just then, there’s the deep sound of a vehicle approaching. Greyson jumps up and signals for me to stay seated. He pokes his head out of the shelter, and his body, which tensed on hearing the noise, relaxes instantly.
“It’s a tractor,” he says with a quick glance. His expression is kind, and I’m grateful he isn’t being dramatic over what happened only moments ago. He steps out of the shelter and waves the passerby down.
As I stand to join him, a huge red tractor comes into view complete with a textbook aging farmer inside. The door opens, and Greyson explains to the gentleman our predicament. He agrees to take us to his home only a few miles away so we can call for help.
Greyson takes my hand and guides me to the small ladder to enter the cab.
There’s a small fold-down seat beside the driver.
Our unexpected chauffeur introduces himself as Ewan.
He is wrapped up in a huge winter tweed jacket with a matching flat cap.
I would guess he is well into his sixties at least.
I climb up and take my seat. Greyson moves around the opposite side of the vehicle.
His eyes constantly survey our surroundings, I assume for the men in pursuit of us.
There is no seat for him, so he stands at Ewan’s shoulder as we make our way down the snow-covered roads.
It only takes ten minutes to reach the farm, but in that short time we have heard all about Ewan’s animal family and the current poor state of affairs farming finds itself in.
I’m now aware that this kind man is losing his home of fifty-five years to the bank in the coming weeks, and that knowledge makes my heart hurt.
The old property is an array of stone buildings with slate roofs that have seen better days.
We come to a stop outside a red door hanging a fraction off its hinges.
Ewan welcomes us into his home, which likely hasn’t been redecorated in his lifetime.
Each window has visible gaps in the frame, and an old blanket hangs over the back of each door, attempting to keep the freezing air at bay.
I come to a stop in our savior’s front room, my eyes darting around taking in the place this old man calls home. Greyson seems completely oblivious as he begins to dial a number into the old phone on a side table.
“Do you live here alone?” I ask Ewan as he appears behind me with a cup of hot tea. He passes it into my cold hands, and I feel instantly better.
“I sure do. The kids are all grown up and my wife, May, passed over ten years ago.”
“Do you not find it lonely?” The question escapes before I can stop myself. Immediately, I berate my mind for being so foolish. Of course he’s fucking lonely, what a stupid thing to ask. But instead of being offended or upset like I expect, the old man smiles warmly.
“Yes, dear,” he says. “But I’m hoping the sadness of losing the place may mean a new start for me in my twilight years.”
His summary catches me off guard. I can’t hide my surprise that he still has hope even in what from the outside looks like a despairing situation.
As if knowing I need comfort, he reaches for my hand and squeezes softly.
“It’s clear you’re both in a quandary.” His eyes move from me to Greyson, who is talking on the phone, then back to me.
“But while there is breath in your lungs, there’s always hope of something better.”
Greyson reappears at my side and places his hand on my lower back. Normally, physical touch is something I tolerate easily, but I find myself leaning into this man. I can’t deny he makes me feel somewhat safe in his presence.
“A car will be arriving in two hours,” he tells us.
“Are we going back to London?”
“Not quite yet, but we need to be back for New Year’s Eve. Your uncle wants to check a few channels before we return. He has made us alternative arrangements.”
I nod. I am more than aware of what “alternative arrangements” mean. Uncle Hunter wants to make sure the coast is clear and I get back to the city in one piece in time to announce my engagement to Domenico Lombardi as planned.
My future is mapped out before my eyes. I either die at the hand of my family’s enemies, or I lose my soul as the wife of a man who will never love me. There must be another way, and I have to find it. As Ewan says, while there is breath in my lungs, there is always room for something better.