The driver, whose name I haven’t yet heard, nods. “I’d tend to agree, there, Leith.” He opens his mouth as if to speak again, but closes it abruptly, as if thinking better of it.
They all start talking at once, but all I get from the conversation is their names. The large man driving the car is Clyde, and the man to my left who won’t touch me’s named Tate.
I’m piecing bits of what I’ve observed together. Leith is the clear leader of them all. They obey his commands and defer to his authority, at least here. Mac is surly but still obeys, and both Tate and the driver defer, but they catch themselves. They’re not used to blindly obeying him. Is he new to this position of leadership, then?
What highlanders would have a hierarchy of power? I wish I’d read more history books and fewer novels. I wonder if that’d even help me now.
Leith puts a sudden halt to the conversation with a stern, sharp, “Enough.”
He reaches for me and I flinch. He blinks in surprise.
“Skittish, there,” he mutters. He’s got something soft in his hands, but I can’t quite see what it is. A second later, I’m plunged into darkness with whatever it is tied around my eyes.
They don’t want me to see where we’re going, then. But it’s too late. I already know by the way they speak and the way the car inclines that we’re heading to the highlands. Other people underestimate how the handicapped rely heavily on their other senses. They can blindfold me and deprive me of all my senses and I already know we’re going to the mountains of the north.
It’s likely foolish of me not to be more afraid, but my response to fear’s been muted over the years, I believe. It used to be that I’d cower from my brother’s fists or flinch at my father’s biting strop, but I’ve hardened myself.
I’ve never been this far out of Inverness, and if I’m honest, a part of me hopes I get to see the mountains. They can’t keep me blindfolded forever, can they?
For now, they’ve dropped the topic of my name. Logic tells me that their means of coercion are limited in the car like this, and I’m more likely to have consequences when I arrive wherever we’re going.
Fair enough. A delayed reaction is better than now. They speak to one another as we keep driving upward, and my ears pop. I have a vague memory that’s what happens when you increase elevation. I swallow hard and it doesn’t hurt anymore.
I feel weirdly relaxed as I hear them speak, the cadences of their voices oddly soothing, like waves lapping on a beach. The anger has passed, and now they’re chattering, almost jovially. A few make wisecracks, and they laugh, as we continue to drive. It’s warm in here between these two men, Bailey on my lap, and the car’s heater. My head bobs, and I quickly force them open. I can’t fall asleep. I’ll miss everything.
“She’s a danger, but a damn good looking one, isn’t she?”
“She looks wild and untamed.”
A chuckle, then, “I’d like to be the one that tamed that lass.”
“Fuck off.”
Silence.
I wake with a start, unsure if I imagined the conversations or heard them in my sleep. It’s odd waking up with a blindfold on. I feel empathy toward the blind who wake like this daily. I dislike not being able to speak, but I’d think not being able to see would be much harder to bear.
The car’s come to a stop, and the men are silent now. Rough hands release my blindfold and I blink in the sudden brightness of the car’s ceiling light. The doors are open, and a biting wind knifes straight through my clothing. I try to brace against it, but can’t with my hands bound and Bailey on my lap.
“Take the dog in the house.” Leith takes Bailey roughly by the scruff of the neck, drags him out of the car, and shoves him over to Mac. Bailey growls at him, his lip curling in a snarl, but Leith doesn’t care.
“Where do you want me to put him?”
“Up yer arse,” Tate mutters, but I don’t think anyone but me hears them. I bite my lip so I don’t laugh.
“Bring him to the kitchen,” Leith orders. “Tell the staff not to allow him out until I’ve given permission. They may feed him and give him water, but that’s it.”
“Leith, it’s fucking midnight,” Mac says. “The kitchen staff won’t be there.”
Leith curses. “Tate, text Islan. She’ll still be up.”
Tate’s fingers fly over the keys to his phone, and a moment later, he nods. “She’s on her way.”
Leith jerks his head toward Mac. “Go, now. Clyde, take care of the car, and Tate, scan our channels to be sure there’s no talk of what happened tonight.”