by Emma Slate
I forced myself to stay calm and made myself give a sultry smile despite my racing heart. “I told you I wanted to see the Napoleon painting.” I gestured to the work of art featuring one of history’s most legendary leaders. How would Napoleon get out of this scrape? Probably blow Elliot’s head off and call it a day. But we needed information from Elliot—and I didn’t have a weapon anyway.
“Your flirtation is grating on me,” he said. Leaning over, he lifted up his pant leg and pulled out a gun strapped to his calf. He looked at me. “Should we try that question again?”
My heart beat escalated, thumping loud in my ears. I could only hope to brazen my way through this to stall for time. I just hoped Flynn was close.
“The Scottish Independence Referendum,” I said.
“What about it?” Elliot asked, his hand still on his weapon.
“I want to know why you don’t support it and how far you’d go to ensure it doesn’t pass.”
“I don’t care about it one way or the other,” Elliot admitted.
“No?” I asked, raising my eyebrows in disbelief. “But you were in your club talking about how much you stood to lose if Scotland gained its independence.”
Elliot bared his teeth in nothing resembling a smile. “Have it all figured out, do you?”
I shrugged. “I know what I know.”
“You know nothing.”
“Jon Snow.”
“What?”
“The line is ‘You know nothing, Jon Snow.’”
He leaned back in his chair, appearing casual and unconcerned. “You have but a small piece of the puzzle, Mrs. Campbell. What I can’t understand is why a woman like you would choose to marry a man like Flynn Campbell.”
“You think you know me, Lord Elliot?”
“You think you know me,” he pointed out. “I don’t think you care one way or the other if Scotland gains its independence. This isn’t your cause.”
“Why? Because I’m American?”
“Because it’s not your cause,” he repeated. “This is your husband’s cause. You’ll see a lot of violence if you stay with him. So will your children. Or child, as it were. How is Hawk?”
I swallowed. He knew about Hawk? What the hell else did he know? And why did I feel like I’d been the one to walk into a trap? The conversation was getting away from me. Lord Elliot wasn’t what he appeared to be. But neither was I.
“Hawk,” I said, not at all having to pretend to be worried. “His safety is my biggest concern.”
“As it should be.”
I shook my head and looked at him, feigning fear. “I don’t want this to be my life. I don’t want this to be my son’s life.”
Elliot lifted himself out of the chair and sauntered toward me, holding onto his gun. The only weapon I had was making Elliot think I needed help protecting my son. Men were strangely taken in by the damsel in distress.
Elliot stopped in front of me, the gun still in his hand, but it was down by his side. Though he projected lazy intent, I didn’t believe it. He was coiled, ready. I’d mistaken him. So had the others. And shit could get bad. Quick.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he said, reaching out a finger to slide it up and down the bare skin of my arm.
“Do what?” I asked, my flesh rising in goosebumps, feeling like insects were crawling beneath my skin.
“You don’t have to worry about your son’s future cut short because of your husband’s cause.”
“How do I not worry about that?”
“I can promise you protection. If you aid us.”
“Who is ‘us’?” I demanded.
Elliot smiled as he continued to slide his fingers across my skin. He grasped my arm and hauled me to him. I had to press my hands to his chest so my head wouldn’t slam into his chin. Elliot wrapped an arm around me to keep me from moving away. He was a lot stronger than I’d given him credit for.
My hands trailed up his suit-clad arms to lock around the back of his neck. I peered up at him through the sweep of my lashes and bit my lower lip. “You know,” I began. “If you drop your gun, you can wrap both of your arms around me.”
With his arm tight around me, he managed to set the gun down on the end table by the couch, and then splayed his free hand across my lower back.
“Well?” Elliot asked, lowering his head ever so slightly.
“Well, what?” I asked.
“Are you willing to help us?”
“You haven’t told me who the ‘us’ is,” I reminded him.
I heard a gun cock and turned my head. Flynn stood in the doorway, his blue eyes fierce and steady. He was staring at Lord Elliot, his jaw clenched.
“Mind letting go of my wife?”
Chapter 11
Lord Elliot’s arms dropped from around me and I took a slow step back towards the end table. I picked up Lord Elliot’s gun and removed the clip before setting it aside again. I’d learned how to handle guns after what I’d been through with Dolinsky.
“Great timing, love,” I stated. “He was just trying to recruit me.”
Flynn raised an eyebrow. “Looked like he was doing a lot more than that.”
“Yes, well, men are easily distracted by breasts,” I said.
Amusement lurked in Flynn’s eyes. “Recruitment, eh? For whom?”
“He hasn’t said.”
We kept our focus on Lord Elliot. There wasn’t a lot of time and there was a party going on with guests who would surely notice their host’s absence. Not to mention an angry wife. If she came looking for him, she would just make this all worse.
Flynn gestured with the gun for Elliot to sit down. “Sit,” Flynn commanded.
Elliot sat on the couch. His posture remained upright and his face was alert, but there was no fear.
“Sorry I’m late,” Flynn said to me. “Something came up.”
“Usually does,” I murmured.
“Can we get on with this?” Elliot asked.
Flynn raised his eyebrows at me. “He’s in a hurry.”
“He’s a got a party to get back to,” I reminded him.
Flynn nodded. “Right.” He strolled over to Elliot’s liquor cart. “Nice collection.”
“Want my scotch?” I asked conversationally. “I didn’t finish my glass.”
“I would,” Flynn said.
I picked up the glass of scotch on the end table and brought it to him. He swallowed it in a few sips and then set the glass aside. “Scotch mellows him,” I told Elliot. “Or does it make him in a fighting mood? I can never remember.”
Flynn pulled up a chair in front of Elliot and took a seat. For a moment he just stared at the other man as he fingered his gun.
Elliot didn’t squirm.
“Who do you work for?” Flynn asked.
Elliot remained silent.
“Did you have Malcolm Buchanan killed?”
Still, Elliot said nothing.
“He’s got no incentive to talk,” I remarked.
“You won’t kill me,” Elliot predicted. “Not in my house. Not when there’s a party going on. Too many witnesses if things go wrong for you.”
Flynn rose and took a step forward. He pressed the barrel of it to Elliot’s forehead and grinned, but it wasn’t friendly.
“Your daughter Jane is with one of my men. All I have to do is give him a call and—you know what? Hold on a second.” With his free hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He pressed a button and held it to his ear.
“Put her on,” Flynn said. “Jane? Someone wants to say hello.” He pressed another button, and the phone went to speaker.
“Hello?” came a young woman’s terrified voice.
“Jane? Jane, are you all right?” Elliot asked in a rush, his composure suddenly shaken.
“Dad, I’m—”
Flynn hung up on her mid sentence and then looked back at Elliot. “Now you know I’m fucking serious about answers.”
I swallowed a lump of bile in
my throat. Using a man’s child against him was low. But a good father would do anything to protect his daughter.
“All right,” Elliot said, resigned. He looked exhausted. “I’ll tell you whatever it is you want to know. Just don’t hurt her. Please.”
“Did you have Malcolm Buchanan killed?”
Elliot paused briefly. Flynn lifted the butt of the gun and bashed Elliot across the forehead. Elliot let out a moan, his hand flying to his bloody head.
“Fuck,” Elliot muttered.
“Answer me.”
“Yes, I had him killed.”
Flynn’s eyes went flat. “Three men were sent. Who are they?”
“Italian mercenaries. The White Company.”
Flynn and I exchanged a glance, but I shook my head. I’d never heard of them. Then again, my educational background was Scottish history, not Italian.
“The White Company,” Flynn repeated. “Why did you hire Italians?”
“Those were my orders.”
“Orders?” Flynn asked. “Whom do you receive your orders from?”
“The Bureau.”
“The Secret Service Bureau?” Flynn asked.
Elliot shook his head and looked at me when he said, “No. The FBI. I work for the Americans.”
The FBI? We were dealing with the FBI? We’d already dealt with the FBI last year.
We hadn’t been prepared for Lord Elliot’s statement. I had thought this was the British Government, Parliament, or other Scottish factions. Domestic, Flynn had said.
This was something else, and we still didn’t know enough. What the hell was The White Company?
Flynn looked at me. I nodded. Flynn lowered the gun and put it away. Elliot’s shoulders sagged, just a bit. Flynn took out his cell phone and made a call.
“Change of plans,” Flynn said to the person on the end of the phone. “Meet us at the car. Bring Jane.” He hung up.
“What? What are you doing?” Elliot demanded.
“Get up,” Flynn commanded. When Elliot made no move to rise, Flynn went to him and yanked him up and shoved him towards the window. I was one step ahead of him and had already unlocked the window and pushed the two separate panes outward.
I turned quickly, one of my heels catching on the edge of the carpet. Stumbling, I gripped the edge of the large oak desk to keep myself from tumbling to the ground.
“Barrett? You okay?” Flynn asked.
“Yeah,” I grumbled, straightening my spine. Women’s dress clothes and heels did not aid in stealth. Flynn tossed me my clutch. I caught it and then threw it out the window before climbing down first. From my vantage point on the ground, I watched Flynn push Elliot towards the window.
Elliot put his hands on the windowsill, his face masked in resignation. Flynn turned his head towards the door of the library. “Hurry up,” he stated, giving Elliot a shove.
The man fell through the window to the ground. He moaned.
Flynn nimbly hopped through the window like a Scottish James Bond. I looked at him in disgust.
Flynn reached down and hauled Elliot up by the collar of his shirt. Elliot’s face was pale and a bead of sweat dripped down his temple despite the chilly temperature. He cradled his left wrist to his chest, but kept his mouth shut. He knew better than to complain.
We quietly scaled the side of townhouse, single file, Elliot sandwiched between us. I went first to keep an eye out, and Flynn was at Elliot’s back so there was less of a chance of him attempting to flee, but that wouldn’t have been a wise choice. We had the man’s daughter and Elliot was sporting an injury. It was no surprise that he was docile.
I didn’t breathe an internal sigh of relief until we were a few blocks from Elliot’s townhouse and turning down a side street where a black town car with tinted windows waited for us.
My lips parted in surprise when I saw who was leaning against the trunk, smoking a cigarette. “What are you doing here?” I demanded, shooting a look between Ramsey and Flynn.
“Boredom breeds trouble,” Flynn explained.
Ramsey stomped out his cigarette and looked at Elliot who stood between us. “Zip ties are in the trunk.” He unlocked the trunk and Flynn grasped Elliot by his neck and dragged him closer to Ramsey.
“Where’s my daughter,” Elliot demanded.
“Ballsy bastard,” Ramsey claimed.
Flynn shrugged.
“In the back seat,” Ramsey answered with a feral grin. “Bound and gagged.”
Elliot’s face flushed.
Ramsey tied a piece of plaid over Elliot’s mouth and then zip-tied his legs. When Ramsey took Elliot’s injured wrist in his hands, the man screamed against the cloth in his mouth. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and he passed out.
“Guess he broke his wrist when he fell out of his library window,” Flynn said smoothly.
“Shame,” Ramsey answered drolly. They managed to get an unconscious, bound Elliot into the trunk and shutting it.
“It’s a long drive to Dornoch. This should be fun,” Ramsey said with another grin, heading to the back seat door.
“Aren’t you going to drive?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Angus is driving. I get to sit in the back with our very gorgeous, very confused hostage.”
Ramsey saluted and then opened the door. I saw a woman’s zip-tied legs shoot out, trying to nail Ramsey in the groin with her high-heeled feet. Ramsey laughed and shook his head. “That’s no way to greet me, darling.” He climbed inside and shut the door.
“She’s going to fall in love with him, isn’t she?” I asked Flynn.
Flynn looked down at me and grinned. “It’s a good possibility. They have a decent drive ahead of them and Ramsey is going to charm the hell out her.”
“I believe it.”
Flynn shook his head, and he pulled out his cell phone. Pressing a button, he then put it to his ear. “Keep it in your pants,” Flynn commanded before hanging up.
“Will that stop Ramsey?” I asked with a chuckle.
“Doubt it.”
The town car’s engine started and Flynn and I moved out of the way. “He’s not going to hurt her, is he?” I asked. “I know he’s upset about Duncan and Malcolm, but—”
“No. He’ll save his rage for Elliot,” Flynn said, grasping my hand.
“What’s going to happen now,” I asked. “We’re carting him and his daughter back to Scotland. That wasn’t part of the plan.”
“Plans change. We didn’t know what we would find when he got a hold of him. We have to question him.”
“Yeah, I don’t want those details of how you question him,” I stated.
Flynn inclined his head. “After we get what we need, Ramsey, Duncan and I will figure out how to deal with him.”
“And his daughter?”
“Don’t know yet. That’s still uncertain.”
“We can’t kill her,” I said. “It’s not her fault her father is working for the FBI and we used her to get him to talk.”
“Let’s not have this conversation in an alley.”
“Promise me, Flynn. Promise me we’ll find a different way.”
Flynn looked up at the sky when he said, “I can’t make you that promise, Barrett. Believe me, I want to. But the SINS—”
“Yeah. They come first. I know.”
Jane Elliot wasn’t going to die. Not because of her paternity. I’d see to that. Flynn just didn’t know it yet.
“We have bigger issues at the moment,” Flynn said, taking my hand and tugging me out of the alley.
“Like finding a cab to take us to our private plane?” I asked.
“Not to mention the FBI.”
“Hmmm. Do you have any idea what the hell The White Company is?”
“Add it to the list of shite we have to figure out,” Flynn said, his eyes bleak.
Chapter 12
“Stop staring,” I said.
“I can’t, they’re huge.”
“I’m aware. Drink your scotch,”
I commanded.
My hands gripped the seat rest while Flynn sat next to me, all but leering at my breasts.
“Distract me,” I demanded. Usually I only had a problem during take off and landing, but tonight, we were flying through a rainstorm. Though our private plane was luxurious and comfortable, it wasn’t a 747 so it was easy to focus on every jerk and engine whirl.
“We’ll be seeing our son in about an hour.”
Closing my eyes, I smiled. “I’m not leaving him for the next three months and you can’t make me.”
“Barrett,” Flynn said. “Will you open your eyes and look at me?”
Reluctantly, I did as he asked and turned my head to peer at him. His face was soft, his eyes earnest. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so much for this.”
“You’re welcome.”
The plane lurched and I let out a shriek. Flynn wrapped an arm around me and I snuggled into his embrace. “It’s just a bit of rain,” he said, trying to soothe me. “Nothing the plane can’t handle. Unclench, love.”
I unbent just a little and said, “I didn’t think I’d be able to do it. Leave Hawk.”
“I know. You’re incredible. Do you know that?”
Letting out a breath, I finally released my grip on my seat as we continued to soar home towards our son. We had the man responsible for Malcolm’s death—we’d succeeded in what we set out to do. But now we had to unravel a bigger mystery. Why was the FBI still concerned about the SINS? How had they gotten a member of the House of Lords to aid them? What in the hell was The White Company? So many questions, not enough answers.
My breasts ached and I was exhausted. “I’m going to take a nap, okay?” Flynn’s arm tightened around me and I fell into a light doze.
I was jarred awake by the plane dropping a few feet. Shooting up in my seat, my seat belt kept me anchored. The overhead lights flickered and then went out. The plane dipped to one side as a flash of lightning lit the interior of the cabin.
“Flynn—”
“It’s all right, hen.”
“The emergency lights aren’t coming on,” I said in a near panic, my heart jumping into my throat.
“Look at me,” Flynn commanded.