Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“I’ve brought us a prisoner and witness, aye.”
“What’d she witness, son?”
Before I can respond, there’s a scuffle in the door outside the study, and a moment later, the dog we brought home comes bounding in.
“Get over here!” Islan yells. She stops short when she sees me. “He ran away.” I don’t reply, but watch as she chases him down and heads to the door. I have a sneaking suspicion she let him in here just so she could eavesdrop.
“Take him to your room for the evening, Islan. We’ll have to see about training him in the morning.”
“Training,” she mutters, scowling at me. “All he fucking talks about.”
“Islan!” Mum looks at her in astonishment. My father looks from me to Islan with mild interest, then takes another sip of his whisky and another pull from his cigar. His face is clouded behind a billow of smoke.
Islan leaves, but she lingers at the door. I take a step toward her and she runs.
Good lord, she’ll do my fucking head in.
“What did she witness, son?” he asks quietly.
I sit on the sofa beside him and tell him fucking everything. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react. Doesn’t say a word until I bring him up to date. “So I brought her upstairs and she’s in the guest room until I can question her further in the morning.”
He’s silent for long moments. “Did Father MacGowen see you kill the Aitkens man?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“And the others obviously knew their mate was murdered.”
“Aye.”
“And no one but the girl knows who you are?”
I nod.
He works his jaw before he finishes his whisky. Though he doesn’t speak, I can feel the silent judgment.
Tavish wouldn’t have fucked this up.
“You think I should’ve handled it differently, then?”
He shakes his head. “It’s not up to me to question what the Clan Captain does. It’s not up to anyone. Not your brothers, your sisters, your parents, or anyone, son.”
I nod. Understood.
“I’m only asking so I’m informed.”
I watch the fire flicker in the hearth.
“Tomorrow, you’ll find out everything you can about her, then?”
“Aye, sir. That’s the plan.”
He nods. “That’s a good plan, Leith. Let’s find out everything we can about her, and see if we can’t piece things together. She could already be missing somewhere for all we know, people looking for her as we speak.”
For some reason, I think it unlikely, though I have no idea why.
I yawn widely. It’s been a long fucking day. “I’m heading to bed. I’ll question her more in the morning and see if anyone in town’s said anything about a disturbance. I think we escaped relatively unseen, though, truth be told.”
Dad nods. “Excellent. And you made it clear they’re not to threaten MacGowen again?”
“Aye.”
He nods again. “Good night.”
I should be happy he’s giving me rare praise like this, but I can’t help but note the worry lines that crease my mother’s forehead, or the way my father won’t quite meet my eyes as he stares at the flickering flames in the hearth.
No one questions the Captain, so no one wants to say I fucked up tonight. I was sent to teach a lesson, not kill one of our rivals.
I was sent to defend our priest and pay back our enemies, not bring home a pretty, helpless hostage and her mangy mutt.
I was sent to make things better, only I fucked them up.
I finish my drink and get up to leave.
“Leith?”
I turn to my father. He looks up at me and tips his head to the side curiously. “What are your plans with the girl?”
I’m angry at myself for botching up the evening, for bringing home someone that will prove problematic in the long run. “Make fucking sure she doesn’t snitch on us.”
Whatever it takes.
He holds my gaze for a moment before he looks back at the fire.
“A good plan. Assuming you’ll stay here for the night.”
“Aye.”
“Good night, son.”
As I leave the room, I can hear him talking in low tones to my mother. Both of them are speaking Gaelic, and though all of their children speak it as well, it’s the language of the northern highlands, old-fashioned and cumbersome. I haven’t spoken it in ages, and I wonder why they choose it now.
I leave the room and head to the hallway. I check the front door. Though the main locks have been tended to, no one’s drawn the deadbolt. I slide it into place, satisfied my family’s locked in safely for the night. I turn and listen, for any sound at all. I’m not even sure what I’m listening for.
A clock chimes in the kitchen. It’s one in the morning. A witching hour in some cultures.
I walk upstairs to my room, but before I go down the hall I pause and go up the second flight of stairs to the third floor.
I don’t go down to her room, though. I stand on the landing and listen.