Run Among Thorns

by Anna Louise Lucia

  It was too much, too complete. Nothing will ever be the same, she thought. How could it?

  She dropped her head and bit his shoulder, soothing the spot with a sweep of her tongue, sliding her mouth across his collarbone while he threw his head back, eyes wide, teeth showing, so she could taste his other shoulder. He muttered something thickly, incoherently, but she couldn’t hear him. The pressure was building, the blood was roaring in her ears, and just as he arched up, rigid and shuddering, she cried out, as the dam burst inside her and racking pleasure flooded her senses.

  She collapsed against him, shivering in the aftermath, rocked by his heaving breaths. Turning her head she fastened her mouth to a patch of skin where his neck met his shoulder and sucked gently. He tasted of salt, and of Kier, and his groan vibrated against her skin.

  “Jenny,” he breathed. “Jenny.” As he wrapped a hand in her hair and tipped her mouth up to his own. He kissed her, long and deep, still buried deep inside her, drugging her with long sweeps of his tongue. Then he broke away, pressing his forehead to hers, his breathing ragged.

  “Jenny,” he said again, “You’re going to kill me.”

  A shadow flickered in her heart, but she turned her back on it and laughed, deep and throaty, her whole body shaking with it.

  “Oh, God, don’t laugh!” he begged, and she tried desperately to still herself. But his pleas only made her want to laugh more, knowing her intimate contractions were gripping him while he was still hypersensitive, so she couldn’t stop.

  In a sudden move, he snaked a hand between them and slid a finger down to caress her, which killed her laughter instantly on a gasping groan.

  There was still so much capacity for pleasure between them. There was a look in his eyes that disturbed her, though, so she caught his busy hand with hers and stopped him. He leant back in the chair and stared at her, and there was that look, a scar of anguish on that beautiful face.

  “What is it, Kier?” she asked softly. “What’s wrong?”

  He hesitated, as she knew he would, but she waited, watching him, giving him time.

  Eventually he breathed a sigh, tracing the shadow of old bruises on her elbows and knees with his fingertips. “These are wrong … and these.” He lifted her wrist and kissed the healing marks there, too, and it was nothing but pleasure to her.

  “I hurt you. Again and again I hurt you. And now it’s hurting me. I can still see the bruises on you. On your skin and in your eyes, and I hate that.”

  She didn’t know what to say to him. The bruises were there, incontrovertible, and it was, if not his hands, then his actions that had put them there. But how to put into words that the way he touched her now mattered so much more to her, that she didn’t give a damn about the past, if the future held him? She didn’t know how, didn’t know whether he had even looked towards the future, so she kissed him and wrapped her arms around him.

  By and by some of the tension left him. “We have to move on soon,” he said.

  “Yes.” Easing off him, she bundled herself in her robe again, and reached down to take his hand.

  “Soon,” he repeated, but she only led him to the stairs, smiling.

  Kier dialed international.

  When he got through he gave an extension number. A woman’s voice answered, and he asked for Bradley Walsh. He was going to need help with this one, and his old friend was about the best option he could wish for. He glanced at the stairs, but the first floor was still silent. Jenny still slept.

  She’d earned it, he thought, a little smugly, even while his stomach twisted with unease. It was late in the day. They should have left. They should have a plan.

  There was a pause, a muffled conversation, and a rattle as the receiver changed hands.

  There were voices in the background so he asked, “Can you talk?”

  “Who is this?”

  “In a minute. Secure the line,” he said with impatience. There was silence again, a click, a low hum, and then the line cleared again.

  “Bradley?”

  “Speaking. Who is this?”

  “McAllister.”

  He heard the other man’s indrawn breath and waited.

  “Uh, McAllister?”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a warrant out for your arrest. They’re circulating your mug shot round the airports.”

  “What charge?”

  “Kidnapping and attempted murder.”

  That was going to make life a little more difficult. “Warrant issued US or UK?”

  “UK.”

  He had to admire their nerve. If, as he suspected, the kidnapping was of Jenny and the attempted murder was of Kendrick, it was in their own interests to keep this from coming to trial. But it wouldn’t hurt to keep him held up somewhere until they could collect him. Actually, he didn’t have to admire their nerve. At the moment he didn’t much feel like admiring anything about them.

  “McAllister? You there?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “What’s your take on it?”

  “Oh, come on, answer a damn question, will you?” The exasperation in Bradley’s voice was clear. And it was reassuring. A friend worried; an enemy stayed cool.

  “What do you know about a man named Matthew Kendrick?”

  There was a long, low whistle at the other end of the line. “Well, well, well,” said Bradley. “Is he the kidnap victim?”

  “No, he’s the attempted murder victim. The kidnap victim is now my—”

  “Your …?”

  “I’m protecting her. And I didn’t do any of it. Well, I did, but there are extenuating circumstances.”

  “Extenuating circumstances for looking after someone you kidnapped? There would have to be.” Bradley sounded slightly dazed. Well, he might. Jenny did that to people.

  “I need your help, Bradley.”

  “Fine. I’ll do whatever I can. On one condition: you tell me everything.”

  Kier sighed, turning around and eyeing the clutch of strange-looking beer bottles on the cabinet. One said Cocker Hoop. Oh, come on …

  “Okay,” he said, “sit down, and shut up.”

  It didn’t take as long as he expected explaining it to someone who knew the business, and someone who, mercifully, kept their mouth shut.

  Only when he was done did Bradley let loose a couple of short, pertinent questions.

  “So is Kendrick working for the Agency?”

  “As near as I can figure.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I was hoping you might be able to answer that. We left him unconscious in Scotland.”

  “You’ll have to give me some time. Is that what you need from me?”

  “That, and anything else about this warrant. Anything on the grapevine, Bradley. You’ll know what we need to know. I lack information, and I want it.”

  “And you’re sure you can trust this Waring girl?”

  “Her name is Jenny,” he said through clenched teeth, but Bradley only grunted.

  “Well, are you sure?”

  His mind delivered images of the past few hours. “Yes, I’m sure. But don’t ask me to explain why. I just need information, Bradley.”

  “I’ll see to that.”

  “I owe you, Walsh.”

  “No, as I remember it, I owe you. What are your plans now?”

  “At the moment …” he grimaced, “they’re fluid.”

  “Huh. Well, if you need a flight back out here, I can bring you through.”

  “Thanks. Don’t call me on this line. I’ll reach you,” Kier said.

  “Fine. Speak to you soon.” He rang off.

  While he was still standing there, running over his plans—or lack of them—in his mind, the key grated in the lock of the front door.

  Kier was aware of several things at once. It was probably Alan, since it was about lunchtime. His gun was upstairs under his pillow, and last he’d seen her, Jenny was heading for the shower wearing his shir
t.

  He crossed his arms over his bare chest, leant back against the cabinet, and prepared to brazen it out.

  It was Alan. He raised his eyebrows when he saw him. “Raiding my beer stores, McAllister?”

  “Nope, running up international phone bills.”

  “Where’s Jenny?”

  “In the shower.”

  “In the shower,” Alan repeated, taking in Kier’s appearance, half-naked and barefoot. He went a little white about the mouth.

  Kier kept his back to the cabinet, knowing full well Jenny had left marks on it last time they had … Oh and those sort of thoughts weren’t going to help the situation, either. Swearing blind he hadn’t touched the man’s sister while nursing a hard-on was not going to be convincing.

  Alan set down his bag deliberately, with the air of a man who had suffered enough. He started across the hall, and Kier was just tensing when Jenny breezed down the stairs with wet hair, wearing her own clothes and clutching his shirt.

  “Hi, Alan!” she said brightly, “There you go, Kier, although why you can’t sew your own buttons on, I don’t know. Tea, anyone?” And she disappeared into the kitchen.

  Alan glared after her, and then back at Kier, who shrugged, and slipped his shirt on. “I don’t know about you, Waring, but I’m not much of a tea drinker. How about a bottle of”—he glanced at the massed ranks of warm beers—”Old Fart?”

  “No thanks,” Alan said easily.

  Kier shrugged. “We should be moving on soon.”

  Alan raised his brows. “Where to, exactly?”

  Ignoring him, Kier turned into the kitchen. “Any chance of a coffee?” he asked Jenny as she filled the kettle.

  “Sure.”

  He propped himself against the counter, buttoning his shirt, thankful he’d picked up the smashed plate before he’d picked up the phone.

  “Look,” said Alan, “I’ve been thinking. I have some friends … I think we should just take this to the police.”

  Kier snorted, aware of Jenny standing motionless, one hand on the kettle, watching him. “That’s no longer an option. There’s a warrant out for my arrest.”

  Jenny gasped.

  Alan said, “Great.”

  He shrugged. “It’s what I’d do, if I were them.”

  “But, how—”

  He interrupted Jenny, “It’s easy enough, just send it through the right channels. Each level having no reason to doubt the information of the one before.”

  “What do they want you for?” Alan asked.

  Now it was his turn to watch Jenny, who was suddenly finding the hissing kettle fascinating. “Kidnapping and attempted murder.”

  She looked up, too pale for his liking. She opened her mouth, but shut it again as quickly, her eyes searching his face anxiously.

  “Yeah,” he said, laconically. What have you got me mixed up in, Jenny Waring? he thought, realising in the same second he didn’t give a damn. He smiled, slowly, and saw the answering gleam in her eyes, saw her lips curve infinitesimally. Shared challenge.

  Alan swore. “Hey,” he waved a hand between them, breaking eye contact. “Can we bend our minds to this little scenario, please?”

  “Sorry,” Jenny muttered, and took two mugs from the drainer.

  “Look,” said Alan. “If we—”

  “We?” said Kier, still annoyed at Alan’s interruption.

  The other man’s mouth was tight, his weight centred, poised on the balls of his feet. Jenny shot him a warning glance.

  “I have arranged to be flexible with work,” Alan said, enunciating each word insultingly clearly. “I am at Jenny’s disposal. I don’t have to—” he broke off, and his mouth flattened into a thin line. “Maybe I do,” he said, pulling a mobile out of his pocket.

  “I didn’t hear that ring?” Jenny said.

  He grimaced. “It’s on silent. Excuse me.” He left the room.

  “Tell me again what your brother does for a living,” said Kier.

  She frowned. “I told you. He runs a landscaping company, and saves up and travels half the year.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Bloody hellfire.” Jenny jumped as Alan returned. He slapped the phone down on the counter, and swore again for good measure.

  “What is it?” she asked, sounding breathless.

  Kier watched Jenny’s brother, about as suspicious as it was possible for him to be. Which was more suspicious than most.

  Other men he’d known, earlier in his career, had chosen to lead their lives hidden behind an assumed casual charm. Smiling and lying easily, treading softly to get the intelligence they wanted, without anyone ever knowing they’d passed. Even then, he’d preferred to ask for what he wanted, and read the answers in his enemy’s eyes, face to face. He hated deception.

  But sometimes it was … expedient.

  Funny how some of those men—those spies with the lies in the smile—reminded him forcibly of Alan Waring.

  He stayed silent, while Alan sent Jenny a look tight with frustration. Before answering her, he turned to Kier and the grim look in his eyes was hell and gone from lying.

  He turned back to his sister. “Work,” he said. “I have to go.”

  “Go?” she echoed. “Go where?”

  He closed his eyes, and pinched the brow of his nose.

  “Alan? What the hell is going on?” she asked again.

  “I don’t believe this,” he muttered, then, to her, “I’m sorry, I have to go on a business trip, and I can’t get out of it. I don’t want to leave you in this, Jenny, love, but—”

  “A business trip?” she squeaked.

  Kier laid a large hand on her shoulder. “If he can’t help it, he can’t help it,” he said, and met Alan’s eyes over her head. “A word, Waring?”

  Alan nodded. Jenny folded her arms tight across her chest, and because Kier guessed just how excluded she must feel, he tightened his hand before he followed Alan out the room.

  In the living room, Alan paced. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just call the police and hand her over into protective custody?”

  As an opening gambit, it wasn’t even in the vicinity of cooperative. Fair enough. “Because anyone you contact is more likely to believe them, than you.”

  Alan braced his hands on his hips and scowled. He couldn’t look less like Jenny if he tried.

  Kier relented. “Look, I’ll get her out of this. I’ll keep her safe.”

  “Would you trust me with your sister?”

  “I don’t have a sister, and this isn’t an issue of trust.”

  Alan shook his head. “I don’t believe this. Are you about to tell me what makes you so well qualified to look after her?”

  “Are you about to tell me what this business trip is about?”

  Alan looked grim. “Bloody hellfire,” he spat. Then, “What are your plans?”

  “We can’t stay here long. They’ll check this place soon enough. I want to find somewhere else to hole up until we can get a handle on this. I can call in some favours, make some safe contacts and see where we stand.”

  Shaking his head and grimacing, Alan turned on his heel and headed for the dark wooden closet against the far wall. “I don’t believe you, I can’t believe what’s happening, and I certainly don’t believe I’m doing this,” he said, his voice muffled as he rummaged on the top shelf.

  He came out with a small, dark wallet, and extracted two keys—a door key and one that looked like a locker key.

  “This is what you do,” he said. “You take the A1 north, past Newcastle, keep on going towards Berwick upon Tweed. About fifty miles north of Newcastle you’ll start seeing signs for Bamburgh on your right. Take the turning where you can see grain silos. Couple of miles on, there’s a track going down towards the big bay, on the left, opposite a caravan park.

  “About twenty yards from the shore, there’s a cottage and a shed. It’s just a three-room thing, single-story. I don’t use it often, but you’ll find everything you need. Did
you get the directions? I don’t write them down.”

  “Surely Jenny will—”

  “Jenny doesn’t know this place exists.” He held out the smaller key. “In the main room is an ordinary brick fireplace, boring nineteen-fifties thing, but it has a back boiler for heating water. There’s a metal slider to adjust the flue just out of sight up the chimney. You can feel for it with the poker.”

  “I’m sure I can—”

  “Listen. About six inches above that slider is a cavity in the chimney. You can’t see it, but you can just about reach it. In the cavity is a box.” He jangled the key. “This is the key to the box.”

  “What’s inside?” Kier said, taking the key, suspended in wary surprise.

  “There’s a Browning nine milli and extra rounds. Maps, money—” he turned a hand palm up, “the usual misc. Oh, and a clutch of passports, but you can ignore those.”

  You have to be kidding me, Kier thought. “You know,” he said, instead, “once this is sorted out, you and I must have a talk.”

  Alan snorted a laugh. “You can try,” he said. “I’d rather,” he continued, carefully, “that Jenny didn’t know anything else that could put her in danger.”

  Kier sighed. “Well, we agree on that one, at least.”

  Alan was gone. And Jenny had no idea why. She stood staring at the closed front door, listening as his car door slammed, and he drove off.

  Without noise, without fuss, Kier was behind her, radiating warmth and strength.

  “A few days ago, I would have said my life was boring,” she said. Now she was juggling secrets, bound to a wanted man, and having to reevaluate everything she ever thought she knew about her easygoing, urbane brother. Outside, she heard another car pull up.

  Kier’s arms closed about her, tugging her close. She felt the pressure of his chin resting on top of her head. “A few days ago, I would have said mine was exactly how I wanted it to be.”

  She was thankful, then, that she had her back to him. It wasn’t just her life that she’d turned on its head. She closed her eyes, trying to suppress the ache that was equal parts sorrow and need.