Leith: A Dark Scottish Mafia Romance: (Mountain Men) Read online

  One of them sounds as if he’s making a spitting noise. I flinch. Is he spitting on the beautiful carpet? The intricate altar? The bastards.

  “Violent intents, boys,” one of them says with a laugh. “Imagine that, eh?”

  “Now what on earth would give him that idea, hmm?” another says. There’s a sound of a scuffle and I wince at Father MacGowen’s cry of pain. I have to help him. What can a girl like me do, unarmed, against a passel of violent men? I close my eyes and rock back and forth, berating myself. I can’t even defend myself against one violent man, never mind several.

  “You told the authorities we robbed you. Admit it.”

  “I did not,” Father MacGowen says staunchly.

  “Bollox,” one shouts, and there’s the unmistakable and all too familiar sound of flesh on flesh. I go to cover my ears. I can’t bear to hear them hurt him, when suddenly the sound of the door clanging open makes all else stop. Has someone come to help, or have more come to attack? I freeze, holding my breath, listening for a hint of who’s come.

  “Let him go.” The voice is deep and commanding, like I’d imagine the commander of an army to sound. In my mind’s eye, I picture the newcomer with a sword and shield, like the men of old. Has someone come to intervene? One of the townspeople, perhaps, who heard the commotion?

  “Who the ever loving fuck are you?”

  “Doesn’t matter who we are.” There’s more than one, then. “I said, let him go. If you want a fight you’ll have one, out in the graveyard. With me.”

  The noises I hear next are confused and muddled. Curses and grunts, and to my shock, I see four huge, masked men dragging the others past me and straight out the door to the graveyard. No one sees me. No one even looks my way. One grabs Father MacGowen, and the door clangs shut behind them.

  I should run. I should hide. But I’m far too invested in this now to leave, and there’s no way I’d ever leave my one and only friend bereft. I look around me for a weapon of some kind, but only see my mobile that’s fallen to the carpet in my haste. I can’t use my fists. I can’t even use my voice. But I can use what little I have. I pocket my mobile and run outdoors after them.

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  Leith

  If not for the promise of the sacredness of the church, I’d have broken Alastair Aitkens’ hand the moment I saw him touch Father MacGowen. It takes all my self-control to drag his sorry arse down the steps of the church—none too gently, I’d add—to the cemetery behind the church.

  I toss him in front of a gravestone, watching as Clyde, Tate, and Mac rough up the other two.

  “Now, boys,” MacGowen begins. “I don’t want bloodshed here on the church grounds. If you’ll please —”

  “Go into the parsonage, father,” Tate says firmly. “Go now or I’ll take you myself.”

  He shakes his head. “Can’t do that, son,” he says. “I won’t leave you men out here unattended.”

  We’re about to rough up the Aitkens boys, they’ll put up a fucking fight, and I’m not keen on him witnessing this. He’ll know who we are even though we’re masked.

  “Go, Father,” I order. “Now. To the parsonage, straight away.”

  He opens his mouth to protest, then shakes his head, mumbling a prayer under his breath, and heads to the parsonage.

  I jerk my chin at Tate. “Bind them.” Clyde and Tate tie rope around the wrists of the two Aitkens lackeys. Alastair swears and curses in my grip, but I’m bigger than he is, and Mac’s standing right beside me, his arms across his chest, glaring at Aitkens. Aitkens turns his neck to try to look at me and tries to tear off my mask, but Mac gives him a solid punch to the gut. He doubles over in my grip.

  Mac knees him, but before he can fall to the ground I haul him to his feet.

  “Think you’re a fucking genius, coming here to fuck up the goddamn priest, hmm? Unarmed? Attacking a man of God? You ought to burn in hell for what you’ve done.” We all fucking will, but that’s beside the point.

  I yank him to his feet, as Tate beats one of the men he’s bound. A swift kick and backhand and he falls to the ground. Aitkens and his men put up a fight, cursing and brawling, but they’re outnumbered. He whips his head back and nearly catches me on the shoulder, and when I duck, I see something behind a tombstone. Jesus. Is that a spy?

  I’m distracted so badly, I lose my focus, and Aitkens kicks me in the gut.

  I fall to the ground, blocking myself, and Mac lets loose a hard roundhouse kick, incapacitating Aitken.

  Is that a girl? Crouched in the shadows? Bloody hell, she’s fucking taking pictures?

  “Take him,” I mutter to Mac, shoving the arsehole at him, but just as I step toward her, another one of Aitkens’ men emerges from the shadows. Bloody hell, he must’ve been their back-up.

  “Let them go,” he shouts, reaching for his gun. The girl in the shadows kneels between the two of us. He sees her when I do, shakes his head, and growls. He cocks his pistol, points it at her, and everything happens in a split second.

  She covers her face with her hands in an effort of futile self-defense. I throw myself at him, tackle him to the ground, and before I even realize what I’m doing, draw my blade.

  “She’s fucking got us on camera,” he says, lunging for her, but he can’t get past me.

  “You touch her, you’re a fucking dead man.” Like I’d let anyone hurt a child on my fucking watch.

  But he doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care, for he rolls beneath me, grabs his gun, and points it back at her. I drop my knife, grab him around the throat, and without thinking, twist his neck. There’s a sickening snap, and he slumps to the ground.

  I don’t fucking care. It’s exactly what I intended to do.

  I shove his body to the side, and someone shouts, but I don’t care. I turn to Aitkens’ men, holding their own man’s weapon.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” I say, getting to my feet and pointing the gun at them. “You fucking go before you join him.”

  I jerk my chin to the others to release them, and my men instantly obey. Aitkens’ men run and don’t look back, the fucking bastards. My men would never leave one of our own behind. Ever.

  “Fucking hell, you weren’t supposed to kill any of them,” Mac says, shaking his head. He scrubs a hand across his jaw, and looks from the cemetery to the church. “But I suppose you picked a damn good place to do it, eh?”

  “Aye,” Clyde says. “I know exactly where to keep the body. We’ll send our men down tomorrow to dig a grave. Help me take the body, Tate.” Tate and Clyde drag the body past a large, gnarly oak tree to a small hut, then disappear.

  “Why’d you fucking kill him?” Mac says.

  “He was going to kill the girl.”

  Mac frowns and his brow furrows as he looks past me, then all around me. “What girl?”

  Bloody hell. I look to where she was just a minute ago, and realize she’s gone. She’s a silent, wily one.

  “She saw me kill him.”

  “Aye, but yer masked.”

  “Doesn’t matter, does it? She’s a fucking witness, and she took pictures.” I shake my head. “Find her.”

  It’s only the two of us, so we comb the dark graveyard lit only by moonlight.

  “Likely to find a fucking werewolf on a night like tonight,” Mac mutters. He’s maybe half joking, but superstitions run strong in Inverness, and werewolves are right up there with the Loch Ness.

  “Oooh, shaking in my fuckin’ boots,” I mutter. I swing my light and see something that catches my eye. The door to the church is askew. I nod to Mac and slowly walk toward the open door, confident we’ve found our wee spy. MacGowen did what we told him and headed to the parsonage, not the church. I hold up a finger to Mac, and slowly creep up to the entrance.

  “Och, aye,” I say to Mac as I push the door open. Crouched against the corner sits the girl, her knees up to her chest, chin on her knees. I expect her to say something, to shout or scream, to do anything but what she
does. She stands and looks at me in silence. It’s then I realize she’s no girl but a woman. A small, unassuming woman, but she’s no child, and she’s fucking gorgeous. A thick mane of wavy, dark brown hair, pale skin with flushed cheeks, and sky-blue eyes framed with long black lashes. Her intelligent eyes are both stunning and haunted. We have no time, yet I want to stand here and memorize every perfect detail.

  “Jesus, get over here,” I tell her, grabbing her by the hand. My plan is to drag her with me, to yank her away from the sanctuary of the church and prevent her from turning us in. How, I’ve no idea, but I’ll figure it out.

  When our fingers touch, her eyes widen in surprise at the same time vivid awareness courses through me. Sudden warmth sends a tingle through me, and for one wild second I wonder if she’s heaven-sent. We’re standing on sacred ground. Has she been sent from above?

  Everything around us suddenly seems brighter, more intense. The scent of incense, the flickering red light beside the tabernacle. I blink and shake my head, certain it’s all my imagination. It’s a strange evening, and we’re in a strange place.

  She doesn’t fight me. She doesn’t do anything at all except walk mutely by my side.

  Mac goes to the other side of her and we hold her between us.

  “Give me your mobile,” I order. Again, she obeys without a fight, sliding it onto my palm.

  “Why were you here?” Mac asks.

  She stares straight ahead and doesn’t speak. One beat passes, then two, and I feel anger pooling in my belly at her stubborn refusal to respond.

  “He asked you a bloody question. Answer him.”

  Still, she looks straight ahead and doesn’t respond.

  I growl at her, keeping my temper in check with effort. My adrenaline’s been pumping hard through my veins for a fucking hour, and I have no patience for this.

  I grip her arm. “I saved you from murder tonight, but nothing will save you from my palm across your arse if you don’t answer.”

  Mac scowls when she doesn’t answer, and shakes his head. “We’ll take her back, then?”

  I nod. “Aye. No choice. We’ll have to make her both talk to us and ensure she speaks to no one else.”

  She blinks, and a tear rolls down her cheek, but still, she doesn’t fight. I’d expect her to kick or scream or do anything but walk mutely beside us, allowing us to lead her to our car. We parked underneath the shadow of the oaks to avoid being seen.

  We look around to make sure we aren’t followed, but Aitkens’ men have long since gone, and both the Cathedral and cemetery are secluded enough, no one else has come or seen us. It’s a bloody miracle with the racket we’ve made, but the only damn witness we have is walking beside me.

  I open the door and shove her in, considering putting her in the damn boot for a moment. She can’t be allowed see where we’re taking her, and we can’t risk anyone seeing her beside us in the car either. I can’t, though. I’d berate one of my men for being soft with a bloody witness, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Christ. It’ll be a tight damn squeeze to have her in the back beside Clyde and Tate.

  I shake my head. That’s not happening. There’s no fucking way I’ll have her sit between the two of them. Clyde will drive us home and we’ll blindfold her so she doesn’t see the way.

  “Where are they?” Mac mutters, as we wait in the car for Clyde and Tate to return.

  I shake my head. “No fucking idea. They weren’t supposed to bury the damn body tonight.” She shivers when I say body. Did she not realize I’d killed him?

  We’ve contacts with the men who dig graves here at the Cathedral, a good fucking convenience. Other mobs throughout the country dispose of their bodies by messy, covert means. Some of ours are buried alongside heroes and civilians at the cemetery, marked with bogus markers, of course. And no one’s ever been the wiser. We keep our contacts paid well.

  I suspect Father MacGowen’s raised a brow a time or two, but as Clan chaplain, he knows better than to ask questions. He knows he won’t get an answer.

  Five minutes later, they’re still not back, and I’m growing agitated. I’d go after them myself if not for the woman held firmly in my grip. She hasn’t wavered or spoken, staring straight ahead with her jaw clenched tightly. It looks as if she’s staring intently at something, but when I follow the path of her gaze, there’s nothing but darkness and a moonlit road.

  “I’m going to fucking kill them,” Mac mutters, but he’s talking out of the arse side of his mouth, because there’s no way he’d even harm a hair on the heads of either Clyde or Tate, never mind the two of them. Can’t say I don’t share his sentiment, though. Where the bloody hell are they?

  “We’ll have to go find them,” I say with a sigh. Neither of us wants to face the possibility that Aitkens may have had more men with him that we saw, and if our own men were ambushed—

  I shake my head and secure the woman in the car. “You’ll stay here if you know what’s good for you.”

  Mac scowls at her in the back. “Jaysus, I don’t fucking like this,” he mutters. “The lass will be trouble for the Clan. We haven’t brought—”

  “Shut it and find the others,” I interrupt before he can finish his thought. I’ve no more patience. “You have the keys?”

  “Aye,” he says. I don’t miss the way a muscle ticks in his jaw at my order. He jerks his head at the trunk. “Should put her in the boot?”

  Her eyes grow wide at this, but still, she says nothing.

  I don’t bother to respond. “Let’s find the others.”

  He slams the door and stalks off ahead of me. My youngest brother’s got a wee hair across his arse. Fucking noted.

  I click the locks on the keys, fucking furious we’ve got a hostage in a car where anyone could bloody see, but I can’t very well drag her along with me. We’d better move quickly.

  The moonlight offers enough light until we get further into the graveyard.

  “Where the bloody hell did they go?” I mutter, when Mac jerks his chin to the left.

  “That’s where to go. They’ve got the excavators for digging and we’ve got a place secured for the bodies.” He gives me a sidelong look. “Wouldn’t know that, would you? Haven’t dirtied your hands with such work in fucking ages.”

  I don’t bother to reply. I won’t stoop to his level. I’ll deal with him and his insubordination in time. Immediate retaliation and knee-jerk reactions aren’t the way of the Scottish mob, and the Cowen Clan is no exception. We are deliberate and cunning, slow to forgive, and we never forget.

  “Quite right, Mac,” I say nonchalantly. “Now shut your bloody mouth and help me find them.”

  He may be insolent, but he won’t outright defy me. He shuts his bloody mouth.

  We come to a small booth, the type one might find on a main road with a toll, but it’s empty.

  Mac shakes his head, his anger forgotten. We’re back on the same fucking team. “No idea where they’ve gone to, brother.”

  I grunt in reply, but don’t respond. I’m looking for clues. The door to the booth’s open, so they likely came here. Of course there’s no fucking body.

  “Jesus,” I mutter, shaking my head, when Mac’s eyes suddenly light up.

  “Ahead,” he hisses. “Look.”

  I look up and see two shadowy forms ahead of us. I recognize the slope of Clyde’s shoulders and Tate’s stance from here. We break off at a run and reach them in seconds.

  “Where the bloody hell’d you go?” I ask when we reach them, not bothering to hide my anger.

  Clyde looks abashed, and Tate shakes his head apologetically.

  “Sorry, brother, we tried the normal way we have in the past, but the door was bloody locked, and we didn’t have time to pick it. If we broke it, we’d risk the weekend crew finding the body before our contact did.”

  I grumble, but he has a point.

  “We found a second option, though, Leith,” Clyde says. “Found another place to leave him but it took longer than expe
cted.”

  “We’re sorted then?”

  “Aye,” Tate says. “Where’s the girl?”

  I hear voices at the back of the cemetery. Jesus, all we need is another fucking witness. “Back in the car. Fucking move.”

  My brothers may be big and bulky, but we’ve trained hard and thoroughly, having learned stealth at a young age. We move like ghosts in the night. Not so much as a twig snaps as we make our way to our car.

  Feels surreal taking a prisoner back home with us, especially someone as pretty and intriguing as this one. I scowl as we push past the low-hanging tree branches. I can’t fucking let myself get weak. I’ve seen more than one of my men fall for a pretty woman who was more dangerous than she first appeared.

  She’s there, though, still sitting with her back ramrod straight and her eyes fixed ahead. She doesn’t even turn when we open the door.

  Clyde and Tate go to get in the back, but I shake my head.

  “Clyde, you’ll drive. I want to interrogate our prisoner on the way back.” It’s partly a lie. Interrogation is only one of my reasons. I don’t want Clyde sitting beside her, but my brother’s another story. He’d never touch a woman that belonged to me.

  Jesus.

  Why the bloody hell am I even thinking along these terms? She doesn’t belong to me. She isn’t mine.

  But when she looks to me, and her eyes meet mine, I can’t help the instant reaction. Mine, my instinct says. They say the call of the bagpipes is our call to arms, deeply woven into our very DNA. My attraction to this woman is every bit as innate and instinctive, like the lonesome wail of the pipes, and there’s no point bloody fighting it. For now, I’ll make her my prisoner, no need to explain to anyone beyond that.

  My men obey, Clyde taking the driver’s seat and Mac sliding in beside him. Tate gets into the back to her left and I get in to her right.

  “Fucking go,” I tell Clyde, when suddenly the woman starts shaking her head and rocking beside me. She smacks at my leg. At first, I’m too surprised to react, but when she does it a second time, I grab her wrist and restrain her.