I’m a million miles away, when I realize Malachy’s ushering us into the large meeting room. There’s an electric kettle and paper cups in one corner of the room, a small table set up with scones and biscuits, and folding chairs. Nolan and Boner were sent here before us, fulfilling the orders I gave last week. They sit beside each other, stonily angry. The assault came while they were here, and I’ve no doubt they feel the weight of that. Tully sits beside them.
Malachy stands before the group. All of us know him, as every one of us was trained by him. He greets everyone cordially. I pull out a chair for Caitlin and point for her to sit beside me. She’s the only woman present, and isn’t part of The Clan, but I won’t allow her to be anywhere but right here. Some of my men look at her curiously, but no one questions.
“Fill us in, brother,” I tell Malachy.
The room grows silent.
“Thursday evening, one of our teachers, Caira’s sister Monica, went out on what was supposed to be a date,” Malachy says. “At least that’s what Caira tells us now. She didn’t come home that night, and the next morning, Caira found her beaten and raped, and left by the entrance to the school.”
The men around me curse, and Cormac’s on his feet, pacing, his fists clenched. There’s nothing that brings out his most vicious side than a woman in distress.
I feel my body tighten with Caitlin’s as she sits up straighter, her eyes wide and scared.
“She can’t speak, can’t tell us what happened, but has managed to write a few things out. It seems she met a man at the pub last weekend who asked her out. No idea who he was or what his plan was, but that’s the story thus far.”
“Go on,” I tell him. “There’s more.”
He recounts half a dozen transgressions against the teachers on staff since then. Tires slashed. Another assault. Threats, and a theft. My men simmer with anger as the news is relayed. These women are our sisters, cousins, and friends.
“Cowards,” Cormac says, his dark eyes glowering. “Fucking cowards.”
“And why? Do we have any word about who or why?”
Malachy turns to me. “I’ve my suspicions, but we have no proof yet. Have you angered anyone?”
I look to Caitlin. Have the Martins already gotten word that she’s been taken by us? Has anyone seen her, and deciphered where she came from?
I shrug. “I anger lots of people, Malachy. You know this.”
He nods. “I do. But these acts aren’t accidental.”
“The information you found,” Caitlin says, her eyes on the room around her. Her clear, musical voice immediately captures everyone’s attention. “The details you thought I stole from you. Were they due to anyone? Do the men who were waiting on them know you’ve retained them?”
It’s unheard of for a woman to speak at a meeting, but she makes a fair point, so I allow it.
“They must,” Cormac says. “’Tis no secret we went to the lighthouse, and if anyone was waiting on the information, they were sorely disappointed.”
“Exactly,” Caitlin says. “Could it be they believe you stole something that belongs to them?”
“Likely,” I say. “And if they see you, their suspicions will be confirmed.”
It has to have been the Martins. Has to.
“So we set them up,” Nolan says. “Make it look like we’ve gone back. A few of us remain and wait to ambush. When they strike again, we attack. Interrogate. Get answers.”
“Has anyone questioned Monica about identities?” I ask Malachy.
“Aye. Naturally. But the name and details she gave us were shite. The man lied to her.”
Not a surprise.
I dislike sending my men home. There’s power in numbers. But Nolan has a fair point. If we’re to draw them out, we need to make them feel confident enough to do it.
I give out my orders, retaining Nolan, Cormac, and Tully on the premises, and Carson and the rest are instructed to keep me informed when they arrive back home. I give strict orders to Malachy that the staff is not to leave without a guard on them. We disperse, my men leaving, and Caitlin sits primly, waiting for me to finish. In silence, I take her hand and we go to the dining hall, where we eat our meal served by the staff on campus.
I signal for Lachlan to join us. I have to give the boy credit. He’s unabashed by being beckoned by me, and though there’s a faint flush to his cheeks, he comes bravely.
“Sit, lad,” I instruct. I have a chance to observe both Caitlin and Lachlan. I make a bold declaration. “Meet my betrothed.”
She doesn’t even flinch but stretches her hand out to him to shake it. “Pleased to meet you, Lachlan.”
“And you, miss,” he says, pulling out a chair and sitting down. He’s a large, strapping boy, orphaned at infancy but related to The Clan by blood, his father my cousin. He’s got a shock of brown hair and bright hazel eyes, a burly lad who’ll serve us well.