Kilty As Charged: Romance. Suspense. Haggis. (Kilty Series Book 1)

by Amy Vansant

  He shrugged. “Aye. Ye can take me to Glenorchy.”

  “Glenorchy.” She sighed. “Is that in Scotland by any chance?”

  “Aye.”

  “We’re still doing this then? You’re still pretending you’re a Highlander?”

  He puffed out his chest and the fuzzy pink robe separated, revealing the curve of his impressive pectorals. He set his jaw and stared daggers at her.

  “Ah am a Hielanman.”

  She jerked her gaze from his body to his face. It only seemed right, what with him looking so serious all of a sudden.

  “You know I have no influence on casting decisions, right?”

  He waved a hand at her dismissively. “Ah dinnae understand ye woman, but ye have control o’er the bewitched carriage, so take me where ye wish and I will fin mah own way home.”

  She laughed. “Bewitched carriage. That’s funny. I wish it was bewitched. It would be cheaper to fill the tank with witches.”

  She put the car back into drive. “You’re right. I do have control over the bewitched carriage. I’m going to take you to Sean’s. Maybe he can talk some sense into you. He might at least be able to understand you.”

  He shrugged and made a scoffing noise.

  “Pull that door shut,” she added.

  “Eh?”

  “The hatch. Pull it shut. We can’t keep driving with it open.”

  He leaned forward and lowered the hatch, which made him look even more oversized, curled in her SUV amongst the torn remnants of the roadie case.

  Chapter Nine

  “Shouldn’t we git ’em?” said the skinny man stepping beside Thorn Campbell. His nose was crooked, his lip and teeth red with blood.

  Thorn held up a hand. “Nah. Hold.”

  The man with the lump on his head peered around Thorn. “You look like ground meat, Jesse.”

  The skinny man snarled. “Shut up, Knotty. At least my face will heal in a couple of days.”

  They watched the man in the fuzzy pink robe jump into the back of the truck. A moment later the woman, already in the driver’s seat, peeled the Jeep out of the driveway.

  “Was that the guy? Was that Ryft?” asked Jesse.

  “Nah, you eejit. Ya think I would have let him go?” Thorn reached out and clamped his fingers on either side of the skinny man’s crooked nose before snapping it back into place.

  Jessie screamed and cursed, stumbling away, his hands over his face.

  “Ya’ll thank me later.”

  “She’ll be easy enough to find again,” said Knotty. His real name was John, but he’d been nicknamed for the lump in the center of his head that made him look like a knotty pine tree. As a child, his brother had been chopping wood when the head of the axe came lose. Had the sharpened end lead, Knotty would be dead, but as it was, he caught the back end, suffering nothing more than a concussion and a peculiar and permanent lump.

  He never stood behind people swinging axes again.

  Jesse returned to the group, his eyes watering and expression still pinched in pain. “I guess if he’s one of those Scottish dudes, he’s as comfortable in a fuzzy robe as he is in one of them skirts.”

  Thorn’s palm flashed, smacking Jesse in the nose again and he spun away, wailing.

  “It’s not a skirt, it’s a kilt.”

  “So we’re looking for a different Scottish guy?” asked Knotty.

  Thorn nodded. “He’s old now. I showed ya the shot from the TV. Did you see him in a kilt then?”

  “No, Boss. But—”

  Thorn stepped forward and Knotty winced, expecting the worse.

  “But what?”

  “It’s just weird, don’t ya think? That we’re looking for a guy ya say came from Scotland when you did, and we found a Scottish guy, but not the right one?”

  Thorn’s rage dissipated and he limped away, stabbing his cane hard into the dirt with each step.

  “It’s stranger than ya think.”

  Thorn thought it had been pure chance that he’d spotted Ryft in the background of an entertainment news report. Thirty years had aged the man but there was no mistaking him. He had the same look—that expression that said he knew he was better than everyone else. Thorn couldn’t buy the plane ticket from Tennessee to Hollywood fast enough, but his men watched the Parasol Pictures lot for a week and a half before they spotted the girl dragging a Highlander on a wheeled cart from one building to another.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence. Maybe he should have grabbed both of them, but the sight of that boy—

  “Why didn’t I look for him!” he screamed, holding his arms out in front of him as if begging the universe to answer.

  “For who boss?”

  “Ryft! Ryft was there. While I was in the diner—he had to be nearby.” He hobbled back to the men. “Those two know Ryft, I’d wager on it. The girl—”

  “The girl said she didn’t. She looked like she had no idea who we were talking about,” said Knotty.

  Jesse took a step back to remain more than an arm’s length from Thorn. “I agree, Boss, she looked pretty lost. Though I can’t say I wasn’t lookin’ forward to gettin’ the information out of her.” He leered at Knotty who chuckled.

  Thorn shot them both a look and they sobered.

  “You want us to go after ’em? We could still maybe catch ’em?” suggested Knotty.

  “No. Ryft’s going to come to us. We missed our chance to get the drop on him, but he’ll come if he knows I’m here. I know the man. So instead, we’ll make it easy for him to find us and be ready when he does.”

  Jesse nodded. “That’s why you’re the boss.”

  Thorn glanced at him. “I’m the boss because you two are dumb as posts.”

  Chapter Ten

  They drove in silence for several miles while Catriona rolled the events of the morning around in her mind. She didn’t know what those men wanted, but she was glad Brochan showed up. He’d been a tad less than terrifying thanks to the fuzzy robe but, in the right costume, he would have looked like Superman. He’d saved her life, after all.

  It all felt very familiar. When the stranger appeared with his makeshift sword, Catriona had the flash of a memory. A man holding her as a child—a sword in his hand. The terrible man she’d known as her guardian, lying dead on the ground, cleft from shoulder to chest.

  In her mind’s eye, she looked up at the man holding her.

  He looked like the Highlander.

  No. Wait. It was Sean, of course, who had saved her. Why would she see the stranger’s face? She’d been so young—

  Mind drifting, the truck began to as well. She jerked the wheel to straighten and heard the man in the back grunt with displeasure.

  She glanced in the rearview. “Sorry. Thank you, by the way. You saved me from who knows what and I do appreciate it.”

  He shrugged and removed the pink robe. She heard him thrashing. His naked knees and black-booted feet appeared above the back seats like antennae. A flash of red and green tartan caught her eye and she realized he was attempting to re-wrap his kilt. She wished she had a better view, because how that blanket turned into an article of clothing she had no idea.

  His head popped up.

  “Where’s mah lèine cròiche?”

  “Your what?”

  “Mah shirt.”

  “Oh. It’s not there?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Hm. Sorry. I must have—I mean—those men must have lost it.”

  He grunted and turned away from her. She could see the muscles in his back flexing as he resumed dressing and, distracted by the undulating sinews, she had to jerk the wheel as she caught the edge of the road.

  His shoulder punched against the side of the cabin as the Jeep jerked to the left.

  She held up a hand. “Sorry.”

  Over an hour later they reached Sean’s high desert home in Lucerne Valley. Though he had an apartment in the city, he preferred to be far away from Hollywood when possible. Since turning most of the more cove
rt studio operations over to her, and the day to day security to his second in command, Big Luther, Sean increasingly retired to his ranch house nestled in the middle of nowhere.

  Catriona pulled into the long winding drive and parked. Hopping out, she walked to the back of the vehicle and opened it.

  Broch squinted into the sun and pushed past the torn chunks of case to exit. He stood before her bare chested, his kilt once again around his waist, the top half hanging in a bunch behind him. For the first time, she noticed a wound above his hip, two inches wide. It appeared red and angry. She glanced at the fuzzy robe laying in a heap inside the Jeep and found it stained with a dull brown ooze of blood and weepage.

  “You must have been lying on that hip, we didn’t see the wound,” she said, raising a hand toward it.

  He flinched from her touch. “Tis a scratch.”

  “Tis infected. You had a fever. You passed out. At least now we know why.”

  He squinted at her. “Wha is we?”

  “Huh?”

  “Wha is we? Ye said we didn’t see the wound. When?”

  Shoot. She realized if she shared too much information he’d piece together that she was responsible for putting him in a roadie case, not the kidnappers.

  He offered her a disapproving scowl and she ignored him until his gaze moved to scan the vast empty desert surrounding Sean’s home.

  “Whit is this place? Is it hell?”

  She chuckled. “Depends on who you ask. Come inside.”

  Catriona walked to the door of the adobe rancher and knocked before entering. Sean never locked his door. Unless the coyotes grew fingers, there wasn’t much point.

  She held the door open for Broch and he entered, eyes darting left and right as if he expected an enemy to leap from every corner. She realized he’d somehow shortened and sharpened the metal stripping from the case and now held it in his hand like a knife.

  She pointed to the makeshift blade. “We’re safe here. Give that to me.”

  He glanced at her hand before sliding the metal across his taut stomach, tucking the blade into the top of his kilt. His gaze never left hers, as if daring her to ask for his weapon a second time.

  She shrugged. “Fine. Sean can take care of himself. Even against a big, strapping weirdo.”

  Walking into the living room, she called for Sean.

  “Out by the pool,” returned a man’s voice.

  Catriona lead her wary visitor through the house and opened folding doors leading to a paved patio with a small, turquoise pool in the center. Sean sat in a comfortable outdoor chair in swimming trunks, a book open on his lap. He was in his mid-sixties, with short salt-and-peppered hair and a tightly trimmed beard. Longer hair in the same hues grew wild on his chest. Wrinkles appeared on either side of his tawny eyes and he grinned upon seeing her. As his gaze shifted to Broch, his eyebrows rose on his forehead like furry caterpillars scaling a wall.

  His mouth fell open but no sound escaped.

  “Sean?” said Catriona, hoping to prod him back to the present.

  He shook his head. “Sorry. So…now we just trot in with half naked men? Who do we have here?” he stood and extended his hand in greeting.

  “Broch. Broch, this is Sean.”

  The men shook hands. Broch nodded once and released but Sean couldn’t seem to tear his eyes from the young man.

  “He’s background talent in case you’re wondering about the outfit,” she said.

  Sean blinked. “We aren’t filming any Highland pictures now.”

  Catriona looked at Broch with new eyes.

  Sean gestured to Broch’s waist. “Do you always enter a man’s home with a knife in your belt?”

  “Ah'd prefer tae keep it if ye dinnae mind. We've had some trouble.”

  “Trouble?” Sean’s attention shot to Catriona.

  She pulled a chair to sit and told the story of finding Broch, the kidnapping, red beard, unicorn and the rest; careful to leave out the part where she and Noseeum stuffed the Highlander in a box.

  Sean was visibly upset. “Did you get a name? What did they want?”

  “That’s what I need to ask him.”

  Broch put his hand on his chest. “Me?”

  Catriona had decided to wait until she was safe beside Sean before questioning Broch about his possible involvement with her kidnappers. She’d seen enough movies to know a smart person never confronted someone with accusations alone. That never ended well. Why people in movies never figured that out made her crazy.

  “I saw the way Thorn Campbell’s face changed when he saw you, and he had a bit of your accent—”

  Sean cut her short. “Who?”

  “Thorn Campbell. That was the main guy’s name. Redbeard.”

  Sean blanched and Catriona put her hand on his. “Are you okay?”

  He nodded. “What did he look like, this Thorn Campbell?”

  “Big, barrel-chested man, your age, big red beard. Like some kind of leprechaun Santa Claus on steroids.”

  Sean fell quiet and stared at the pavers.

  “Should I take it from your reaction that you know this guy? Does it have something to do with Broch? Do all Scots know each other?”

  Sean looked up at her and his hard expression softened. “No, no. The name’s familiar but I’m having trouble placing it.”

  “Maybe this will help. Do you know anyone named Ryft?”

  Sean adopted a blank expression, but not before his eyes flashed with recognition. Catriona felt a wave of anxiety and disappointment.

  He’s hiding something from me.

  Sean shook his head and turned to Broch. “Có ás a tha thu?”

  “Glenorchy. Thu?”

  “Glenorchy cuideachd.”

  Catriona put her flat palms on the table. “Hey—What’s going on here? Why are you two talking like aliens?”

  The corner of Sean’s mouth curled. “Do you think this man is so dedicated to his craft that he learned Scottish Gaelic to be background talent?”

  “That’s what you’re speaking?”

  Sean nodded.

  “So, he really is from the Highlands?”

  “It would appear so.”

  “But how did he get on my lot?”

  “That’s a question to ask Big Luther. Seems security has lapsed. I might have to go in and kick some butts.”

  “Don’t blether aboot me lik’ ah’m nae sitting here,” said Broch glaring back and forth between Catriona and Sean.

  Sean chuckled. “I apologize.”

  Catriona grimaced and sized-up her kilted problem. “I can’t fly him to Scotland. What am I supposed to with him?”

  “And there ye go again. Lik’ ah’m nae here.” Broch twisted his body as he addressed her and winced.

  She noticed he’d begun to sweat again.

  “He has a wound in his side. I think it’s infected.”

  Sean stood. “Let’s see it.”

  With some hesitation Broch stood and pulled down the side of his kilt, revealing more of both the wound and the deep ridge of his lower abdomen muscle that ran from his hip to parts unknown beneath his kilt. Catriona recalled once catching two fairly famous actors high fiving each other because they’d both developed that lower ab V for their movie roles.

  Ridiculous.

  She knew those two actors did almost nothing but workout. How boring. Kilty might be fooling Sean with his Scottish language skills, but everything about him said actor scamming for a leg up.

  Maybe he’d even staged the kidnapping somehow, just to save her.

  Hm.

  “What happened?” asked Sean.

  “I dinnae ken.”

  The older man stood and put his hand on Broch’s arm. “Dé am miastadh a tha thusa ris?”

  Broch put his hand over his heart. “Chan eil a bheag. Adbuir.”

  Catriona sighed. “You two need to cut that out.”

  Sean nodded solemnly at Broch. “Catriona, take him to the spare room, clean and dress that wound. Yo
u know where the antibiotics are.”

  “Are you going to adopt him like a puppy because he speaks your language? You don’t think he’s up to something?”

  She glared at Broch, daring him to deny the charge.

  He smiled. “Ah saved yer life, lassie. If ah wanted tae hurt ye, ah wid hae left ye there.”

  Sean smiled. “He’s got a point.”

  Catriona rolled her eyes. “He can’t drive. How far would he have gotten without me? Think of that?”

  The two men silently stared at her until she gave in. “Fine. Let’s go. Follow me, Kilty.”

  She led Broch to the spare room and pointed to the bed.

  “Sit.”

  She gathered supplies from Sean’s emergency closet. Catriona had spent most of her young life cleaning the various cuts, stabs and occasional bullets Sean caught in the line of duty, so she knew where the supplies were kept. Anyone who thought Hollywood was glamorous needed to spend a week at Sean’s house.

  She found her patient sitting on the edge of the bed when she returned. She stared at the kilt.

  Do we go up or down?

  “Stand up and—”

  He stood and reached to lift his skirt.

  “Nope. Down. Pull the edge of your skirt down.”

  He lips drew into a tight line.

  “Tis nae a skirt. Ye cannae keep callin’ me Kilty and then call mah kilt a skirt, kin ye?” Hooking his thumb at the top of the kilt he pulled it below the cut.

  She knelt beside him and with a warm wet cloth did her best to clean the wound. He winced, the muscle on the side of his jaw flexing as he grit his teeth.

  “This is deeper than I thought. Do you remember being stabbed?”

  “No.”

  “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  He looked at her. “Afore I broke out of the box? Keekin at ye.”

  “Keekin? What’s keekin?”

  “A saw ye. Thro' the glass.” He pointed above Sean’s door.

  “Through the—” She realized what he was saying and felt her face grow warm. “You looked through the transom window above my bedroom door?”

  “Aye. Ye were in yer kip.”

  “Why were you spying on me?”