Tate (Mountain Men 3)

“It’s fairly easy, darlin’, and you’re smart enough to know, aren’t you? We baited your mate because she was an easy target to the Clan.” He shrugs. “We took her sister as a little bit of insurance.” He smiles wickedly at me. “And you, we took to punish you for writing about our Clans.”

“I didn’t write about your Clans!”

These men are insane.

“Oh, but you did, didn’t you?”

“I wrote fictional books about fictional men. It’s your own pride that makes you think I wrote about you at all.”

He shakes his head. “You think we’re all that stupid, don’t you? We got ahold of your next book. Every woman and bloke in the UK knows these books by now, love, don’t they?”

I cringe.

He crouches down in front of me, takes a drag from his cigarette, and blows out the smoke in my face. I cough and sputter, and he chuckles.

“The next book painted our Captain as a fool,” he says. “Good job those didn’t go to publication. We’d have to punish you even more severely than we did.”

“Why do you think fictional books are about you?” I ask, trying to sidetrack him. He rises and jerks his head toward Islan.

“Because in the next book, the lass ends up with her secret lover, doesn’t she?”

My blood runs cold. Goddammit, she does.

Islan’s shocked eyes meet mine. “Fran,” she whispers. “You didn’t.”

“I just wanted to give you a fictional happily ever after,” I whisper.

He shakes his head. “Until you, no one even knew I was involved with Islan, did they?” He shakes his head. “Until you, my in with the Cowens was clear as fucking day. And you had to fuck it all up.”

Islan pales.

He shakes his head, tosses his cigarette to the floor, and stomps it under his foot.

“He’s here,” one of the men by the door says. I want to cry. I swallow the lump in my throat because I know exactly who’s here.

“Cowen?”

“Aye.”

Both hope and fear rise in me. Tate won’t just come barging in here… will he? Did he come alone? Will he be able to defend himself against this crew of guys who literally baited him?

Time ticks on, minute by minute. A bead of sweat trickles down my back. My mouth’s so dry I can’t swallow, and my eyes feel heavy from a night of no sleep.

Facing Tate, whatever violence that will ensue, is only the first stepping-stone. I have knowledge now that I’ve gleaned from my sources and brief observations here.

I decide to test my theory.

“Looks like Tate hasn’t come alone, has he?” I ask my captor. He turns and gives me a curious look, his body frozen.

“He has.”

“No,” I say, my tone casual. I want to throw him a curveball. “Leith’s here, too, isn’t he? Surely that wasn’t my mind playing tricks on me?”

“Leith isn’t here,” Islan says, shaking her head and giving me a look of confusion.

“He isn’t,” her captor agrees. Then his eyes dart above my head for a minute, before he looks back to me.

“You took him. I saw him with my own eyes. He’s here, and you’ll use him as bait.”

Islan stares at me, bewildered. The man in front of me doesn’t look surprised at all, but worried.

What the hell is this?

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but it’s a blatant, bold-faced lie. Liar.

Rooms upon rooms are filled with boxes here, and we’re hidden in the very center of it all. I feel like they’ve led Tate to a maze of sorts. But he’s a smart bloke. Will he walk right into a hornet’s nest? Even someone who’s a damn good fighter like him doesn’t stand a chance against however many people are here.

“Thought you said Cowen was here,” one bloke says, a large, oafish man by the door.

“I did.”

“Don’t bloody see him now, do we?”

My heart soars. Tate’s got the upper hand. He came, and already they lost him. He’s no bloody fool.

The men are preoccupied, their eyes darting around the massive warehouse, and I want to taunt them. Thought it would be easy, didn’t you, boys?

Not with my man. Never.

I feel guilty, though, so guilty. The last communication I had with Tate was telling him I had second thoughts. Did it hurt him? Did he believe me?

I know now that he wouldn’t believe what they made me tell him, that he wouldn’t fall for something as flimsy as a breakup text just after we’d married. Not after everything we’ve been through. Not after everything we are.

“Come, then, boys,” I taunt, unable to help myself. “Surely a bunch of blokes like you can take on one little measly Scot, eh?”

Islan’s lips quirk, and the men don’t even look my way.

“Fran.”

I look quickly to her, and she moves her eyes pointedly in the direction of a stack of books to her left. My heart skips in my chest when I see what she saw. Two gleaming silver box cutters. Hidden weapons, as it were.