Devil's Bargain

by Natasha Knight

  He said that?

  My father was a falconer. I had just begun learning the sport when the shit hit the fan so many years ago.

  “No, James. Not anymore,” I say, straightening. I look at my grandfather. “I’m tired. Let’s get this done.”

  “Go find Alice, James. Help her with lunch,” my brother says.

  James rolls his eyes. “Alice is so boring.”

  I can’t help but grin.

  “Go on,” Declan says. “We’ll eat together. Make sure she bakes her shortbread.”

  At that, the boy smiles then turns back to me. “Nice to meet you, Uncle Hawk,” he says before walking out. Declan closes the door behind him and turns to me.

  “Why don’t you let him know he’ll need to vacate his home? Maybe you can do that after lunch,” Declan says.

  “Sit down. Both of you,” Benjamin says.

  We remain standing, glaring, until Declan finally moves, knocking my shoulder when he walks past me to take his seat.

  “Declan!” my grandfather’s tone is chastisement enough. “You’re not boys anymore for Christ’s sake! You’re men. Declan, you’re a father. And whether either of you like it or not, you are family and just about the only family you have left.”

  Like hell.

  Declan and I both take a seat.

  I’m tired and meeting James like that, I was unprepared.

  I want this done. I want to get out of this room. This house. Clear my head in the crisp Highland air.

  Benjamin nods, turns to the attorney. “Michael, let’s go over the will,” he says, and Michael takes over, explaining the will that leaves everything, as expected, to Declan. Including the debt of the house.

  That’s where I come in. Because without me and without my money, this place will turn into a pile of rocks and the family distillery which went public under Ann’s ridiculous advisement, is now under my control. And that, too, I will drive into the ground.

  I want to gloat but then I remember why I’m here. I think about my father. About him in the ground. I think about the little boy who calls me uncle. Who didn’t believe I was real. I don’t know the first thing about him.

  I look around the office, remembering things I’d forgotten. Amazing how the brain works. Adjusts. Protects.

  The last thirteen years, life has gone on here while I’ve been living my own separate one. They all moved on. I guess I did too, but part of me, it’s still sixteen years old as I sit here.

  And that part of me that, even now, feels a pang of jealousy of Declan.

  He slipped right into my place, took over my role like it was his from the start. Stole it right out from under me. Stole both my father and my life.

  “Why didn’t you name him Hawk?” I ask out of the blue, interrupting the reading of the will.

  I look to Declan who looks to me.

  “First born male child carries the name,” I say. I was disowned. Didn’t that erase my existence and give Declan that status?

  “First-born of the first-born. The name wasn’t mine to give,” he says.

  Fuck.

  Am I supposed to be grateful?

  Michael clears his throat. “The distillery is still bringing in some money, but not nearly what it used to.”

  “Hawk knows well what the distillery is bringing in, Michael,” Declan says. “He holds fifty-one percent of the shares, not quite honorably obtained, but well, what can you expect?”

  Michael gives me a glance but is clever enough to keep his judgement to himself.

  I sit back, take a deep breath in, keep my face hard as stone. “Just business, brother.”

  Declan’s hands fist on his lap but he keeps his gaze forward on the wall of shelves behind my grandfather.

  When the will’s been read, Benjamin slips another document onto the desk. My offer to buy the house. He clears his throat.

  “Before that’s signed, I want to see the house,” I say, standing. “Declan.”

  “What am I, your personal tour guide? Don’t remember where things are?”

  “I want to see the state of things. I assume you know it best.”

  “I have more important things to do like meeting my son for lunch,” he says, and walks out the door.

  26

  Melissa

  After Hawk left, I took a long, hot shower then decided to lie down and close my eyes for a few minutes. Now, as I open them in the almost pitch-black room, I realize I must have slept for hours.

  I glance to the other side of the bed, but it’s not been slept in. I wonder what time it is but there’s no clock in this room. Pushing the covers back, I get up. I’m barefoot and the cold of the stone beneath the old carpet chills me.

  I walk into the alcove thinking the walls must be three feet deep. I wonder if that’s for insulation or protection in times past. I look out the window at the utter darkness outside. The almost complete stillness.

  The moon is full, the wind a whistle that urges the clouds across the sky, the light an ominous silvery ghost-like thing spilling over the water and the hills.

  I think if I look hard enough, I’ll see ghosts out there.

  Finding the latch, I push one of the heavy windows open and lean out. It’s a cool night and I inhale the clean, fresh air.

  I think how I’d like to go outside, walk out there in the dark. Feel that quiet. You never have quiet like this in Las Vegas, not even in my neighborhood in the middle of the night. This is nature at its most primal. Undisturbed and serene and magnificent.

  My stomach growls and I close the window. I switch on the lamp beside the bed and from inside my tote, I find my phone but it’s out of charge and I can’t tell the time. I don’t have a charger that fits these sockets.

  I put on my jeans and a sweater and tuck the phone into my pocket hoping someone has a charger I can borrow.

  Slipping on my shoes—a pair of ballet flats—I open the bedroom door and walk into the hallway.

  The house is still, as quiet as the night.

  As if on cue, I hear the tolling of a clock.

  Three chimes.

  Three o’clock.

  I glance down the hall at all the closed doors, count five in addition to the master. I then head down the stone stairs, taking in a painting on the wall, the tartan of the man pictured the same as the one at Hawk’s penthouse.

  I remember thinking how generic the penthouse looked. This place, there is nothing generic about it. The opposite. There’s history and purpose and family in every square inch.

  When I reach the first-floor landing, I see a dim light and walk toward it. It’s the living room, I think. A large room with a huge fireplace at the center. I can smell the wood of a recent fire but it’s not burning anymore.

  I touch the stone of the fireplace and wonder how old it is. How old some of the paintings on the walls are.

  Everything here is steeped in history, but all of it, it’s tired. Like it’s not been cared for and time is eating it away.

  It’s strange. Sad in a way to lose the past like that but I can’t imagine what it costs to keep up a house like this.

  Beside the fireplace is a basket overflowing with toys and children’s books. I didn’t realize there was a child living here. Strange that Hawk wouldn’t have mentioned it.

  I have to remember he’s under an immense amount of stress right now between the death of his father and having come back here, to a place that obviously holds a lot of emotions for him. Painful ones.

  Emotions I’m sure he’ll refuse to feel or even acknowledge.

  There’s a sconce along the wall that’s lit in the hallway and I follow it toward what I hope is the kitchen. I pass the front doors and peer out of the deep-set windows at that strange light coming and going as clouds obscure the moon.

  I get to a door without a handle and push on it. It swings inward and there’s a light that’s been left on over the modern stove. I step into the large kitchen and it’s such a strange place with old and new, the countertops
smooth stone, the long, heavy wooden table which looks like it’s as old as the house, the newer chairs, plush and comfortable, the appliances stainless steel and gleaming, the refrigerator a Goliath mounted into the wall.

  A toy train is the only thing on the table. It looks old, not like the plastic toys you find in the shops these days. More like an antique.

  On the wall, I see the light switch and I turn it on. The room is bathed in soft light and the windows become mirrors. Dishes are stacked on the drying rack beside the sink and the dishwasher hums as it runs.

  There’s a large pot on the stove but I’m disappointed when I open it to find it empty.

  I go to the refrigerator and there I find cheeses and meats and decide on a sandwich. Taking out a few things, I set them on the counter and find a loaf of bread covered by a tea towel on a cutting board.

  Using the knife beside it, I cut two thick slices and set them on my dish to make my sandwich at the counter. I’m just sitting down to take my first bite when the swinging door opens.

  I’m startled.

  But so is he.

  Declan. Hawk’s brother.

  He stands there for a moment looking at me with surprise, but he recovers quickly and smiles, comes inside.

  “You weren’t introduced to me,” he says, and I really have to pay attention to understand him because his accent is so heavy. “I’m Declan MacLeod, Hawk’s half-brother.” He holds out his hand.

  I put my sandwich down, force myself to swallow the bite in my mouth and place my hand in his. “I’m Melissa.”

  “Melissa. It’s nice to meet you. You missed dinner.”

  “I must have slept through it.”

  “We didn’t want to wake you. The maid said you were fast asleep.”

  “Where’s Hawk?” I ask.

  He shrugs a shoulder and moves to the counter. “Who knows?” he asks, opening a cupboard and taking out an unmarked bottle of liquor. “You like whiskey?” he asks, turning to me.

  He seems different than Hawk. Not as hardened.

  “It’s our own,” he says, not waiting for my answer but taking two glasses and returning to the table to take a seat across from me. “Don’t mind me. Eat,” he says, pouring whiskey into both glasses and passing one to me.

  I take a bite but have to concentrate on chewing. I can’t seem to drag my eyes away. The similarity in features is so striking, but the differences are just as stunning.

  And he’s like a window into Hawk’s life. A living, breathing part of a world Hawk won’t or can’t share.

  “Are you normally up at three in the morning?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

  He gives a sad little smile. “It’s been a long few weeks. And now with my brother back, they’ll be longer still.”

  I nod. I don’t know what to say.

  He picks up the toy train, touches the chipped corner.

  “Is there a child in the house? I saw the toys in the living room.”

  “Aye,” he says. “My boy.”

  “Your son?” I smile, remember the photo I’d seen with him holding the baby. But then I think about Hawk out there in Las Vegas alone in that sterile penthouse and I can’t imagine how he’d walk away from this.

  “His name is James. He’s four years old. I’m sure he’ll come find you first thing in the morning, which means in about four hours—if you’re lucky,” he says, checking his watch. “He’s an early riser.”

  “I look forward to meeting him. Does Benjamin live here with you as well?”

  “Yes, the family’s always lived together in the house. It’s big enough. But Hawk will be changing that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He watches me, drinks a sip of his whiskey, doesn’t answer my question. “You’ll need warmer clothes than that,” he says. He gestures to my sweater. It’s too light for here.

  I look down at it. “Oh, I didn’t have much time to pack and the climate is so different.”

  “You live in Las Vegas?”

  I nod.

  “Constant sunshine?”

  “Yes. And constant noise.”

  “I don’t think I could stomach either.”

  “I guess it’d be hard coming from all this.”

  “Hawk seems to have managed.” He takes a sip of his whiskey. “I’ll take you into town tomorrow if you like. It’s not far. We’ll get you proper clothes.”

  “Oh, I…Hawk—”

  “Hawk’s going to have his hands full with the house. Try the whiskey.”

  I pick up my glass, look at the clear bottle without the label as I sip. It’s the same bottle Hawk has in the penthouse.

  “It’s quite good. Not so…”

  “Pretentious,” he says, refilling his glass.

  I smile. “Yeah, not so pretentious. It’s your own, you said? You make it?”

  “Family distillery. But I imagine it’ll be closing down soon if my brother has his way.”

  “There’s a family distillery?”

  “Hasn’t Hawk told you anything about us?”

  “He doesn’t say much about his past,” I say, then think I shouldn’t have said that.

  “I gather he wouldn’t.”

  “What do you mean it’ll be closing if Hawk has his way?”

  He studies me, eyes keen. They’re dark, blue-black. The color is very different than Hawk’s but the intensity with which he looks at me is the same.

  It’s almost intrusive, the way the MacLeod men look at you.

  “That’s a very long story my brother should tell. He’s been the mastermind of the dismantling of all things MacLeod for more than a decade now. I’m sure I’ll miss details.”

  Dismantling?

  “Oh.” I suddenly think of it. “I haven’t even told you I’m sorry for the loss of your father.”

  “And mother,” he says, his expression changing a little, making him look ten years younger for a moment. Like a boy. A lost one.

  “Your mother too?” Hawk had left that out.

  He nods. “Car accident took them both. She was killed instantly. I think it was a blessing. My father took a few days to die.”

  “God. I feel like an idiot. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “You’re not an idiot. I don’t imagine Hawk likes to talk about her. And I don’t blame him, honestly.”

  I’m surprised by this last admission. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “What’s the tension between you two?”

  He leans back in his chair and studies me. “Now that’s a truly long story. And not a pretty one.”

  “I don’t mean to pry.”

  “Hawk doesn’t like me very much, Melissa.”

  There’s a sound I don’t recognize but I notice him momentarily shift his gaze over my shoulder.

  “He’s filled with hate and holds a lot of anger inside him,” he continues.

  “I’ve seen that,” I admit, remembering his temper.

  “You be careful with him,” he says.

  “She should be careful with me?”

  I gasp at the deep timbre of Hawk’s voice and turn to find him lurking in the shadows, having come out of some dark corridor like a ghost.

  “Melissa seems like a nice girl,” Declan says, and a glance at him shows me he’s neither surprised nor unsettled by Hawk’s sudden appearance. Maybe he even likes this. He likes goading his brother. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt her like you do everything you touch.” He casually swallows his whiskey.

  Hawk’s angry gaze turns to me and when he steps into the room, I see his clothes are wet, muddy even. He’s not wearing a coat, and in his hand, he’s got a half bottle of whiskey.

  Declan stands, turns his gaze to me. “Glad to meet you, Melissa,” he says. “Let me know if you want me to take you into town tomorrow. It’d be my pleasure.”

  I can tell from the way he says it that it’s for Hawk’s benefit. To irritate him. Taunt him.

  And it works because Hawk stalks
forward, sets the bottle on the table and lunges for his brother.

  But he’s drunk and Declan isn’t, and he sidesteps him. I let out a scream, jump to my feet.

  “Not used to our whiskey anymore, brother?” Declan asks.

  “I’m going to kill you.”

  I grab Hawk’s arm when he lunges again but I don’t even think he can feel it. Feel me holding him back.

  Declan’s face hardens and he steps toward Hawk. The two are like giants, nose-to-nose and raging.

  “I’d like to see you try,” Declan says.

  “Stop it. Both of you,” I yell.

  Hawk takes a deep breath. I can feel how tense his muscles are beneath my hand, but he’s not out of control. Not yet.

  “This is going to come to fists,” he tells Declan in a remarkably calm tone. “But it’s not going to be now.”

  Declan doesn’t blink. A moment later, one side of his mouth quirks upward into a smirk. He turns, picks up the bottle of whiskey.

  “I look forward to it,” he says. “It’s long overdue, isn’t it?”

  “Long.”

  Declan turns to me. “Goodnight, Melissa.” He walks to the door, opens it, but stops as if he’s forgotten something. He turns back, meets Hawk’s gaze with a wicked grin. “Why don’t you tell her our sordid history, brother? She should know well the man whose bedding her, don’t you think?”

  With that, he’s gone, and Hawk stands there for a moment watching the place where he’d stood. His hands are fisted at his sides but on his face and in his eyes, so many emotions war.

  “What’s he talking about?” I ask.

  Hawk turns to me. “Don’t get cozy with my brother, Melissa.”

  He hasn’t shaved since the other night and the scruff that’s usually there is thicker, making him look more rugged, older. A little scarier. His clothes too, the mess, it’s not him. He’s always impeccable. Everything about him is.

  “What did he mean with that, Hawk?”

  He pauses a moment before answering. “Declan’s just being a dick.”

  “Where have you been?” I ask.

  He looks me over and I see how his forehead is creased. He walks me backward until the counter is at my lower back and leans over me.