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

  “Stop that,” I mutter. “Jesus. What the hell is it?”

  She looks out the window to her right, and my eyes follow hers. I blink in surprise when I see a dog running to us. What the fuck is this? He paws at the door and begins to bark, the bloody bastard.

  “Go,” Mac says. “What the fuck are you waiting for?”

  Clyde gives him a sidelong look, half surprise, half anger.

  “For my Captain’s fucking orders,” he growls. Good man. He’ll be rewarded for his loyalty.

  I’d leave the mutt if not for our prisoner’s agitation. Even now, I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing. I open the door, and the dog leaps straight into the crowded back seat, goes to the woman and licks her face. She grins at him. Bloody grins.

  “What the hell, Leith?” Tate asks.

  “No fucking names,” I snap.

  “Doesn’t matter, brother. We’re taking her prisoner, aren’t we?”

  He’s right.

  I shake my head and shut the door.

  “Leith?” Clyde asks, looking at me in the rearview mirror. He’s as bewildered as I am.

  I shake my head. “I said on the way down we needed a bloody fucking watchdog,” I mutter. “Take us home.”

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  Cairstina

  When I left home tonight, I had no idea I wouldn’t have to go back. At least for now.

  The men I’m with are brutal and savage. I mean, I actually saw the man sitting next to me snap the neck of another man. But he did it because that other man was going to kill me.

  That’s something, right?

  No one’s ever killed someone who was trying to kill me. I mean, I suppose most people can say that. It’s like something straight out of fiction, but if you watch the news you’ll know it actually does happen.

  Too bad it wasn’t my brother.

  The moment the thought comes to me, I hang my head in shame. My brother might be an abusive arsehole, but he doesn’t deserve to be killed. My father, on the other hand…

  I don’t know how Bailey got out tonight, but my heart soars with hope when the man sitting next to me —Leith, did they call him?— said they needed a guard dog. My hands are bound in front of me, so fortunately I can stroke Bailey’s silky ears and kiss his nose.

  Good boy, I think, praising him silently. But dogs are unlike people. Bailey licks my hand in appreciation for the praise. He understands me even though I don’t speak. He understands me even sometimes before I understand myself, that gift of intuition or something.

  I should be afraid. I don’t know who the men in this car are or where we’re going. I have no idea what they’ll do to me when we get there. If they were going to rape me, wouldn’t they have done it already? Why take me to a remote location? Are they going to dispose of me because I’m a witness?

  You are so naïve, Cairstina, I berate myself. Very few people talk to me, so I sort of make up for it by talking a lot to myself.

  Of course I’m being far too naïve. They very well could be planning to take me somewhere to rape me, or kill me, or both, couldn’t they?

  They’re talking amongst themselves, and at first it seems like they’re arguing, but clearly the man who bound me and took me is the leader. When he raps out sharp commands, the others fall into line. I’ve even heard a yes, sir, and right away, sir. Who is he that he commands these big, strong men so? Who are they that they defer to his authority?

  They don’t want to take Bailey. “Good fucking guard dog,” the man one of them called Mac says. I don’t like him.

  God, I shouldn’t like any of them. What is wrong with me? Am I so starved for protection that I’ve deluded myself into thinking that I’m safe with these men?

  But Leith saved my life.

  I blink when I realize Leith is talking to me.

  “What are you called, lass?”

  I shake my head. I would actually tell him my name if I could speak. A part of me would like to hear him say Cairstina in that rich, velvety voice of his. The accent’s a little thicker than you typically hear in town. So I’ve deduced at least one thing about them: these men are from the north. Highlanders, even, like the men of old. Rumor has it around here that no one lives there anymore, that the highlands are uninhabited, but that’s exactly where we’re pointed.

  For some reason, that makes a little thrill of excitement shiver straight down my spine.

  I realize suddenly that everyone in the car’s silent, and all eyes are on me. Even the driver’s eyes are on mine in the rearview mirror.

  “Name,” Leith snaps, and this time he rests his hand on my knee and gives me a none-too-gentle squeeze. The man to my left stares down as well, both of us looking at the large, strong hand resting on my faded trousers. I haven’t gotten new clothes in ages, and for some reason, the realization I’m wearing clothes best suited for rags makes me intensely self-conscious. These men might be my enemies, but they’re good-looking enemies, goddammit.

  I shake my head and don’t respond.

  I blink in sudden surprise when the grip on my knee becomes painful, his voice no longer just stern but angry. “You’re coming with us as our prisoner. You’ve seen things you shouldn’t, and we’ll make certain you don’t tattle.”

  “Should fucking do away with her,” the man in the front passenger seat mutters. Does he mean kill me?

  The driver rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “That’s not our way, Mac, for the love of Jesus, you think we’re the bloody Aitkens or Wrights?” He shakes his head.

  I tally my mental notes. Surly man in the front, Mac. And they’re not the Aitkens, but whoever the Aitkens are, they’re not someone these blokes here respect. Maybe they even hate them. The Aitkens are the Inverness mob, the bad guys. And these men deny they’ve anything to do with them.

  The large man to my left is squashed up against the door, I realize, as if he doesn’t want to taint himself by touching me. He’s staring out the window, but when he speaks, I realize he’s speaking to me. “You know we could hurt you, lass?” His voice is almost a whisper. “In fact, there’s no way we won’t.”

  A spike of fear knifes through me, but I don’t respond, and quickly contain my anxiety. I’m used to being threatened. Hell, I’m used to being beaten. There comes a point where you can detach mentally from brutality when you’re face to face with it on the regular.

  I grip Bailey more tightly in my lap and bury my nose in his fur, as my belly dips and my heart falters. I’ve known from the very beginning these men were not good men, but a sick part of me, the part that hopes for a scrap from a table like a beggar, was momentarily relieved I wouldn’t have to go home to my brother’s fury and fists tonight, even if these men are no better.

  But I watched them in the graveyard. I heard the few words they spoke, and knew they were here as retribution for the wrongs done against Father MacGowen. And if they’re here to defend him, they can’t be all bad.

  Can they?

  It isn’t the realization that I’m in danger that deflates me, though, but something altogether different.

  I’m familiar with how this always goes.

  “What are you called?”

  Could be someone at the shops, a friendly child, a new librarian at the library who hasn’t yet heard my story. The most common form of greeting, and I can’t help but fuck it up. It’s the first sign that I’m abnormal to others.

  You can see someone in a wheelchair. You can even tell when someone’s blind. But the terrible irony of being mute is how it makes you not only silent but invisible.

  Sometimes, people look away when they realize that I won’t reply. Some get embarrassed, as if it’s their own fault for not knowing I won’t answer, or they regret the show of friendliness. Still others respond in anger, muttering to themselves about rudeness and courtesy and the like. And some just walk away.

  They all walk away in time. Everyone but Father MacGowen and Bailey. One because he’s tender and kind, the other
out of loyalty and understanding. It’s sad that my only allies in the entire world are a celibate man of God and a mutt.

  “If she won’t bloody tell you her name, you’ve got a more stubborn bitch on your hands than you thought,” says the man sitting in the passenger seat, the one they call Mac.

  The driver, whose name I haven’t yet heard, nods. “I’d tend to agree, there, Leith.” He opens his mouth as if to speak again, but closes it abruptly, as if thinking better of it.

  They all start talking at once, but all I get from the conversation is their names. The large man driving the car is Clyde, and the man to my left who won’t touch me’s named Tate.

  I’m piecing bits of what I’ve observed together. Leith is the clear leader of them all. They obey his commands and defer to his authority, at least here. Mac is surly but still obeys, and both Tate and the driver defer, but they catch themselves. They’re not used to blindly obeying him. Is he new to this position of leadership, then?

  What highlanders would have a hierarchy of power? I wish I’d read more history books and fewer novels. I wonder if that’d even help me now.

  Leith puts a sudden halt to the conversation with a stern, sharp, “Enough.”

  He reaches for me and I flinch. He blinks in surprise.

  “Skittish, there,” he mutters. He’s got something soft in his hands, but I can’t quite see what it is. A second later, I’m plunged into darkness with whatever it is tied around my eyes.

  They don’t want me to see where we’re going, then. But it’s too late. I already know by the way they speak and the way the car inclines that we’re heading to the highlands. Other people underestimate how the handicapped rely heavily on their other senses. They can blindfold me and deprive me of all my senses and I already know we’re going to the mountains of the north.

  It’s likely foolish of me not to be more afraid, but my response to fear’s been muted over the years, I believe. It used to be that I’d cower from my brother’s fists or flinch at my father’s biting strop, but I’ve hardened myself.

  I’ve never been this far out of Inverness, and if I’m honest, a part of me hopes I get to see the mountains. They can’t keep me blindfolded forever, can they?

  For now, they’ve dropped the topic of my name. Logic tells me that their means of coercion are limited in the car like this, and I’m more likely to have consequences when I arrive wherever we’re going.

  Fair enough. A delayed reaction is better than now. They speak to one another as we keep driving upward, and my ears pop. I have a vague memory that’s what happens when you increase elevation. I swallow hard and it doesn’t hurt anymore.

  I feel weirdly relaxed as I hear them speak, the cadences of their voices oddly soothing, like waves lapping on a beach. The anger has passed, and now they’re chattering, almost jovially. A few make wisecracks, and they laugh, as we continue to drive. It’s warm in here between these two men, Bailey on my lap, and the car’s heater. My head bobs, and I quickly force them open. I can’t fall asleep. I’ll miss everything.

  “She’s a danger, but a damn good looking one, isn’t she?”

  “She looks wild and untamed.”

  A chuckle, then, “I’d like to be the one that tamed that lass.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Silence.

  I wake with a start, unsure if I imagined the conversations or heard them in my sleep. It’s odd waking up with a blindfold on. I feel empathy toward the blind who wake like this daily. I dislike not being able to speak, but I’d think not being able to see would be much harder to bear.

  The car’s come to a stop, and the men are silent now. Rough hands release my blindfold and I blink in the sudden brightness of the car’s ceiling light. The doors are open, and a biting wind knifes straight through my clothing. I try to brace against it, but can’t with my hands bound and Bailey on my lap.

  “Take the dog in the house.” Leith takes Bailey roughly by the scruff of the neck, drags him out of the car, and shoves him over to Mac. Bailey growls at him, his lip curling in a snarl, but Leith doesn’t care.

  “Where do you want me to put him?”

  “Up yer arse,” Tate mutters, but I don’t think anyone but me hears them. I bite my lip so I don’t laugh.

  “Bring him to the kitchen,” Leith orders. “Tell the staff not to allow him out until I’ve given permission. They may feed him and give him water, but that’s it.”

  “Leith, it’s fucking midnight,” Mac says. “The kitchen staff won’t be there.”

  Leith curses. “Tate, text Islan. She’ll still be up.”

  Tate’s fingers fly over the keys to his phone, and a moment later, he nods. “She’s on her way.”

  Leith jerks his head toward Mac. “Go, now. Clyde, take care of the car, and Tate, scan our channels to be sure there’s no talk of what happened tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.” Again, the deference to authority.

  Some of the men go to do Leith’s bidding. He takes me by the elbow, and leads me inside. It’s dark out, but under the light of the full moon, I can see this is a massive wooden lodge, surrounded by chalets. We’re definitely in the mountains of the north. I’m surprised by the chalets, though. Everyone in Inverness says these particular mountains are uninhabited.

  Did we go further than I thought?

  “Be quiet,” he instructs as we walk up stone steps. If I could laugh, I would. How funny to tell a mute woman to be quiet.

  Even though it’s dark, I can see that this place is beautiful. A huge porch surrounded by a wooden fence wraps around the huge house. Everything’s rustic but well-kept. There’s a wreath made of greens with red berries on the front door, and a bristly doormat to wipe our feet on right in front of the door. Though most of the house is dark, a few yellowish lights shine in upstairs windows.

  I glance quickly behind me, curious what the view from the porch is. My jaw drops open in surprise. We’re nestled right in the heart of the mountains, nothing but trees and snow-capped mountains as far as the eye can see. I can’t wait to see this when it’s light out. If I’m allowed to, that is.

  Where will he bring me?

  Do they have an old-fashioned… dungeon or something? Castles and ruins are in these lands...

  What will he do to me now that he has me alone?

  We enter the house, just as a young, pretty girl comes trotting down the spiral staircase from the story above. She’s got to be in her late teens to early twenties, though there’s a hardness about her eyes that places her a bit older than I initially suspected. She’s blonde, with high cheek bones and vivid blue eyes, and she nearly trips on the stairs when she sees me.

  “Oh my, Leith,” she says when she sees me. She rolls her eyes heavenward. “What on earth have you brought home from the market this time?”

  “Enough, Islan,” Leith says. Does this man have a single thread of humor in his body? “Where are Mum and Dad?”

  “I’m not sure. Sleeping, maybe.” She tips her head to the side. “Shall I fetch them?” She pinches her fingers together. “They may be a wee bit buggered to be woken, but if you want me to, I will, and be sure to tell them you sent me.”

  He grunts. “No.”

  She looks curiously at me, her eyes scanning over my clothes. My cheeks flame with embarrassment. Then her gaze falls to Bailey, and she claps her hands together.

  “Oh, how sweet! You brought a puppy!”

  “He’s no fucking puppy.”

  Her eyes dance at me. There’s an instant connection, I know it, but it might be my too-vivid imagination.

  “This one will be trained as a guard dog, so don’t get attached to him.”

  Wait. What? I hate that I can’t speak, for I want to cry out to Bailey when she takes him from Tate, bending to hold onto his collar. He isn’t theirs. He’s mine.

  I yank my arm away from Leith and reach for Bailey, but my hands are bound and it’s a futile attempt, for two things happen at once. Islan quickly whisks Bailey out of my sig
ht, and Leith bends, scoops me up, and hoists me straight into the air without a word or the barest hint at effort. He heads for the spiral staircase Islan just descended.

  I’m overwhelmed with every observation I can make, the first our nearness. He’s strong and muscular, as he carries me with speed and effortless ease up the stairs. I try to pull away from him. This can’t be intimate, but damn it feels intimate. I’d imagine this would be nice if the man were my lover and not someone cold and detached, but warm and loving.

  If I’m honest, it’s nice now. It’s the most focused attention I’ve gotten from a person of the opposite sex in years. He smells like the woods, clean and fresh, a mix of snow-capped mountains and pine.

  I won’t let myself look too closely at him, not now. He still wears the mask from the graveyard, so I have no idea what he looks like. It’s a ski mask or something, the same kind one might wear to ski the slopes of the Alps. Why hasn’t he removed it yet?

  Am I never to see his face?

  Maybe they’ll kill me before I do.

  For some odd reason, I think, I need to see his face before I die.

  It seems he’s decided that if I’m to be silent, he will as well. We reach the top of the spiral staircase to a landing, and a few paces away there’s another staircase, this one a standard one, that leads to a third floor.

  It’s cooler up here as we ascend the second flight of stairs. I want to tell him to let me go, that I can walk. I may not be able to speak, but I’m no damn invalid already. I don’t, of course. I merely observe.

  I can’t see much of anything as we move upstairs, but everything is clean and well-appointed. Spotless carpet on the stairs and landing, framed pictures without a speck of dust on them, and on the landing, a diamond-shaped window. I can see nothing outside but darkness.

  When we reach the landing, he still doesn’t put me down, but stalks down the hall until we reach a room. He slides me to the ground, my body pressed up against his. It’s a feeling that’s unfamiliar but… if I’m honest, not unwelcome. If he wasn’t a criminal, he’d be the type I’d want on my side.