“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” Tavish muttered. He was still being fired upon as he cut open a temporary airway, treated Niall, dragged him to the nearby vehicle and ran to another soldier.
“Morris, goddamn it, fall back!” he shouted, pushing hard at the man’s chest, seconds before the earth shook. A mortar exploded several feet away, and Tavish’s eardrums felt as if they had been blown out. Dizziness overcame him. Everything was a slow blur for a minute.
It was like a horror movie, but his adrenaline was running so high he didn’t even think twice before flinging himself back into the melee.
One bullet hit the ground, grazing his knee.
The shot had come from above.
Tavish looked up. There were snipers perched on the mountaintop.
When he looked down, those who had managed to shelter themselves found they were pinned by another Taliban group, who had busted their backup, Red Two.
He looked around. Disorganized, the men ran to find cover behind the mountain brush and became easier targets.
The roadway and path they had come through had become a barbaric scene of carnage, with many body parts, a few wounded soldiers, and even fewer still resisting and fighting.
He had never seen such bloodthirsty men; in their frenzy they used everything from rocket-propelled grenades and rifles to knives and axes.
He rolled over muddied pools of earth and blood to where Sergeant Cameron lay.
Two armor-piercing bullets had entered his lung near the heart. The Kevlar and the flak jacket were no protection for that kind of ammunition. He panted, “Gonna die?”
Tavish didn’t need to hear to understand what his friend wanted to know. He looked at the man and squeezed his hand, but before he uttered a word, Sergeant Cameron was dead.
He breathed. He needed to get help, or they were all going to die. His despair grew when he saw Johanna fall down on her side and not get up again, but his training kicked in; a calm descended on him.
Bullets whizzed through the air, and he kept going until he reached her side.
“Fuck! Ye should have stayed back,” he said to her, not realizing he was shouting.
“Did you, Will?” She smiled at him wanly, blood trickling down her temple.
“I lost my hearing, so shut up,” he shouted again as he assessed her. The wound on her temple was superficial, but her right hand was destroyed, and blood flowed freely. “I need your help here, baby. Stay with me.”
“No,” she shook her head as he tried to stop the bleeding. She pushed him back weakly. “Go, Will. Save yourself. I’m dying.”
“Doona be dramatic. I’m no’ leaving you.” Never! “Doona worry—”
A bullet thudded into the ground beside them, and he felt, more than heard, enemy combatants shouting in Arabic.
Tavish didn’t stop treating her. It was not that he hadn’t noticed they were surrounded, but if they were to kill him, he was at least going to give her a chance at survival.
From behind him, someone pulled his arm to his back and yanked him up by his hair. When he fought back, another one pulled Johanna to her knees.
“NAE!” He gripped Johanna’s left hand in his.
Harshly, they pulled him back.
“Don’t let her use the radio,” one man said to the other in Pashto. “We take those as hostages. He’s a doctor and can be useful. She can be ransomed.”
A rifle butt brought darkness over him.
The Blue Dot
11:22 a.m.
A whipped order.
A pitched shriek.
A babbled word.
Tavish heard the commotion from far away. His hearing was half-deaf; his body, half-alive. His eyes were shut with the unshed tears, and his mouth was sewn with the unvoiced screams. All inside.
“Can you feel my hands?” someone asked, gripping his shoulders gently but firmly, moving him to a soft place.
He let himself be guided. He was tired of fighting with everyone, for everything. All he wanted was to be floating in a quiet emptiness of an empty quietness. Unendingly.
“Tavish Uilleam.” The voice was steady; hands were softly holding and pressing his feet on the floor. “Your feet are on the ground.” The voice alternately sought him out. “Can you feel them? The ground? Your feet?”
He couldn’t. His feelings anchored precariously, echoing on the valley of his mind made by impressively tall, winded highlands of lethal, raw pain.
“Breathe. In. Now, out. Focus on it. Again.”
The hurt hollowed louder than the voice, pushing it away.
“Is there tightness in your throat? Tell me about it.” The deep voice spoke slowly, giving him time to feel and respond, cajoling him back to the room.
“Please, talk to me.” It was a different voice. “Please.”
He felt something touch the back of his hand. His mind flashed a warning. His fingers turned in an instant to smash away the danger.
“Aaah!” A feminine cry of pain took him out from his inner hell.
Ever so slowly, he opened his eyes. Tatiana’s hand was crushed in his.
It had been she who had brought him back, to the too-bright room, in a too-civilized city, where everything was supposed to make sense but didn’t, starting with him; he was shaking, his pulse racing, and nothing uncommon had happened.
“You should have been there. Everyone should’ve,” Tavish whispered, pinning his brother, who was kneeling in front of him, his hands pressing onto Tavish’s shoes. “It’s just crazy. People fighting. People being shot at, in the streets, in their houses. Whole families, buses, schools being exploded by brainwashed women and small children. By men and women defending their countries.” He took a breath deep into his chest, and it left him in a trembling exhalation. His hand opened, letting go of Tatiana’s. His voice croaked, “You should have been there.”
He breathed again, focusing on his body sensations. It ached everywhere.
“Tavish Uilleam?” Alistair’s voice was gentle, his hands left Tavish’s feet, and he sat back on his haunches. “Can I help somewhat?”
“Nae, you canna. No one can. Because, even if you had been there, you wouldn’t have understood. I’m sure I haven’t yet.” He firmed his legs when they tried to buckle under the invisible weight he carried. “War is strange. In the beginning it is about people; in the end it is about power. Power couldn’t care less how many die.”
No one said a word, but he wasn’t expecting anyone to.
“I’m sorry, Tati. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” His thumb brushed away a tear from her cheek. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” It’s an ingrained reaction.
“It’s OK.” She gave him a watery smile, nursing her hand against her breasts. “I was trying to help. I’m sorry.”
“Nae, Tati, I am sorry.” It could have been worse. He grimaced, wondering if one day he would be free of that. I need out. Now. He walked to the door, measuring his pace. He was on the verge of running. “I am going . . .” Somewhere. “I’m taking a few days off. You three can deal with Richardson or any other emergencies.” He faced Alistair, Tatiana, and, last, Maddox. “The painting, it’s mine.”
CHAPTER 10
Beardley Park
2:37 p.m.
Hidden in the woods, he mused about what his sources had told him: Laetitia had been a sweet child, an intelligent, curious teenager, who had grown into a bright, lovely woman. He had met her face-to-face a few times but she had no idea who he was.
He hated himself when he discovered Laetitia had already been lulled as an unsuspecting victim into a false sense of security, which had only made her weaknesses stronger, especially where love was concerned. And he had decided to keep a sharp eye on the man who was now parked in front of the Beardley Lodge gates pressing the intercom with a dark scowl on his face.
He already knew who Tavish was, and while he hoped that man would make her dreams true, he was afraid Tavish could hurt her badly. It was plain to see that the owner of the gallery desired her.
>
Laetitia brought out every territorial and protective instinct that kept him here, waiting, watching her. And yet, when he spotted her, he’d do the same thing he always did. He’d follow her at a distance, trying not to alarm her, until she had let herself into her house safely, before he turned around and walked back into the simple tent he had made his home. He had yet to talk to her, or even get close to her, to form a bond. But it wasn’t because he didn’t want to.
He did. From the bottom of his heart. He just didn’t know how.
They once said that he possessed no mercy. They had been wrong then. At that time, he wasn’t capable of killing as they swore he was.
Now, he recognized they were right.
Beardley Manor Main Gates
2:59 p.m.
Again Tavish found himself behaving unusually, this time in front of the main gates of Beardley Manor, and it didn’t sit well with him.
Laetitia didn’t answer her phone or her mobile. He went directly to the lodge, and she didn’t answer the intercom. Standing outside the south gates, feeling like an idiot, he realized they had never discussed her working hours and that it would be totally unprofessional to be knocking at her workplace. Yet, he didn’t care. The tightness in his chest had been lessening since he decided to see her and press her to accept the contract. At least that would give him more reasons to call her, visit her, and ultimately seduce her.
He lowered the car window and pressed the intercom.
A male face appeared on a small screen. “May I help you?”
“I’m sorry to disturb, but I need to talk with Ms. Galen,” he said, then added, “It’s an urgent matter.”
“Ms. Galen?” The man’s chin dropped. He ogled Tavish as if he were an alien. “You mean, Ms. Laetitia Galen?”
“Aye.” His ink-black brows lowered. “Is there any problem?”
The man blinked twice before he asked, “Your name and ID, please?”
Tavish spelled his name and rattled off his driver’s license number, impatient.
“Just a minute, sir.”
The video shut down for more than the promised minute. In fact, it took more than ten minutes for a guard to come to the gates, study his face, and compare it to the photo on Tavish’s driver’s license. And another five for the man to enter a cabin and activate the gates.
“My Lord, Mr. Tavish MacCraig,” a liveried man informed the baron, ushering Tavish into an enormous reception room, where the baron; his sister, Marcella; her daughter, Karen; and her son, Alejandro, were having tea around a table set with the finest porcelain and silver, with exquisite freshly made sandwiches and pastries.
Before Tavish could say anything, Alejandro Langley dabbed his mouth and rose from the table, straightening his jacket. At twenty-three years old, he fit the part well of an arrogant, rich, pampered, and ridiculous youth. “Good afternoon, Mr. MacCraig. Welcome to Beardley Manor.”
Tavish gave a lift of his brows and then looked toward the table, nodding to the women, then to the baron, who he noticed was sitting in a wheelchair. “Lord Beardley, thank you for re—”
“We’ve been told you wish to talk with Ms. Galen?” Alejandro interrupted, not liking to be dismissed.
Patience. “Aye, I’d like to have a word with her, if it is possible.”
Alejandro eyed him from head to toe, taking in his all-black clothes and looming presence. “About what?”
“Obviously, sir,” Tavish answered in a dry voice, “that’s between me and her.”
He adjusted his cuffs. “I’m afraid—”
The baron’s voice cut in. “Alejandro, call Laetitia.”
“Uncle, she’s working. She can’t—”
“Until I am dead, I say who does what in this house.” The baron thundered, an angry bitterness making him bang his fist on the table, rattling the china. “If I say she has a guest, she has a guest.”
Fuck. “I didn’t mean to disturb, sir,” said Tavish. “I’ll come back another day.”
“Absolutely not. Go fetch her, Alejandro.” The baron’s face was red when he turned to his sister. “Show Mr. MacCraig into the library and have Charlotte offer him tea.”
After a second of muted surprise, Alejandro pivoted on his heels, and Marcella rose from the table with a strained smile on her face. “As you wish, Brother. This way, please.”
“Mr. MacCraig,” the baron called.
Tavish stopped and turned. “Aye?”
“Afterward, I want a word with you.”
CHAPTER 11
“Laetitia.”
Laetitia stiffened when she heard Alejandro’s voice. “Leave me alone.”
He caught her by the hand and pulled her with him down the same corridor he had come through. “You have a guest.”
“Let go of my hand, Alejandro.”
“I’m afraid I can’t, puss.” He started rubbing his thumb on her palm, hard and quick. “I was made to come and fetch you.”
“Let go,” she ordered.
“We must hurry. Your guest is waiting.”
“Don’t you have a more intelligent excuse to drag me alone with you? A guest?”
“Some Mr. MacCraig wants a word with you.” He smirked. “But I, I want your mouth on—”
“This is sexual harassment,” she said, tugging at her hand. “And I have two words for you: screw you!”
“With pleasure,” he taunted, rubbing his thumb harder and quicker on her palm. “It would be better than fapping every night.”
The way to the library had never seemed so long for Laetitia. “How do you fool your uncle and mother?”
“Is he really the best you can do?” When they turned into a dimly lit space, he cornered her.
She struggled against him. “Mr. MacCraig is interested in my paintings.”
“Like hell, darling. He’s as interested in your paintings as I am.” He bent his head and whispered in her ear, “Unless it involves nudity.”
She made a gagging sound. “Excuse me, I retched a bit in my mouth.”
“My cock doesn’t have gustative papillae,” he answered.
Was that supposed to be witty? She pushed on his chest. “You are pathetic!”
“Is there a problem here?” Sebastian Buchanan’s voice boomed in the corner, as he stepped in from the back garden, where he had been gathering fresh ingredients for his recipes.
The afternoon light fell over Alejandro, who backed away from Laetitia swiftly.
Tall, broad, and with a scar that slashed the whole right side of his face and went down to his neck, deepening there to end at his collarbone, even wearing his white chef jacket, Sebastian inspired fear. From the red roots of his hair to his heavy brogue, there was no doubt he was a Scot. He towered over most men and didn’t bother trying to look less intimidating, or even nice.
Laetitia had avoided him as much as she could when she started working for Baron Beardley. But on the first birthday she had spent there, he arrived at the Lodge door with a fresh-baked cake, in cone form, decorated with delicate fairies and elves, by his big, scarred hands and gave her one of his crooked smiles, which lifted only one side of his face. Laetitia discovered that under that armor was a mushy-hearted man. He took care of her as a vicious older brother would.
Sebastian slapped the notebook on the table next to them. “I asked if there was a problem here.”
Alejandro shook his head. “I was sent to fetch her and take her to the library.”
“Fetch her?” Sebastian growled. “What for?”
“She has a guest,” he said, inching away from Sebastian.
“A guest?”
“One of those tall, dark, and brooding guests.” He smirked at her for having distracted Sebastian.
“Who!”
“Not that you’ll know him. Some fancy guy from London.”
“I’ll take her there,” Sebastian said.
With that, Alejandro went back to the living room, his gait showing her he was not done with her.
“G
ood riddance,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”
“Really, Sebastian! He is The Blue Dot’s owner.”
“Blue Dot, huh?”
Laetitia had already told her best friends about the possibility of The Blue Dot’s exclusivity. Sebastian hadn’t been too keen on it, mistrusting as he was. “Yes, I—”
“What is he doing here?” he cut her short. Without any further questions or explanation, the huge Scot grabbed her hand and, frowning, towed her to the library.
Tavish was standing at the end of the room with a scowl on his face when Sebastian crossed the threshold.
Sebastian squeezed his eyes. After his injury, his eyesight had considerably diminished, as he’d become practically blind in the right eye. “That enormous man there?”
“Yes,” Laetitia sighed. Heaven help me! Mighty Chef Sebastian Buchanan is going to pay a visit to Highland Warrior Tavish MacCraig.
The two men were so tall and broad they would’ve made formidable linebackers. On opposing teams, they would destroy all the other players and then each other.
Laetitia panicked at the image forming in her mind and surged forward, the words rushing out of her mouth. “Mr. MacCraig, this is my friend and our Chef, Sebas—”
“Buchanan.” Tavish’s eyes opened in surprise, then his face relaxed in relief. “Buchanan, it’s good to see you.”
“Doc?” Sebastian halted, perplexed. He swung his gaze from Laetitia to Tavish and back to Laetitia.
CHAPTER 12
Iraq
July 2004
It was hot and quiet, the wind spinning eddies of sand around the base.
“I don’t get premonitions often, but I feel like this is going to be a bad weekend,” said Sergeant Sonja Davis.
“Bugger off, Davis. Premonitions never got anyone rich,” said a sleepy Johanna, from her huddling position on Tavish’s lap.
“But they have gotten many safer, love,” answered Tavish, burying his head in the crook of her neck and closing his eyes in slumber.