“Aye, sir.”
Tate looks at me and nods. “Have you found a way to communicate with her?”
“Aye, she’s got a mobile so she can text me, and she writes things down as well.”
Mac makes another comment under his breath to William, and this time I hear William’s retort under his breath. “Bet she communicates in bed just fine.”
I’ve had it. I push myself to my feet and drag William up from the table by the front of his shirt, hauling him so he stands straight in front of me.
“Care to say that out loud, Will?”
He’s a large man but younger and smaller than I am, and far lower in rank. He pales and shakes his head. “No, sir. I-I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have said a thing.”
I drop him unceremoniously back in his chair, and his face reddens.
“I took that woman home with me and for good reason,” I tell them. “But I want this very fucking clear. None of you talk of her. None of you will touch her.” I pause, making sure I have the attention of all. “Cairstina Reilly belongs to me.”
Silence falls over the room, save William’s heavy breathing and the ticking of a clock.
“Aye, Captain,” Tate says firmly, demonstrating his support. “Tell us what you need from us.” He looks around at the men, his face stern and forbidding. “And I’ll make fuckin’ sure they honor that.”
The men nod, even Mac. I give them clear instructions on what ought to be done before the next meeting and leave. From the large windows in the front of the house, I can see the small chalets that dot the perimeter. I blink in surprise when I see Nan’s.
Is that smoke?
The door crashes behind me as I down the hill toward her home.
* * *
Chapter Eight
Cairstina
Oh my God, Nan’s a hoot. She’s told me tales of growing up on the islands outside of Inverness. How she’d spend a weekend swimming and drinking with her friends, or searching for clues to help them find the Loch Ness monster. She’s Leith’s mother’s mum, and was brought here when her husband died a decade ago.
“Bram Cowen’s a hard man,” she says, shaking her head. “One could say he ruled the Clan with an iron fist, and I daresay his son’s learned to lead the same way.” She frowns a little when she says this but doesn’t give any further explanation.
I mostly listen, though occasionally I’ll write down a thought or a comment on a slip of paper. Most of the time, my part in the conversation comes when she asks me questions, and she’s got lots.
“Who’s your mum? Where is your dad? How did you come here?”
Leith hasn’t given me instructions not to tell her much, but somehow, I know he’d prefer if I didn’t.
I met Leith and his brothers in Inverness, I write on a piece of paper. She nods, accepting this, and though she doesn’t ask any more questions, I suspect she’s got plenty more. Before she can ask them, she jumps from her chair in the living room.
“Do you smell smoke?” she says curiously.
I jump up from the sofa when I realize I do.
“Oh, no! I burned the biscuits. Again.”
She hobbles into the kitchen, but I’m smaller and quicker than she is, so I get there before she does. Smoke billows out of the oven, and a fire alarm screeches in the background. I can’t believe we got so into our conversation that we completely forgot the biscuits.
“Oh, careful, Cairstina!” she says, grabbing a dish towel and fanning the air, which does nothing more than make me choke on the smoke she bats back in my direction. I open the door to the oven, and acrid smoke burns my eyes. I duck low, grab at the pan with a potholder, and yank it out. Though there are no flames, the charred biscuits smoke like a smoldering fire.
I slam the oven door and run to the window to open it. It’s tiny, though, and barely makes a dent in the smoke-filled room, so I open the door and set it to stay open with a little doorstop.
I gesture for her to come with me out of the smoky kitchen, but she doesn’t see me, so I take her hand and jerk my head to the door.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she says. “Wish I hadn’t kicked my shoes off.”
I shake my head and kick off my own shoes borrowed from Islan, toeing them over to her.
“I’m not taking your shoes,” she says, but I don’t take no for an answer. I drop to the floor and slide the shoes on her feet, then drag her by the hand into the snowy yard.
I almost crash bodily into Leith.
“Bloody hell!” he shouts.
“Now watch that mouth of yours, Leith, for the love of God,” Nan mutters. “Always cursing up a storm.”