I smack his arm, and show her my phone. She reads the text, rolls her eyes, and smacks his other arm.

  “fuckin’ tag teaming me,” he mutters with a chuckle, rubbing both arms as he leaves the room.

  His mum smiles at me. “Not sure what it is about you two,” she says. “But I haven’t seen him smile so much in ages. Not since…” Her voice trails off, and it looks as if she doesn’t want to continue the conversation. “Well, not since my eldest passed.”

  I wish I could comfort her, or give her some sort of consolation. I just pick up another potato, and watch as the peeler slices through the tough skin, revealing smooth, creamy white. The tendril falls into the pile with the others.

  We work in silence for a bit, and she begins to hum. It’s a sad tune, one I don’t recognize, with a haunting melody. I wish I knew the words.

  She slices the tatties into big, thick chunks, and douses them with olive oil.

  “Even though we’ve a staff that works the kitchen, I admit I like to come in from time to time. Give them the night off, prepare food for my family myself. I enjoy it.” I wonder what else she enjoys. And is it just her way of caring for her family, or is it her way of regaining some control?

  I imagine we’re the staff, working for this powerful, dangerous family. Never knowing what will happen next, what travesty or danger will come. I’m Cinderella, slaving away in fear of her stepmother’s wrath.

  I don’t have a way to talk to her, so I only nod quietly. Even if I could text her, she’s elbow-deep in cooking and can’t reach for her phone.

  “Do you like cooking, Cairstina?”

  I want to believe this woman is warm and kind, and there’s a part of me that does. But I note a hardness in her eyes that makes me hesitate. Does she hold herself aloof for a reason?

  I give a little start, when I realize she asked me a question and I haven’t answered. I shrug. I don’t know if I like to cook or not. I’ve never really had the chance.

  “Islan enjoys it, but Paisley…” She laughs as she slides the tatties from the cutting board onto a roasting pan. “The girl is lucky if she doesn’t burn her toast.”

  I smile, my thoughts going to Paisley. What will the brothers discuss today when they meet? Are Leith and the others going to seek revenge? Will they kill the men who hurt Paisley? I remember the graveyard. Leith’s strong hands on the man’s head, the sickening snap, the way his body slumped to the ground.

  Why is it so easy for him to take the life of another? Should he hesitate?

  I see how a look comes over him, sometimes… it’s like a lens is flicked, and his vision becomes blinded with another reality. This one, where he has friends and allies and a reason to laugh. The other, where everyone’s an enemy and everyone he loves is in danger.

  He needs more than a woman like me, who has her own broken past and handicaps. He’s used me to warm his bed, and I won’t lie and say I haven’t enjoyed being with him. No one’s ever made me feel like he has, but I don’t know how the two of us could ever be more than two ships passing in the night.

  I suspect he’s satisfied I won’t snitch or cause trouble, but the question remains, what next?

  “There now,” his mum says, nestling the lid on the heavy pot to bring the tatties to a boil. “It’s a good bit of food, but the boys work hard, and they eat like bloody truck drivers.” She gives me a wink.

  The door to the kitchen swings open, and Islan enters. “Hey, Mum. Oh, hi Cairstina.” She’s got Bailey on a leash, and my heart soars. The moment he sees me, he runs to me. I drop to my knees and give him a huge hug, and he licks at my face.

  “Och, someone misses his mom," Islan says. “I wonder if my brother will let you have him back yet.”

  I don’t ask, not sure why I wasn’t allowed Bailey to begin with. For now, as long as Bailey’s happy and here, I’m happy.

  "We've been taking the very best care of him that we know how," Islan says. "But he does spend a lot of time at the windows, presumably looking for you." She scratches behind his ears affectionately. "Dad's never let us have a dog, even though we've been asking for years. So many thanks for circumventing that one."

  Bailey lays down by my feet and looks up to me with large, doleful eyes.

  I wave to Islan and gesture to my bag. I show her the book.

  “Almost done, then?” she says with a smile, and I nod eagerly.

  Flora seasons the roast, smiling, but her brows draw together with concern. “I finished the first book and started the second. Did you, Is?”

  “Aye,” Islan says. “But bloody hell, Mum, I don’t know if I can talk about them with you. That scene in the little woodshed by the graveyard…” she cringes.

  Flora rolls her eyes. “Och, aye, lass, I gave birth to six children by immaculate fucking conception.”

  Ha. I like this woman.

  Islan winces and shuts her eyes, speaking in a heated whisper, “My mum didn’t just say that. She did not!”

  I can’t help but smile to myself as I sit at the large kitchen table and open to the part where I left off.

  “It’s just… well, it’s disconcerting, isn’t it?”

  Islan nods. “I know exactly what you mean. It’s like you can’t help but wonder how the writer knows so many things about…” her voice trails off, and she bites her lip as she chooses her words. “Like, what it’s really like, you know?”

  “Aye,” her mum says, wiping down the counter and loading the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. “Do you know who she is?”

  “That’s the thing, Mum,” Islan says, her eyes widening as if she’s got a brilliant secret to tell her mom. "No one knows who she is. She's completely anonymous. Not a picture online, not a single identifying characteristic but a pen name. I suppose romance writers use pen names so they can have some privacy. I mean you probably don't want someone reading about your orgy in the middle of a vineyard, and then talking to you about it when you're in the schoolyard picking up your kids from school.”

  I feel my cheeks heat. Did she really just say orgy in front of her mother?

  But her mom just laughs. “Aye, I know, lass. Been reading these things since you were a wee bairn, and it’s always been the way of anonymity. I can relate, since you know the Clan has always sought to be anonymous as well.”

  Islan nods. “But it’s so… similar. I mean, they live in a Mountain lodge, just like this one. They live north of a big city in Scotland, and the men have identifying tattoos. They're friends with the Irish, and the Irish are called the…McConnells? I mean… our friends are the Irish in Ballyhock, and they’re the McCarthys.” She shakes her head. “The choreography is very similar as well. The location, our distance from the island, how far we are from the city. The men chop wood for bloody sport like our blokes. There are two sisters, a father and a mother, only…” her voice trails off and she speaks in a faraway voice, is if she just realized something. "There are four brothers."

  “Right,” Flora says, worrying her lip. “It’s a bit troubling, isn’t it?”

  Islan sighs. “Aye.”

  Flora snorts sarcastically. “If Paisley hadn’t gotten rubbish grades in school, I’d have thought she was spending every last minute writing these things all those hours she’s alone in her room.”

  Islan rolls her eyes. “Paisley’s many things, but I’ve written enough of her school papers I can assure you, she is not a writer.”

  Flora laughs. “Don’t I know it.”

  We spend the afternoon easily together. We bake homemade shortbread, and Flora says the recipe is famous all throughout Scotland. “The McCarthy matriarch, my friend Maeve, adores our shortbread,” she says with a note of pride in her voice. "I send her a tin every month or so, and she says she shares it with her grandkids.”

  “Oh, Mum, forgot to tell you, Fiona and Lachlan want to pay us a visit sometime. Would that be alright, you think? Keenan McCarthy’s appointed Lachlan as the liaison between Clans, hasn’t he?”

  “Aye, lass,” Flora says. She opens the oven and draws out a large baking pan of golden shortbread. My mouth waters, eager for a taste of the mildly sweet, rich concoction. Islan snatches a piece straight off the pan, and Flora smacks her hand.

  “You’ll burn yer fingers off!”

  “Worth it,” Islan says, giving me a wink just as Leith walks into the room.

  “Thought I smelled shortbread,” he says. Flora smiles and shakes her head as the two of them scoff biscuits.

  “Well, then, don’t be a selfish lad, now, and give your girl some as well. Might as well prove yourself useful, Leith, and put the kettle on, hmm?” Her eyes grow a bit worried. “How’s Paisley?”

  “Doing well.” We talk easily and eat our treats, and he stays with us in the kitchen until the roast is done. He takes the book from my hand, and gives me a wry smile. “Is it any good?"

  I nod eagerly and snatch it back. He gives me a stern look. “Give it here.”

  I point to my chest. This is mine, not his.

  “It isn’t yours, Leith, I gave it to Cairstina.”

  He frowns at me, reminding me of his expectations and though he has a teasing side, his stern side’s the most dominant.

  “Stay out of this, Islan.”

  Islan sticks her tongue out at the back of his head but he catches her with a turn of his head.

  “Saw that,” he mutters. “Watch it.” He beckons for me to hand him the book, then lowers his voice. “Did you already forget what happens to you when you don’t do as you’re told?”

  Bailey growls. I give him an approving pat.

  Oh, I remember alright. Heat flares in my belly and my chest at the memory.

  I give it to him hesitantly, irrationally afraid that he'll take it away from me. And I want to keep reading it. I also don't want him mocking it anymore, and what if the fears his sister and mum voiced are somehow rooted in truth?

  “Leith, you really ought to know that these books are entertaining but also…” his mum’s voice trails off before she finally finishes. “Troubling.”

  Islan gives her a sharp look, but Flora continues. “Like it or not, Islan, he’s the Captain and ought to know.”

  “Troubling? How so?” He leafs through the pages.

  “It's not just that there are similarities,” she says. "It's more than that. It's as if the author herself lives here, knows what goes on, and even though the names are changed, the personality types are just like the people who live here.”

  “Aye,” Islan says. “Only there are four brothers and two sisters. The eldest is the bravest and smartest.” Her eyes shine, for some reason, and her voice is a bit choked. “And the second eldest is… reserved. Introverted. He likes to read and chop wood for sport.”

  “What do they look like?” he asks, still flipping through the pages.

  Islan rolls her eyes. “Nothing like you blokes. They’re stunningly handsome with brilliant blue eyes and hard, powerful, muscled bodies.”

  Leith smirks and hands me back the book. He leans in and whispers, “Tell me if they’re any good in bed, lass, and we’ll see if reality can outsmart fiction, hmm?”

  I cast a furtive glance toward his mum and shake my head at him. Does he have no sense of decorum?

  I text him. You would say that!

  He smiles at me.

  Islan wonders aloud. “The question is, if there was someone who knew our clan, why would they put us in a book? And who on earth would it be?"

  At that moment, there's a large crashing sound in the pantry. Leith is on his feet before anyone else moves, and Flora stands stock-still. “Stay where you are, girls.”

  But a moment later a sheepish girl, someone I recognize on their staff, comes out from the pantry, a broken bowl in hand.

  “So sorry, ma’am, sir,” she says. “I came in a bit ago to get the place settings for the dinner table, but didn’t want to bother anyone.”

  “Did you eavesdrop?” Leith asks, giving her that stern look I know so well. I cringe for the lass.

  Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head from side to side. “No, sir! Never! I mean, I heard the conversation, but I wasn't eavesdropping. Did my best not to listen to a single word, I promise, especially about the book!”

  Leith scowls at her. “Go, then. Out of here and do your work. And the next time you’re in a position where you may be eavesdropping, make yourself known immediately. Do you understand me?”

  She nods and fairly flees the kitchen. Islan and Flora share a look, but I don't know what it means. Do they suspect her? It would make the most sense, that a member of their staff was the one that was spying. But why would a bestselling romance author be working as paid staff here?

  “Hello in there! Anyone home?” I recognize Nan’s reedy voice before she comes in.

  “Och, aye, come in, Nan,” Islan says. She gives her a kiss on her papery-thin cheek when she enters. “Are you okay?”

  “Doin’ fine, lass, and how’s our silent visitor, hmm?” She winks at me. I wink back and give her a thumbs up, which makes even Leith chuckle.

  I shift in my seat at the sound of his laugh, such a foreign sound, but one I’d give anything to hear. Over and over again.

  “Now, look at this bonnie lass,” Nan says. She pats my shoulder with her little hand, and her voice hardens when she talks to Leith. “If you don’t keep this one, yer heid’s full o’mince, it is.”

  I haven’t heard that expression in ages, and I love it. I’ll remember to ask him if he’s got a noggin’ full of mince later, when we’re alone.

  Leith gives her a placating smile and changes the subject.

  Why?

  Is he uncomfortable talking about such things? I knew that a man like him couldn’t be happy with me because I don’t speak. A man of his rank ought to have a woman who can lead, like Flora.

  We eat dinner with his family, and even Paisley joins us, but after dessert I'm ready to go back to his place. I need some quiet. I'm so unaccustomed to this level of socialization, it makes me uneasy, even though I don't speak. Somehow, it seems like he already understands this.

  “Cairstina and I will be heading home for the night,” he says, taking his napkin off his lap and putting it on the table, as if he's ready to go. But before he stands, his father clears his throat.

  “How much longer do you plan on keeping her?”

  Keeping her. As if I’m a dog kept by the hearth?

  Leith blinks but doesn’t respond at first. “That's a conversation I’d rather have privately.”

  His father smiles, but the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. I can't quite place the look he's giving Leith, but it looks cool, calculating even. I don't want to hear what he has to say. I don't like him.

  “Why is that? I would imagine if she's good enough for you to take home with you, that you trust her enough to have this conversation in front of her."

  “You bloody well know why I'd rather have this conversation privately."

  I don’t.

  “And you should,” Nan says, glaring at Bram, who stoutly ignores her. The others look down at the table, as if they don't want to be obtrusive in this conversation.

  This time, Leith pushes up from the table. He reaches for my hand, and we leave the house in silence. The door slams behind us.

  When we get back, the sun has set and nighttime approaches. A brisk wind picks up, and it's so cold I’m shivering. But he doesn't even seem to notice. He opens the door and drags me in, then slams it behind him.

  He makes a fist and slams the wall above me, making me jump, and the overhead lighting bounces off then on again.

  “He doesn’t fucking know,” he growls, and I wonder what it is his father doesn't know. "We had a simple task today. We were supposed to go into town, fuck up your brother, find out what we could about the Aitkens.”

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and text him.

  You did your best. You had to put your sister’s safety above all.

  He smiles grimly. “Aye, but we fucked up the wrong people. And fucking up the wrong people is one of the worst fuck ups of all."

  I’m furious at his father’s pressure on him, and I know for a fact that he doesn't want me here. I also know that pleasing him matters to Leith, and I wonder how far he'll take it. I wonder what it means to please his father. What I want to tell him is that his father is a man who will never be fully pleased, so he might as well not even begin to try. I would know.

  I frown when I text him again. Well I'm not sure how your perfect father could've done the perfect thing at the perfect time, with just the right amount of force, with being perfectly perfect. But I happen to like imperfect people myself.

  He reads the text I sent him. And breaks out in a grin so beautiful it makes my heart melt. It's the type of smile that makes a girl disintegrate, her resolve evaporate. I hate that I melt like a pile of sugar in the rain, but all I want to do is make him smile at me like that again.

  “Come here,” he says, drawing me over to him. He cradles the back of my head with one of his strong, powerful hands. His fingers flex, sending shivers of awareness down my spine. His second hand comes to my waist, then slowly slides down until he cups my arse. He squeezes me there, too, and heat pools at my core.

  “Bloody hell,” he grates in my ear. “I don't know if you'll be the death of me or if you’ll teach me how to truly live. But I’m willing to find out.”

  Captured between his hands, held in a spell only he can cast, I go up on my tiptoes and bring my mouth to his. He’s a man who likes to command a situation, but I control every second of this kiss. I wrap my hands around the back of his neck. Bring him closer, and when his mouth parts open in surprise, I slide my tongue against his. The touch of his tongue with mine makes him moan. I love this, the feel of him in my hands, the way his body responds to mine, the way he doesn't even bother to fight the heat that flares between us.

  He slides both hands down my sides, then up beneath my top, until his palms explore my naked skin. He quickly divests me of my top, and whips it against the wall as if it's in the way. Next, my bra.

  When I’m standing in front of him bare-chested, he pulls his mouth off mine so he can bring his lips to my breasts.

 

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