by Emma Slate
“Cousin? I thought Flynn didn’t have any living blood relatives.”
“His mother was Irish,” Duncan began. “She was survived by a brother and his three children.”
“But why didn’t he tell me?”
“Because when Caitlin Kilmartin married Gavin Campbell, a high-ranking member of the SINS, Caitlin’s very Irish family shunned her.”
“But Brandon—how did he—”
“I’m getting to it,” Duncan said. “Caitlin’s brother lives just outside of Belfast—that’s where we’re going. Flynn reached out to his uncle months ago. Flynn and James had plans to sit down, attempt to build a relationship. That all got put on hold, obviously.”
“I wish he’d told me,” I said quietly, my heart aching for my husband. I knew what it was like to have family that didn’t want you. My own brother had been that kind of sort.
“Man has his pride. If James had rebuffed him…”
I nodded. “I get it. So, Brandon.”
“Aye, Brandon. Flynn called his uncle explaining what was happening to the SINS. James took pity on Flynn’s plight and sent his son Brandon to help.”
“I still don’t understand.”
For the first time that morning, Duncan smiled. “James and Brandon belong to the IRA, lass.”
My eyes widened. “So it was you and Flynn who set the bomb?”
“No. The SINS took credit for it because it was The Pretender. This was his play for leader.”
“But the news didn’t release any names.”
“Doesn’t matter—everyone in the know about the SINS knows who leads. The Pretender wanted the authorities to do his job for him and take us out.”
“How did you wind up in Belfast?” I demanded. “How did you get out of London?”
“Brandon and I managed to get Flynn to a hospital.” Duncan shook his head. “We didn’t want to do it, because we’d have to register him, but what could we do? Brandon was injured, too, and if Flynn had any hope of living, he needed a doctor. As soon as we could move Flynn, we booked a private ferry to Belfast and here we are.”
“And the doctor?”
Duncan rubbed the back of his neck. “We kidnapped him.”
I closed my eyes. “We have to stop kidnapping people.”
“It’s better than killing them,” Duncan pointed out.
“Yeah, you’re right.” The car hit a pothole on the windy road. A wave of nausea coursed through my belly. I didn’t know if it was carsickness or morning sickness.
“Duncan, we have to pull over,” I said.
“Can’t. We’re almost to James’s house, anyway.”
“Duncan, either you have the driver pull over or I’m going to be sick in the car.”
Chapter 51
“You’re pregnant?” Duncan’s eyes were wide as his gaze dropped to my still relatively flat belly.
“Listen, no one was more shocked than me to find out,” I said, wishing I had a toothbrush. “If you make a joke about the power of Scottish sperm, I’m gonna slug you.”
Duncan laughed. “Oh, lass, I’m so glad you’re here. You’re just what Flynn needs to come out of this.”
I nodded resolutely. “If he dies, I’ll fucking kill him.”
“That’s the spirit.”
James Kilmartin’s home looked like it belonged on a postcard for Ireland. It was winter, and the hills were brushed with white. Nestled in the rolling hills, the yellow house looked welcoming and warm. Light gray smoke from the stone chimney curled in the air before disappearing into the murky sky.
We got out of the car and the front door of the house opened. An older couple, gray at the temples, came out to greet us.
James Kilmartin was tall and wiry with gorgeous mossy green eyes. His wife’s smile was genuine and as welcoming as the home behind her.
“James, Moira,” Duncan introduced, “Flynn’s wife, Barrett.”
“Welcome, Barrett,” Moira said with a faint Irish lilt.
“Thank you,” I said, my gaze straying to James. He watched me carefully, not as friendly as his wife. “Can I see Flynn?”
As we were ushered into the house, I briefly noticed the simplistic beauty of the stone washed walls and decor. I followed a silent James up the steps to the second floor hallway. He took me to the last room on the right and opened the door.
Flynn was lying in bed, ashen and gray-faced, a layer of sweat at his temples. Clenching my fists at my sides, I slowly approached him. A man sat in a chair by his side and stood when I came closer.
“Dr. Gerard,” James said to the man. “This is Flynn’s wife.”
Dr. Gerard was young and looked hardly out of his residency. I just hoped he was competent enough to save Flynn.
“Mrs. Campbell,” Dr. Gerard said, shaking my hand. “I don’t know how much you know about your husband’s condition, but let me assure you, I’m doing everything I can.”
“You were the one who operated on him?”
Dr. Gerard nodded. “He wasn’t shot at close range, thank goodness. Now, it’s just a waiting game.”
I glanced back at the still form of my husband. “How long has been like this?”
James’s face was grim. “Since Duncan brought him here three days ago.”
“His fever has been hovering at 102,” Dr. Gerard added. “I’ve been injecting him with antibiotics frequently.”
“Can I have a moment?” I asked. “Alone with him?”
The two men nodded and then left, closing the door behind them. I took a moment just to stare at Flynn, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Finally, I moved closer and crouched down next to the bed. Searching for his hand, I found it under the covers. It was cold, clammy. Lifeless.
“You have to stop doing this,” I said softly. “It’s not fair, you know. Hawk needs you. I need you. The new bairn needs you.”
I waited, hoping the news that he was going to be a father again was powerful enough to wake him. It wasn’t.
“I’m a little over six weeks along,” I said, going on. “The morning sickness is worse this time around. The only thing I can stomach are croissants.”
With my free hand I pushed back the damp hair across Flynn’s face. “I’ll be here when you wake up. I promise.”
An hour later, Flynn’s temperature skyrocketed. He began to moan and dream, thrashing around with what little reserve his body had left. I bathed his forehead with cool water, my own brow beading with perspiration. My back ached and my limbs were sluggish.
Dr. Gerard offered to relieve me of my nursing duties, but I resolutely shook my head. Duncan tried to get me to rest, but I refused to listen. Finally, it was Moira who managed to get through the tiredness and fear.
“You need to tend to yourself,” she said from the doorway of Flynn’s bedroom.
“I can’t leave him.”
“He won’t be alone,” she stated, her own voice firm. “If you won’t think of yourself, think of your child.”
“I am thinking of my child,” I said, refusing to take my gaze off of Flynn. His nightmares had ceased and he lay still.
“Not the one you left in New York. I’m referring to the one you’re carrying now.”
I looked at her. “How did you—”
“Duncan shared the news with me.” She smiled softly. “Come have some broth. It will do you some good.”
I dropped the damp rag onto the bedside table and left Flynn to Dr. Gerard. Moira took my arm in a strong grip and helped me downstairs. I was grateful for her taking charge.
The kitchen was filled with a delicious aroma and I closed my eyes, thinking I could fall asleep where I was standing. Moira gently urged me into a kitchen chair and then she went to the stove to ladle out a bowl of chicken soup.
The other occupants around the table included Duncan and James. They didn’t have empty bowls in front of them so I assumed they’d already eaten.
“Something to drink?” Moira asked me. “Some tea, maybe?”
“Tea woul
d be great,” I said with a smile. I spooned chicken soup into my mouth and nearly moaned.
“Duncan, will you take two bowls of chicken soup up to Dr. Gerard?” Moira asked as she set a tray with two spoons. “Maybe he can get some of the broth into Flynn.”
Duncan rose from his chair and dutifully carried the tray out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Moira finished fixing my tea and then said, “I’m going to go check in on Brandon.”
I blinked. I had completely forgotten about Brandon. “How’s his leg?”
“He’ll heal. You can meet him later.” On her way out, she gave her husband’s shoulder a squeeze. He reached up to catch her hand and brought it to his lips before letting her go.
James watched me eat and drink in silence. When I finished and gently set the spoon down, he finally spoke. “You look tired.”
I nodded. “Very.”
“We have a bed made up for you. Don’t even think about refusing,” he said. “Duncan told us you’re expecting; you need to rest.”
Without thought, I grumbled, “You’re just like your nephew.”
“Stubborn?” James asked, a slight twinkle in his green eyes.
I nodded. “And a tyrant.”
James finally cracked a smile, and it softened the countenance of his lined face. “You’ve got spirit.”
“I’d have more if I wasn’t so damn tired,” I admitted.
James got up and went to the counter. He pulled out a loaf of bread from the breadbox and sliced up half of it. He put the pieces on a plate and grabbed the butter. Setting both in front of me, he said, “You’re also looking thin. It’s Moira’s family recipe for Irish soda bread and homemade honey butter.”
He sat back down and watched me. I wasn’t going to argue. The tangy scent of the bread called to me. I slathered a slice with a hefty amount of honey butter and took a bite.
“How is it,” I asked when I had finished chewing, “that you and Moira aren’t five hundred pounds. This is the best bread I’ve ever had.”
James smiled and then it dimmed. “Flynn didn’t tell you about me, did he?”
I shook my head, feeling emotion constrict my throat. I continued to eat as James talked. He seemed to need to unburden himself.
“I was a fool,” James began. “My parents—they didn’t accept Caitlin’s choice. They took it as a slight to them. And I, well, I was stupid, too. I loved my sister and I never should’ve shut her out, shut Flynn out. It was wrong. I was wrong.”
“He’s an amazing man,” I said.
James nodded. “He’s loyal, he has honor.”
“If he loves you, he loves you with his whole heart,” I said. “I hope—” my voice broke, “—I hope you have a chance to get to know him.”
“Me too. Your son, you named him for Flynn’s father?”
“Yes. We call him Hawk.”
James smiled. “Do you have photos?”
I nodded and pulled out my phone. I had a few missed calls from Ash, probably to check in. I’d call her later. Unlocking the screen, I found my way to the photos. I slid my phone across the kitchen table. James scooped it up and began swiping through them, his smile soft.
There were footsteps on wood and then Duncan appeared. “Barrett—”
“Please don’t make me go to bed yet. I’ve got a few hours left in me before I crash.”
Duncan shook his head, his smile broad. “It’s Flynn. He’s awake. And he’s asking for you.”
I shot up from the chair, overturning it. I ran past Duncan and headed for the stairs, dashing down the hallway and coming to a stop in the doorway of the sickroom. Flynn’s eyes were dull and tired, but they were open.
“Hen,” Flynn croaked.
It was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard.
I rushed to his side, my smile so wide it was in danger of splitting my face. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?” he asked.
My hand trailed gently down his cheek. “Some men are too stubborn to die.”
Chapter 52
“It was my idea to send for Barrett. So really, you waking up was because of my good thinking,” Duncan said from the doorway of Flynn’s bedroom.
Flynn chuckled and then winced. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”
Duncan’s face sobered.
“Can I have some water?” Flynn asked through a parched throat.
I went to the bedside table and poured him a glass from the pitcher. I brought it to him and helped him take a few sips. It exhausted him to do it and when he was finished, he leaned back against the pillows, breathing hard.
“Moira made some chicken soup. Have you had any yet?” I asked, gesturing to the bowl and spoon.
“No.”
I picked up the bowl of broth and gently sat down on Flynn’s bed. I had every intention of ensuring he ate every bit of it.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Duncan said. “Glad to have you back, brother.”
“Glad to be back,” Flynn said with a weak smile.
The door shut behind Duncan giving Flynn and I privacy. “You’re going to hit me, aren’t you?” Flynn asked before taking a spoonful of broth.
“When you’re well, it’s a definite possibility.”
“I’m sorry I ever gave you something to worry about.”
I nodded, my eyes brimming with tears. The silver spoon blurred. “I’m just glad you’re awake.” I began to feed him again, and I was content with the silence.
“I had the weirdest dream,” Flynn said, a look of remembrance passing over his face.
“Oh?” I asked. “Fever dreams can be weird.”
He nodded. “I dreamt that you told me you were pregnant.”
I blew out a puff of air. “Not a dream.”
Flynn’s eyes widened. “Truly? You’re pregnant?”
“Yeah. I kind of wanted to wait until you were better, but—”
“No,” he whispered. “This is good news and when I’m better, we’re going to celebrate.”
I smiled and leaned over to kiss his lips. Flynn began to tire, and I only got a few more spoonfuls into him before his eyes were shutting. I climbed off the bed and leaned over to brush my lips against his forehead. He still felt warm but not like he had been.
He was asleep by the time I left. As I returned to the kitchen, I noted the lowering of the sun. It was nearly twilight. The beauty of the dying light hitting the hills had me yearning for Scotland.
A bottle of Jameson was cracked open and James and Duncan were already a few shots in. Moira sipped from hers and Dr. Gerard had water.
“Patient is asleep again,” I announced.
Moira smiled, setting her glass of Irish whiskey down. “And now you have no more reason to stay awake.” Like the motherly woman she was, she helped me upstairs and showed me the guest bedroom with the already turned down bed. My suitcase had been brought up, but I was too tired to sift through it for anything.
“Sleep,” Moira commanded. “I’ll wake you if there’s need. But rest.”
As soon as I was alone, I kicked off my shoes, fell face first onto the bed, too tired to even shimmy out of my jeans. I awoke a few hours later and thought about getting up, but the softness of the bed and the dark sky outside lulled me back to sleep. I slept soundly until morning, finally coming to like I’d been in my own coma.
I brushed my teeth, checking my phone. There were texts from Ash. Some were photos of Hawk and updates about him. And then there were a few that told me to call her immediately, no matter the time.
With a frown, I dialed her back. I rinsed my mouth, feeling a bit restored, but I wanted a shower. Ash was a deep sleeper, and I doubted she’d wake up the first time I called her. I was wrong.
“Barrett?” she asked, sleep in her voice.
“It’s me.”
She yawned. “I turned my phone on the loudest setting.”
“Your texts sounded urgent. Everything okay?”
“Hawk’s fine,” she said automatically.
“Good. Flynn woke up.”
“Duncan called and told me. I’m so glad,” she said. She was slowly sounding lucid.
“So what’s up?” I asked. I unbuttoned my jeans and got them off of me.
“The girls found something unusual.”
“What do you mean?”
“They were going through all the deceased members of the SINS, sort of as a double check, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, they came across a picture they all recognized and thought that we might be wrong—that this person might not be dead. His name is Edward Roehenstart.”
I frowned. “The name sounds familiar, but I don’t know why.”
“Well, I did a little Googling,” Ash said. “And something weird came up. Have you heard of Charles Edward Stuart, the Count of Roehenstart?”
“My Scottish history background is more Mary, Queen of Scots. I’ve heard of Charles Edward Stuart—Bonnie Prince Charlie. But who is this count?”
“He’s the grandson of Bonnie Prince Charlie.”
I shook my head even though she couldn’t see me. “Okay. Help me out, Ash. I haven’t had coffee yet.”
“Bonnie Prince Charlie didn’t have any legitimate children with his wife. His mistress gave him a daughter named Charlotte. Charlotte, in turn, also had a few illegitimate children. One of whom she named Charles Edward Stuart. He was the Count of Roehenstart. The history books claim that the Count had no children, but what if he did? You know the records in the 17 and 1800’s were shit. What if this count guy actually had a child?”
“Why would it matter?”
Ash sighed. “Because Edward Roehenstart, member of the SINS, who’s not deceased, might be the person we’re looking for. Roehenstart is not a common last name—it stands out. And Edward Roehenstart believes he’s a descendant of Bonnie Prince Charlie, maybe he thinks he has the right to lead Scotland to its freedom. Maybe he believes he has the right to lead the SINS.”
My heartbeat quickened. “You mean we might be dealing with a Jacobite rebellion in the 21st century?”
“We have been calling him The Pretender,” Ash pointed out.
“Fuck,” I said.
“You should learn how to curse in Gaelic. I think it would be appropriate in situations like these. Besides, this is just a theory. And a huge stretch.”
