by Amy Vansant
She’d been afraid of him. Of that, he was certain.
I cannae let her donder intae a beating.
Brochan broke into a jog. Gavin had mentioned Fiona’s father was renting the old Wilson house. If he cut across the glen, he might intercept her carriage in time to warn her about her father’s early return.
He bounded over the mottled earth toward the Wilson house. When it came into view, he saw only Fiona’s father’s carriage parked at the side of the cottage. He peered down the road, expecting to see Fiona’s ride approaching in the distance.
The road was empty.
Hands on his hips, he licked his lips and caught his breath, unsure of what to do. It was possible she’d already made it home. She might be inside that very moment, facing her angry father.
Should he go to her? Or, would it be wiser to station himself up the road and wait to intercept her?
He batted the two ideas back and forth before deciding to creep to the small house and peer in the window. If he spotted Fiona’s father alone, then he would know to run up the road.
Broch heard the commotion before he reached the house. Crouching as he approached, he stationed himself below a window and peeked inside.
Two people stood in the center of the room, a fire casting their writhing shadows across the walls inside. Jones had his hands wrapped around Fiona’s arms, shaking her, his face a mask of rage.
“Let go of me!” screamed the girl. Broch could see her cheeks glistening with tears.
Her father roared, his face inches from hers.
“Jezebel!”
He struck Fiona, a backhanded blow across her cheek, and she spun away, catching her balance against a table before falling.
Furious, Broch clenched his fists. As he moved toward the door, he saw Fiona’s father collapse in a chair. Fiona remained leaning against the table, breathing heavily, her palm against her cheek.
Broch paused, torn. It wasn’t his place to interfere with a family during a private moment, but if the man raised his hand again—
“Is this what happened?” he heard Fiona ask.
“What are you talking about?” The man’s stare locked on the floor.
“Did you strike her? Is that how it started?”
Even through the thick glass, Brochan could see the man pale. He dropped his head in his hands.
“No...no. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Fiona took a step forward. “Father, I’m not her. You can’t make me be. Not anymore.”
Jones’ lips pinched and the color returned to his face tenfold. “Be silent. Go to your room. You will not deny your destiny!”
“It’s not my destiny any more than it was hers!”
“I said go!” He reached forward and grabbed for her wrist but she twisted it away and burst through the front door. He ran after her, tangling with a chair that he tossed aside, dashing it against a wall. Framed by the doorway, he stood watching Fiona, the girl already on the road and running.
Broch spun behind the wall, hiding from the furious man, every muscle in his body straining to run after Fiona.
“You’ve nowhere to go. You can’t run from your duty. You can’t run from me!” Jones called after his daughter.
Broch peered around the edge of the home in time to see Jones spin on his heel and returned to the house, fuming. He crept again to the window and watched the man stomp the fallen chair to bits before collapsing again in his larger chair, his body wracked with sobs.
Broch saw Fiona had reached the apex of the hill leading to the Wilson home a moment before she disappeared on the opposite side. The night was cold, and she’d run out of the house dressed only in her ball gown.
With one last glimpse at the sobbing man, Brochan bolted after Fiona.
He sprinted parallel to the road, hoping to remain less noticeable if he steered clear of the main thoroughfare. He didn’t want Jones to peer out his window and see a man with his daughter, for fear it would pique him to inflict greater harm on her.
A sad melody reached Brochan’s ears, mixing with the sound of his steady footfalls. He stopped, panting.
Is that music?
He scanned the empty countryside around him. He peered into the dark heavens.
The music continued.
Broch opened his eyes. His phone was ringing the tune Catriona had programmed for him. The theme from Braveheart. She laughed every time she heard it.
Ah wis dreaming again.
Again he’d been thwarted by the modern world, his memories cut short before finding answers.
He glanced at his phone and saw it was Sean.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Catriona heard her phone ring and tried to bury her head under her pillow.
“Go away,” she mumbled.
Someone grunted.
It took a moment for the sound to register, but when it did, Catriona scrambled to a sitting position and looked to her right.
Noseeum lay in bed beside her, asleep.
“Holy—”
The ringing continued. She huffed and fumbled for her phone.
“Hello?”
“Cat?”
She looked down and saw she was wearing sweat shorts and a tee.
Relieved, she expelled a puff of air. “I’m wearing clothes.”
“That’s...great...” said a voice on the line.
Catriona swung her legs over the bed to sit up and immediately regretted it. She cradled her throbbing head in her hands.
“Cat? Are you okay? Are you there?” asked a voice she now recognized as Sean’s.
“Yes. Please talk more quietly.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
She twisted to peer at her unexpected houseguest—bed-guest—through her fingers. “I had some wine with Noseeum last night.”
“Oh. He always brings the good stuff.”
“Tell me about it. What’s up?”
“I have two things for you. First, Amber Crane is dead.”
She straightened. “What? How?”
“The cops aren’t sharing too much information but my inside man says she was murdered. Stabbed. Keep that to yourself.”
“Ohmygod...when?”
“They think the same day Broch found her boy. Owen saw her that morning, but she failed to show at the hospital for Toby. When Owen couldn’t reach her, he sent his sister to use his old hide-a-key and check the house.”
“Oh, that’s terrible. Boy kidnapped, wife killed—it’s starting to sound like that family is cursed.”
“Or someone has it in for one of them.”
Catriona tried to swallow and found the reservoir dry. Her tongue felt twice the size it should be.
Damn Noseeum and his fabulous taste in wine.
She stood and stretched. “Mm. Awful. I’m hoping that was the bad news?”
“Depends on your point of view, I guess. They found Fiona’s fingerprints all over the items found in the shipping container.”
Catriona gaped. “Really? So she did kidnap Toby?”
“It’s not looking good for her.”
“The timing...that would mean Fiona was still free when Amber was killed?”
“Yes. She might have wanted Owen all to herself.”
At the thought of Broch’s new obsession spending her life in jail, Catriona suffered a flash of joy before she could squelch it.
I am a terrible person.
She stared at Noseeum in her bed. He’d begun to snore.
Terrible, terrible person.
“This is a lot to take in, early in the morning, with this kind of hangover.”
“Sorry. Then you’re going to really hate the next bit.”
“Oh no.”
“You need to get to stage six right now.”
“Why?”
“Martin Winfield’s attacking people with a sword.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No. Take Broch. I already called him.”
She rolled her eyes. “Take Broch? Why?�
��
“Do it.”
“Sean—”
“Do it.”
“Fine.”
“Go now.”
“I got it.”
She hung up and slapped at Noseeum’s exposed foot.
“Get up.”
He rolled over, squinting. “What?”
“Get up.”
He sat up and studied the bedsheets around him before looking back at her.
“Did we—?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
He scratched his head. “I think we made out...” He looked at her, an impossibly large grin blooming. “We did. We made out. I think I touched your boob.”
Catriona rubbed her face and thought back to the evening before. She had a flash of the two of them falling to the floor, giggling, Noseeum’s face growing closer to hers—
“No. Shut up. I have to go. Take whatever is left of your devil juice and get out.”
She grabbed some clothes and took them in the bathroom to get changed. Freshened, she exited and Noseeum nearly knocked her over as he ran to use the facilities.
Checking her email, she found the list of Progressicon employees that had arrived from her hacker friend. She printed it out and ran over it while she combed her hair and pulled it back into a pony tail. No names jumped out at her.
Noseeum reappeared.
“I don’t think we kissed now that I think about it.” He sounded wistful. “I think we wrestled. I think you won. But the bed—”
“I think you were too drunk to drive and I took pity on you.”
He nodded. “Agreed.”
They chuckled and he initiated a hug.
“One of these days I’ll getcha,” he said.
“I’m gonna getcha getcha getcha...” She sang with him. Blondie had made an appearance on the karaoke machine.
Grabbing her phone, he found his wine carrier.
“There’s only one bottle left,” he said, inspecting it.
“I was afraid of that.”
She opened the front door and found herself staring at plaid. She looked up.
Broch stood there, waiting for her in his kilt and his favorite Guess what? Chicken Butt t-shirt.
His lips parted as she opened the door as if he were about to speak. No sound came. Instead, his attention moved past her to Noseeum, who was standing behind her. Broch’s expression grew grim.
“I’m dead,” whispered Noseeum, looking even paler than he had a moment before.
Catriona arched an eyebrow at Broch, daring him to say something.
“Slept at home last night, did we?” she asked, patting him on the pec as she slid past him.
At the elevator, she punched the call button and glanced back to find Noseeum still standing in her doorway, Broch glaring down at him.
“Pete, here,” she said, pointing to the floor beside her.
Noseeum slipped past Broch and joined her as the doors opened. Broch entered the car after them. He leaned against the side of the elevator, his massive arms crossed over his chest, staring down at Noseeum.
It was an awkward ride to the first floor.
As soon as the doors opened, Noseeum offered them a nervous wave and scurried out of the building.
“You didn’t have to terrify him,” said Catriona as they walked outside.
Broch grunted, still staring where Noseeum had disappeared.
They strode to stage six, Catriona’s temples throbbing with every foot-fall. Entering, they found themselves in Camelot, complete with a round table.
Actor Martin Winfield, age sixty-two and dressed as King Arthur, swung his sword in Catriona’s direction. Though he was several feet away, she jumped back and inched along the outer edges of the stage toward the cameras.
“Stick with me,” she said to Broch. He followed, still visibly flustered, but the seed of bemusement kept growing at the corner of his mouth as he watched the old man swing his sword.
Catriona spotted another actor, Don Mantooth, sitting on the ground with his back against the wall. His monk’s robes were torn and bloodied. A woman hovered over him, pressing a towel to his wounds.
Only two other people occupied the usually bustling set. Aisha Murry, director of the studio’s Wednesday night staple, Knight Time, and a camera man, his equipment pointed at the raving Martin Winfield.
Aisha eyeballed Broch from head to toe and back again as the big man watched Martin waggle his sword at them. “Oh my. Extra?”
“Feeling more like it all the time.” Catriona hooked a thumb in the monk’s direction. “Don okay?”
Aisha nodded. “He’ll live. Lance took a swipe at him and grazed his chest. He passed out from fear and hit his head on the ground. Most of the blood is from that. He woke up two seconds before you arrived.”
“Where’s everyone else?”
“I told them to take five.”
Catriona winced. “Did you—”
“Tell them if they breathed a word of this they’d be fired? Yes. I wasn’t hired yesterday. I’m the one who was here when Jessica Binney beat the crap out of her girlfriend-slash-assistant, remember?”
Catriona nodded. “Good. So you didn’t call an ambulance?”
“No. No reason to now that Don’s woken up.”
“I’m going to sue you, him, and the studio!” screamed the monk at the sound of his name.
“You’ll do no such thing,” said Catriona, throwing him her fiercest glare. He grimaced and looked away.
Catriona turned her attention back to Aisha. “Give me the skinny.”
“The short version?”
“Preferably.”
She threw a hand in Martin’s direction. “Man’s lost his mind.”
“Okay, maybe the slightly longer version.”
“We found out last week that Knight Time wasn’t renewed. Martin took it hard. He’s been acting weird all week. Today, he was supposed to battle the Black Knight with Don quivering behind him for comic effect. We knew the second it started that something was wrong. It was all Eric could do—”
“Eric?”
“The Black Knight.”
“Oh. Right.”
“It was all Eric could do to stay on his feet. Lance was swinging that sword like he was fending back the army of the dead.”
“And that’s a different show?”
Aisha chuckled.
Catriona surveyed the set. “Where’s Black Knight Eric now?”
“Hospital. I think he broke a bone in his hand trying to block the blows.”
Catriona sighed and glanced at Broch, whose amusement was still locked on Martin. The aging actor remained in the center of the stage, waving his broad sword and ranting about years of devotion, fickle audiences, taste, manners, craft service’s over-cooked roast beef and sword blisters.
Catriona frowned. This was one of those occasions where having a partner who drove and had an idea how the modern world worked would come in handy. Someone had to talk to Black Knight Eric and make sure the story of Martin’s meltdown didn’t reach the tabloid websites.
“Send in another. If I lose, then you can cancel the show!” screamed Martin. He waved his sword toward Aisha. “Keep filming.”
Aisha cupped her hands over her mouth to create a makeshift bullhorn. “We’re filming, Martin.”
“I am King Arthur.”
“Sorry. We’re filming, King Arthur.”
Catriona scratched her cheek, considering her options. “Why didn’t anyone disarm him?”
Aisha sighed. “It’s a real sword. He’s using his own weapon, not the dummy. Ironically, we gave him that sword as a season wrap-up gift after our hundredth episode. It’s sharp as a razor. Look at Don’s chest.”
Catriona glanced again at the Monk, who ripped open his robes to reveal a long, thin red scratch running from nipple to nipple.
“Look at this!” he yelled.
Catriona rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, Don. Sack up.”
Aisha put her hands on her hips,
watching Martin swing his sword. “Martin’s really good. He’s lived and breathed this role for eight years. Did you know he takes lessons from the same guy who tutored Gibson for Braveheart?”
“No kidding?”
Aisha gasped and Catriona turned her attention to Martin as a clang! rang through the set. Broch had recovered Black Knight Eric’s discarded sword and stood holding it before him. Martin mimicked his stance, right leg back, weapon before him.
The two men squared off.
“Should he be doing that?” asked Aisha.
Catriona grunted the affirmative. “He’s my new partner. Swords are his thing. I think.”
Aisha squinted. “He’s your partner? In a kilt?”
“Also his thing.”
“You don’t think that’s weird?”
“You have no idea.” Catriona chewed the inside of her lip, unsure whether she should call Broch away or not.
“Is this Highlander your best man?” asked Martin, thrusting forward. Broch blocked and reset.
“Don’t hurt him,” called Catriona.
“I will not give quarter!” yelled Martin.
“I wasn’t talking to you, Martin.”
Martin glanced at Catriona and set his jaw. Jumping forward he chopped down at Broch. The Highlander blocked the blow and spun, twisting in time to block the next slice headed toward his midsection from the left. As he did so, he kicked out his foot, swiping Martin’s leg. Martin teetered and used his sword to catch himself. Broch rolled away and sprung back to his feet.
“You getting this?” Aisha asked the camera man.
He nodded.
“Thinking of doing an episode where one of King Arthur’s men takes on a Highlander in a chicken t-shirt?” asked Catriona.
Aisha shrugged. “We can CGI-out the tee. Or we can say he time traveled or something.”
Catriona chuckled.
They watched the two men exchange blows for several minutes. It was clear to all that Broch could take the battle any time he wanted.
Aisha released a low whistle. “He might be weird, but he’s sexy, your partner.”
Catriona nodded. “I suppose. If you like that sort of thing.”
“That incredibly handsome, buff and chiseled thing?”
“Yeah. Blech.” Catriona pretended to shudder.
Laughing, Aisha looked at her watch. “I’ve got another shoot on the other side of the lot in twenty minutes.”
