Mac (Mountain Men 2)

I nod. “I know what you mean.” I don’t really, but I know a bit anyway, and I want her to know I’m listening.

I do wonder what it is, and I make a vow to myself that I will indeed look in on him. I don't think it’s something with his health, but I don’t want to neglect looking into something when Mum gives me fair warning.

I mull over what I’ll say to Bryn tonight, how I’ll get her to open up and trust me a little. The first thing I need to do is get rid of her bodyguards. Not that I’m planning on hurting her… yet. But I need her alone. I need to have privacy with her.

After I get rid of her bodyguards, I’m not sure what I’ll do, other than turn on the most brilliant charm I can muster.

I can do anything for the sake of the Clan.

Three hours later, I’m heading into town. Leith’s pulled some strings and gotten me a reservation at Soirée, one of the most exclusive restaurants in Scotland. We’ve pubs everywhere in the cities, but I’d like to do something a bit fancier. My plan is to meet her for a drink first, then casually mention I’m hungry for dinner. Wine and dine her, while I play the part of the gentleman. I won’t even try to get into her knickers quite yet. If I can hold off a wee bit, I can build up trust.

I will eventually, though.

I don’t think about breaking that trust. My goal is crystal clear, my focus perfect. I rarely think beyond what’s coming next, and I won’t now.

Islan helped me choose the right clothes for tonight. She knows what I’m up to, and unlike Paisley, approves. She eyes me icily when I head for the door.

“Knock her socks off,” she mutters, before turning back to her book. “Do it well. If you weren’t my brother, I’d say you look bloody smashing, but since that’s wrong, I’ll just say I did my job well.”

“Thanks?” I give her a salute, and she winks at me.

Islan was the one that saw how badly the Aitkens fucked up.

She knows they’ve tried to claim Paisley in an arranged marriage. She wants revenge almost as badly as I do.

I send Bryn a text.

On my way.

Chapter 4

Bryn

When I enter the driveway to get to my family home, dread pools in my belly. I hate living here. If there's anything at all I want to do this year, it's make enough money at my boutique to get a place of my own. I don’t want to be obligated to my father any more than is absolutely necessary.

Not that my father will let me go easily.

Our family home is a beautiful, elegant, ridiculously ostentatious place smack dab in the centre of Inverness. While other people maintain privacy and distance, my family prefers to be the center of attention apparently.

That isn’t the reason I hate going home, though.

Every inch of this place has an unpleasant memory of one sort or another. The entryway where I once saw my father slap my mother’s face for talking back to him. The bathroom down here, where I nursed a wound one night when my father threw a wine glass at me in a fit of rage and it shattered, a glass shard piercing my palm. The kitchen, tended by an ill-tempered chef, who I swear would poison my father’s meals if he wasn’t under close supervision from the staff.

And on and on it goes. The living room, my least favorite room in the house because of the stifling heat and sickeningly sweet smell of melted candle wax because my mother burns candles to blot out Dad’s cigarette smoke.

Thick pillars in the front lobby like a museum, pristine carpets and wall hangings, plastic-covered furniture. I hate it. I despise it. Loathe every moment of living in this place.

I want out, but according to my father, no daughter of his moves out unless she’s married. And according to him, no daughter of his gets married without his consent.

I’ve considered leaving more times than I can count. I've made my plans, even. I have money squirreled away in a small, secret savings account, and I've sold small pieces of jewelry that he's bought me over the years. Nothing has sentimental value. Nothing has meaning. I know that everything he's bought has been because of what he does and who he is.

But even in an unhappy, unpleasant home, it's scary to think of where I would go. He would always find me.

One time when I was twelve years old, I actually did it. I'm not even sure why, or what instigated it. I packed up my things and left in the middle of the night, and didn't even get as far as the train station. I was discovered by one of his men, brought home, and summarily punished.