by L. L. Muir
The next time he glanced at the car, the bastard was cowering in the far corner.
Chapter Eighteen
Wynham escorted two of the officers to the neighbor's house where he’d seen Bronagh taken. It was all he could do not to rush to her side and make certain she was unharmed, but someone had come to her aid while he’d been occupied. He worried he’d been the one to hurt her, but there had been no time for tenderness when he’d spurred the horse into action and grabbed her up at a run. He’d swung her back to the ground as gently as possible, and at a safe distance before going back. He’d had to make certain the villain couldn't finish his dark purpose.
Now it was time to see the damage, and not just the physical kind.
An aged woman answered the door with a wickedly thin dagger in hand, but eventually, she allowed them safe passage to her kitchen where Bronagh sat at the table, a cup in her hands and a blanket across her legs. Her coat was draped over the back of her chair and though she looked rather pitiful with one side of her hair bunched out to the side, her gaze was steady. And it was him she was staring at over the heads of the others.
He gave her a wink, then concentrated on breathing in and out while he stood back and allowed the police to conduct their business. Her expression remained inscrutable. He had no ken what she was thinking.
"The man's name is Trumbull,” the tall officer announced. “He’s obviously oot his tree, but we’ll know more when tests come in. Claims his shoe got wedged next to the accelerator, that he never saw ye until he'd lost control. Does that sound about right?"
She broke eye contact with Wyn to frown at the other man. "Trumbull? Torrence Trumbull?”
"That's what it says on his license, miss."
She shook her head. "He's been embezzling from the company I work for. Thirty-six thousand, eight hundred sixty-six pounds and 44 feckin’ pence to be precise. At least as of last quarter. I gave him the chance to make it right, gave him the benefit of the doubt, but obviously I was a cabbage about it.” She sat straight and frowned. “Actually, that’s not right. I don’t work there anymore. His case would have been given to someones else. And now that I think about it, my friend called to say someone was pure ragin’ that I’d left, put off that someone else would be assigned his accounts. Guess it was Trumbull.”
“Ye quit yer job?” Wyn could hardly fathom it. Her job was important. She was a perfectionist, and that job paid her well to be so. Bronagh Flannery wasn’t fond of change. She’d said it a dozen times. She’d confessed all manner of things while distracted and drawing, but that detail was a constant.
She looked at him now, her gaze steady. But in the dim light, her eyes were black as the devils. Was she angry with him, or pleased? “Aye. I quit my job,” she said, like it was as insignificant as brushing her teeth.
“I take it this mon is a friend of yers?” The woman officer pointed at Wyn with her pen, or rather, at his knees.
Bronagh gaped for a second or two. “Eem. Uh…that is--”
“Aye,” Wyn said, before she could deny it.
“And yer name, sir?”
“Wyndham—”
“McLeish,” Bronagh fairly shouted.
He gave the clever lass a smile. “Aye. Wyndham. McLeish.” He breathed deeply and fought to remain calm. It wasn’t an easy thing to throw caution to the wind. But he couldn’t be himself if he couldn’t claim his own name. And if his Irishwoman was going to love him fully, she needed to accept it. Come what may.
“I’ve been modeling for her.” He was speaking to the police, but every word was meant for her. “What is it now, Bronagh? Seven months?” Then he nodded, satisfied with his own answer, in case she was too befuddled to speak. “Aye, since August last. We had an appointment tonight, and a good thing too.”
The woman officer was immediately intrigued. “Is that why ye brought the horse, then?”
He shrugged. “Nay. My chauffeur wasn’t available tonight, and I cannae drive, so I had no choice.”
The wrinkle-faced neighbor set aside her weapon and poured tea into a cup while she clicked her teeth in pity. “Poor laddie. In this mean cold? How far did ye ride?” She pushed the full cup and saucer onto the table and pointed to the chair across from Bronagh. “Sit.”
He first offered the chair to the woman officer, but she refused. “Not two hours,” he said, then sat as he’d been told, happy that his obedience took him closer to his woman, who now stared at him open-mouthed. He shrugged. “The roads were slick in places, else I’d have arrived sooner and spared ye from yer fright. But I did promise I’d come back, aye? I couldn’t leave ye worryin’ over that mistake?”
Bronagh blinked, leaned back for a moment, then blinked some more. “What’s the mistake?” Her eyes widened and she blushed. “That is, besides leaving ye…in the basement. What other grave mistake?”
In answer, he stuck his knee out to the side and pointed to his tartan-covered thigh. “Wrong colors, love. This is my clan. Ye dressed me in red, for pity’s sake.”
She shook her head. “And how was I to know? Everything looked gray.” To everyone else, their teasing told the others they were comfortable with each other, like a long-married couple. But there was a brightness to her eyes that gave her away. She hadn’t completely accepted that he and her muse were one and the same, though she was doing a fine job at soldiering through.
He leaned over his forgotten cup, longing to touch her, to soothe her. “Ye’ll need more paint, I reckon.”
She nodded, then looked up at him from beneath thick black lashes. “Such a drastic change won’t be so simple, yeah? I’ll need time.” She nodded for emphasis. “Gobs of time.”
He stretched his arm across the wood surface and left his palm up and open. “Whatever ye need, love.”
The tall officer cleared his throat and the old neighbor chuckled. But no one spoke while they waited for Bronagh to place her hand in his. Wyn took it as a very good sign when she didn’t hesitate, and an even better sign when her grip on him was gentle but sure. Not unlike the way he’d caught her hand in the café—like she never wanted to let him go.
Agnes Pennyweather’s home soon filled with policemen and tea cups. No doubt the cold night combined with the smell of fresh scones made it hard for anyone to resist. A toast was made to the two officers tasked with taking the perpetrator to the nick.
After the tall officer recited the account from her neighbor across the street, who thought she’d been struck by the truck, he asked Bronagh if she wanted to be examined at the hospital. Her heart jumped at the mere word.
“She doesn’t like hospitals,” Wyn said for her. “The truck never touched her. And any nursing she’ll need will be done by myself.” He squeezed her hand and got a squeeze in return. “So if ye’re finished with yer questions for the night, I’ll see her home.”
Bronagh’s heart beat so loudly she didn’t catch everything that was said, only that Wyn promised to deliver her to the police station first thing the next morning to formalize the charges. It seemed like forever before they were out in the gloriously chilly air, alone, with every reason to walk arm in arm.
She finally found her tongue. “I missed ye Tuesday.”
Wyn scoffed. “How could ye miss me? I was right in front of ye, but ye couldn’t see it. I even tried to tell ye—”
“When ye grabbed my hand?”
He put his arm around her shoulders so he could pull her closer against him. “Aye. Ye understood, then?”
“No. I did not understand. I just thought it was…charmin’.”
He let go and stepped wide to put space between them. “Just like that? Ye fall for someone new just because I didnae show up the second ye stepped foot on the moor?”
She stomped closer, slipped her arm around his waist, and pulled him back where he belonged. “I didn’t though, did I? I fell for ye again, yeah? Not for someone new. Don’t be a numpty.”
“Ah. Ye Irish are such sweet talkers.”
They laughed
together, then stepped around the hedge into her yard. The truck was still one with the railing. The horse shifted its weight, waiting for attention and for someone to untie the leads from the newel post at the front steps.
“Ye can’t mean to ride two hours in the cold again,” she said.
“It is rather late.”
“And rather cold.”
“Is there enough room in yer garage, do ye think, to park a horse?”
“I’ll pull out the car.”
“Eem...I could try it.”
She laughed. “Ye said ye don’t drive.”
“I confess I have never.”
“Well, maybe ye’ll understand when I say I’ve had enough cars on the lawn for one day.”
He rolled his eyes, but didn’t seem too disappointed.
“Wyndham?”
“Aye.”
“Ye don’t mean to take me to the nick on the back of yer horse, do ya?”
“Doubtful,” he said, then laughed when she looked at him sharply. “We shall worry about that in the morning.”
As they walked, he kept his body between her and the truck, intentionally no doubt, to block her from seeing the mess. But she didn’t care why he held her against his side, only that he kept doing it.
“So. Ye’re Wyndham McLeish.”
“The one and only.”
She told him about her visit with Loud James. “So I was just beginning to get used to ye being a ghost. And here ye are, flesh and blood?”
“A clever woman ye are, Bronagh Flannery. But I am now simply a man, thanks to a generous young witch ye shall meet one day.”
She pulled away so she could look up at his face. “Witch?”
He chuckled and dragged her close again, not missing a step. “Never ye mind. I’ll save that bit for later, shall I?”
They approached the side door of her house and she pulled a key from her coat pocket. He took it and unlocked the door, then turned back to face her. “I see no reason why I cannot be both a living man and yer muse.” He then pressed the key into the palm of her hand, slowly closed her fingers around it, then pressed a kiss to her fingers. His lips were warm, his presence all-consuming.
When his mouth finally found hers, the effect was ten times more overwhelming than his original kiss had been, because this was the man she loved. He inundated her senses with the taste of his skin, the sound of his breathing, the beat of his heart through his thin shirt, where her hands had burrowed, but no farther. Her back porch was a tiny universe that contained only them, even after he pulled back.
“I’ll be honest then, Muse,” she said, struggling to breathe and speak with some coordination. “I feel quite…inspired…already.”
He chuckled deep in his chest, where she could feel that too. “Please tell me I havenae brought out the painter in ye.”
“I’ve no more need for imaginary men. I shall never paint again.”
“Auch, aye, ye will. Ye must change the color of my tartan.”
She rolled her eyes. “Maybe I’ll just name him Campbell instead.”
His brow slammed down. “Bite yer tongue, Bronagh Flannery.” He tipped her backward and she squealed. “On second thought, allow me.”
Epilogue
As it turned out, they did ride the horse to the nick in the morning since it wasn’t more than a mile and the weather was rather mild for March. It might have been God’s compensation for the cold they’d endured the night before. Bronagh lifted her face to the eastern sun and closed her eyes, but all the warmth came from the big man sitting in front of her, insisting she hold him tight.
Since there was still very little edible food in the house, she’d insisted Wyn have his first Egg McMuffin that morning. “The police can bloody well wait.”
They sat on a cold bench in the sunshine to eat their breakfast, when suddenly, he stood and pulled her up to face him before toying with the scarf around her neck. “I love this scarf.”
“Do ye like owls, or are ye partial to yellow?”
“Neither, particularly.”
“Then why do you like the scarf?”
“I like the way it never stays where ye put it. Remember?” He grabbed her hips and spun her around until her back was to him. The scarf, naturally, fell off her shoulder. He slowly bent to taste the exposed flesh of her neck. “I can feel it now, lass. Can you?”
“You know I can,” she whispered, “and we’re being watched.”
He huffed out a sharp breath against her skin. “We must continue this later.”
She laughed. “The discussion, or the meal?”
“Aye,” he growled, then finally let her go.
Wyn’s opinion of the wee sandwich was enthusiastic, but the way he looked at the empty wrapper led her to believe he’d need to eat again soon. Feeding a Highlander wasn’t going to be easy. She would definitely have to start cooking. Lord help them both.
At the nick, the attention drawn by horse and kilted rider was even more than they’d received at the drive through. And being the least interesting of the three of them, Bronagh watched and laughed at onlookers’ reactions. Luckily, there were plenty of volunteers to look after the horse while they went inside.
They were led to a lobby to wait and found Silvan Mahony and Mary Pingree waiting as well. Bronagh had to pay strict attention to keep from introducing them to Wyndham as The Sheriff and The Snake. They were both smiling, which made her uneasy, considering their last conversation, and she tightened her hold on Wyn’s arm.
“Who did ye leave in charge?” She honestly wanted to know.
“Deirdre,” Mary said. “So we can’t stay long, can we?”
Mahony widened his eyes and tilted his head toward the water cooler on the opposite side of the room. “Can I speak to ye privately, Bronagh?”
“Ye cannot,” Wyn answered for her, but with a painfully pleasant smile on his face. He leaned down to speak in her ear. “If I overstep, ye must tell me.”
She shook her head. “What do you want to say, Mr. Mahony?”
“I wanted to say…that is, I wanted to apologize for…”
“Giving ye no choice,” Mary prompted.
“Giving ye no choice but to quit. I’d like to have—we’d all like to have ye back. And if ye’d like, eventually, we can recommend ye for the forensic team in London.”
Wyn gasped, but when Bronagh looked up at him, his face was passive, his attention on the far wall. She knew exactly how he felt about England of old, and she assumed his opinion hadn’t changed much since that day on the moor when he’d ranted about the murders that happened after the battle at Culloden.
She yanked on his arm until he faced her. “Ye know ye’re stuck with me, aye? No one else will accept all that baggage ye came with?”
The smile he gave her brought tears to her eyes but she shook them away and turned back to Mahony.
“Fine. I’ll come back. But I don’t want to work in London. My home is here.” She squeezed Wyn’s arm again, letting him know she wasn’t talking about her grandmother’s house with the Highlander portrait in the parlor. “Maybe we can have a forensic office in Inverness.”
Wyn drew his arm from her grasp so he could wrap it around her back. His brows pinched together. “Ye mean to deal with more wretches like Trumbull?”
She shrugged. “I don’t want fellas like that to get away with other folks’ money. Do you?”
“I want ye safe.”
“Well, then, ye’d best stay close and keep me that way, yeah?”
Wyn’s face changed slowly, from concern to delight, then to something akin to anticipation.
She was already shaking her head. “I’m sorry. Ye can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Can’t use yer sword to protect me.”
They looked up to find a long row of police officers watching anxiously, to see how the big Highlander would react to her declaration. None of them laughed until Wyndham did. And while he laughed, he turned slightly to let her see his
hand behind his back, where he was crossing his fingers. Then he laughed harder.
THE END
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Excerpt from GIVER
She’d been summoned.
Shaking like a leaf and struggling not to vomit, Pippa Reardon climbed out of a black town car in what had to be an older part of Edinburgh. The buildings around her were built of gray stones at least four feet thick, and she honestly couldn’t guess the century of the architecture.
Pre-America, for sure.
The driver pointed at the next building to the north, then tipped his hat. “I’ll be here to take ye on when ye’re finished,” he said.
Time was ticking. She couldn’t just stand there in her new navy suit and matching heels when he was waiting. Instead of them giving her courage, the new clothes made her feel conspicuous, outlandish. But it was too late to worry about that. Brave your way through, Pippa.
Her driver probably thought she was on familiar territory—a Reardon picked up from the airport and delivered to Reardon Holdings. But the truth was, she didn’t even know her father had offices in Edinburgh until she’d been summoned.
A liveried doorman saw her into the building made of perfectly sculptured marble and long blue carpets meant to swallow the echoes. He escorted her to the elevator and pushed the buttons for her. On the top floor, another man extricated her from the cage within a cage and pointed her to large double doors. Centered in the middle of each door was a gold plate with a flourished letter R.
Yes, the R would be for Reardon, but not for her. If she’d been a son, it would have been a different story.
When she reached for one of the gold handles, the doors slid apart like they didn’t wish to be touched. Heaven forbid she leave a fingerprint. But it soothed her a little to think that her father had chosen a technology used in grocery stores across America. If he’d have realized, he would probably have it changed or replaced it with another doorman.
