by Amy Vansant
“No problem.” Catriona took a step toward the sparring swordsmen. “Broch, can we wrap this up?”
“Aye? This is terrible fun,” said Broch, blocking another blow. Martin had begun to sweat, his breath labored.
“He’s going to have a heart attack. Wrap it up.”
Broch took an easy swing at Martin, who blocked the blow. Broch absorbed the reverberation and dropped his sword, spinning behind Martin and grabbing him in a headlock. Martin tried to slap behind him with his weapon, but Broch grabbed his wrist before the sword could touch him.
Martin screamed as Broch bent his wrist, forcing him to drop, the steel clattering to the ground. The Highlander tightened his grip on Martin, until the actor crumpled, red-faced to the stage. He fell limp and Broch stood.
Catriona approached and pushed Martin with her toe. He didn’t move.
She looked at Broch. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”
“Na. Ye want me tae wake him? A good slap will dae it.”
Luther entered the set with one of the studio security guards.
“Everything under control?” asked Luther, peering down at Martin. “He okay?”
Catriona frowned. “I’m told he’s fine.”
Luther motioned to the security guard to grab Martin, who rolled onto his back and began to moan.
“We’ll take him home to his wife. She’ll set him straight,” said the guard.
Luther looked at Catriona. “Loose ends?”
“Black Knight Eric. He’s at the hospital with a wrist injury.”
“I’m on it.” Luther took a step before noticing the monk. He motioned to him. “Problem?”
Catriona shook her head. “I’ve got it.”
She waved good-bye to Aisha and then pointed at Don, who had found his feet and now stood staring at her in his tattered robes.
“I hear you’re a shoe-in for that new crime show,” she said.
Don’s eyes grew wide. “The detective part?”
“Sure. I mean, unless your chest hurts too much.”
He grinned. “No, I’m good. It’s all good.”
“So we understand each other.”
“Absolutely. Won’t say a word.”
Catriona nodded and headed through the backstage to the exit with Broch at her heels.
She pulled out her phone and called Sean.
He was quick to answer and skipped the hello. “How’d it go?”
“Good. Hey, do you know if they decided to go with Don for that new crime show?”
“I don’t know. I can find out.”
“Don’s got legitimate grievances here. Martin attempted a free breast-reduction with a real sword.”
“How’d he get a real sword?”
“Apparently, we gave it to him for episode one hundred.”
“Hm. That was stupid.”
“Mm.”
“I’d say yes, then. Don’s got the part. I’ll let the powers-that-be know. How’s Martin?”
“He’s fine. Luther’s taking him home. Broch disarmed him.”
“Good. Tell Broch congratulations on his victory.”
“Sure.”
She disconnected. “Sean says congrats on your sword battle.”
Broch grunted. “Did he tell ye aboot Amber?”
Catriona stopped. “What?”
“Did he tell ye aboot Amber being stabbed?”
“He told you?”
“Asher told me.”
“The assistant?”
“Aye. Ah tried to call ye last nicht, but ye kept answering and then disappearing. Ah ken ye were busy.”
She realized she’d forgotten to explain voice mail to him. It was difficult remembering to explain things that she took for granted. Grimacing, she recalled ignoring his calls during her wine karaoke party.
His sarcastic statement didn’t go unnoticed. She scowled. “As a matter of fact I was busy.”
“Ah ken.”
“You know.”
“Ah ken ah ken.”
“You know you know.”
“Ah just said that.”
They both fell silent, eyes blazing, jaws clenched.
Catriona took a deep breath. “Let me try this again. Asher told you about Amber’s murder?”
“Aye.”
“Who told her?”
“Owen’s manager called her while we were eating pie.”
“While you were eating—” Catriona shook her head. “You know what? I’m not even going to ask.”
They began walking again, an icy silence hovering between them like a third person.
Catriona kicked a stone. “You should probably know...Sean told me they found more evidence linking Fiona to Toby’s kidnapping.”
Broch frowned. “She’ll be staying in jail then?”
“Yep. But you can go visit her. They have visiting days. Conjugal visits and whatnot.”
“We’re not merrit,” he muttered.
“Huh? Married?”
“Ye said conjugal. She’s nae mah wife.”
“Conjugal means married?”
“Aye. ‘Tis fae the Latin.”
She frowned. “I thought it just meant sex visit.”
He scowled at her and they resumed their walk in silence. When they reached home, he opened the office door for her.
She moved to enter and then stopped to squint up at him. “You really can’t tell if she’s the one yet? If Fiona’s your dream woman?”
He shook his head. “Na.”
She sighed. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Sorry she’s in jail and making it harder for you, sorry how things are between us. I don’t want to fight with you.”
He smiled. “Ah dinnae wantae fight with ye, either.”
She returned his smile and patted him on the chest. They strolled together to the elevator.
As they took their places in the car, he leaned over towards her ear as the doors slid shut.
“But ah’m still aff tae murder that wee man that cam’ oot of yer room,” he whispered.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Outside Catriona’s door Broch nodded and continued to his own.
“Hey,” she called as he reached for the knob.
He stopped and looked.
“How do you know Latin?”
He shrugged. “Ah had a teacher.”
“And you still remember it? Do you picture the lesson in your head when you want to recall it?”
He frowned, pondering how the knowledge came to him. “Aye. Ah think ah do.”
“Hm,” she said, and disappeared into her apartment.
Broch entered his own place and fell back into his bed. One eye open, he noticed the leftover pecan pie sitting beside him.
One more try.
He stuffed four pecans into his mouth and shut his eyes, willing himself to sleep.
1833 – Edinburgh, Scotland
Broch ran as fast as his legs would carry him after the retreating figure of Fiona.
“Fiona!”
She stopped and turned, waiting as he caught up to her. She was flushed and out of breath, her face still wet with tears.
“Yer trembling,” he said.
“I had a fight with my father. I had to leave.”
“Ah saw.”
“You saw? How?”
“Yer da’s carriage passed me. Ah was worried he’d be angry with ye and wanted to warn ye.”
Her expression twisted into sobs. He wrapped his arms around her to hold her shivering body against his own.
“Forgive me. Ah cannae let ye freeze,” he whispered.
She clung to him and did not pull away.
Broch scanned the area. Not far away, he spotted what looked like an abandoned cottage.
“Come tae the cottage with me. Ah’ll build a fire. Yer goun tae catch yer death.”
She nodded.
He guided her to the structure. Inside, they found the roof riddled with holes. Sitting Fiona on a wooden chair, he piled what wood he could f
ind into the fireplace and, finding a flint, ignited a flame.
“I won’t go back,” said Fiona, her teeth chattering as she watched his progress.
“All will be well.”
He leaned to grab a stick on the ground beneath her chair and she placed her hand on his cheek, drawing his eyes to hers. “You don’t understand. All is not well and never will be. He’s mad. He wants to kill us all.”
Broch laughed. “Everyone?”
She looked away, her shoulders slumping. “You don’t know yet. You wouldn’t understand.”
Broch pulled her chair closer to the burgeoning fire, but the moment he sat on the ground beside her, she slid from the chair to join him on the floor. He put his arm around her.
“Ah saw him strike ye,” he whispered, his eyes locked on the flame.
“You did?”
He nodded, his face warm with both shame and the thrill of her hand in his. “Ah was keekin’ through the window. Ah should hae stopped him bit he’s yer father and ah...”
She rested her head against his shoulder. “Don’t feel badly about it. It wasn’t your fault.”
He sighed. “He caught me by surprise the foremaist time. If he tried it again ah wid hae—”
“Shhh,” she said and he fell silent, the turmoil in his breast easing as he felt the rise and fall of her breathing on his arm.
After a few minutes, she tilted her head to peer up at him. “I think my father killed my sister.”
Broch pulled back. “Whit?”
“I have to leave.”
“Noo?”
“I mean I have to leave my father. I can’t go back there.”
He nodded. “Aye. Ah’ll run with ye.”
She shook her head. “You can’t. It’s too dangerous. He’ll kill you. He’ll pay men to hunt us down—”
He reached out, his hand brushing her cheek, fingers tracing her jaw and neck. “Yer not hearin’ me. Ah’ll stay with ye. Ah dinnae hae a choice. Mah heart tells me tae.”
He could see the reflection of the fire dancing in her tear-rimmed eyes. He leaned forward, their mouths close, breath mingling until it seemed as though she breathed for him.
“I can’t ask you—” she whispered.
“Ye dinnae hae tae.”
He kissed her to stop her from talking.
Body trembling, she leaned into him, returning his kiss as he pulled her closer.
Fiona gasped, a sudden intake of air.
At first he mistook the noise for a rush of passion, one, perhaps, paralleling his own.
Then her body went rigid.
He felt a cold breeze surge into the room.
It happened so fast. He hadn’t heard the door open until it was too late. The blast.
Broch pulled back and saw only his own horrified expression reflected in Fiona’s wide eyes. Her fire was gone.
Fiona slumped to her side. Broch saw the crimson stain marring the back of her ball gown, blood still bubbling from the wound.
He’d turned her as they kissed. Turned her back to the door.
The gunshot had been meant for him.
Broch saw Jones standing in the doorway, his face white as ash.
“She’ll be fine. She hasn’t left, she’s fine,” he mumbled, stepping into the cottage toward his daughter.
“Whit have ye done?” asked Broch. He stood to intercept the man.
“She’s fine. We need to go—”
Broch lunged, his hands clamping on either side of the man’s throat. Jones gasped for air, fingers clawing at Brochan’s grip.
Blinded by rage, the Highlander pressed harder, lifting the man from the floor. Jones continued to struggle until his eyes rolled into his head, the whites flashing like warning lamps, waking Broch from his trance.
He dropped the man to the ground and returned to Fiona. In the firelight, he could see her lips were scarlet with blood spittle, her breath coming in short raspy gasps.
“Ah’ll find a doctor,” he said. As he moved to find help, she grabbed his wrist.
“No,” she whispered.
He took her cold hands in his. “Ah cannae let ye die.”
“You must know,” she whispered.
“Let me go. Let me find ye help.”
Her lip quivered, a single tear rolling down the side of her face. “Don’t leave me. You must know.”
“Och, my lassie. Ah must know whit?”
“My name—” She took a rattily breath before continuing. “I’m not Fiona.”
“Lassie, yer fevered—”
“No.” She gripped his arm. “My name is Catriona.”
He shook his head. “Ah dinnae understand.”
Her lips moved but he could no longer hear the words. He lowered his ear to her as she whispered two final words.
“Find me.”
Her breath released, her chest failing to rise again.
“Na!” Brochan tried to wake her. He took her face in his hands, begging her to open her eyes. He kissed her, the metallic taste of blood lingering on his tongue, his lips moving as he pleaded for her to rouse, again and again, as if it were an incantation.
She was gone.
He pulled her lifeless body into his arms and held her.
“I have you, Catriona. I’ll hold you safe here.”
“She’s dead?”
Broch turned to find Jones standing behind him.
“Aye she’s dead. Ye killed her, ye monster. Yer own daughter.”
“It isn’t possible.”
He stepped forward and Broch snarled. “Stay away fae her.”
Jones’ jaw set, his eyes narrowing. “This is your fault.”
He charged forward, grabbing Broch’s head with both hands. With Catriona still in his arms, Broch was unable to prevent contact.
The moment Jones’ hands touched his flesh, his mind filled with visions of another life. A life with his mothers. Women in a thatched home.
The three women of his reoccurring dreams.
Broch swung his arm and felt the back of his fist connect with Jones’ head. Catriona’s body rolled from his lap to the floor as he stood, readying for a second attack.
The man stumbled back, caught himself against the door, and pointed at Broch.
“I see you,” he hissed.
Broch froze, struck by the intensity of the man’s declaration.
Jones took a step toward the door, his eyes never leaving Broch’s.
“I see you,” he repeated before bolting from the cottage.
Broch flexed to pursue before deciding there would be no point running down the man.
He would find him soon enough.
He returned his attention to Catriona, her body lying beside the fire, her face as white as snow.
Carefully he lifted her, her legs draped over his left arm and walked her body from the cottage.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Catriona flopped on her sofa. The day had not started well. It might be best to go back to bed.
Alone.
She moved to stand and noticed the hacked list of Progressicon employees peeking from her pocket. She pulled it out. It seemed pretty obvious that Fiona had orchestrated the kidnapping, but maybe the list could help them confirm it. They still needed to find the male companion Toby mentioned.
Scrolling over the names, she knew there was little chance of finding a connection. She didn’t know enough about Fiona to tie her to anyone unless it said Friend of Fiona next to the name. And, even if she did unearth a connection, she’d have to solve the problem of how to share the list with the police without explaining how it came into her possession—
Her scan rolled past a name that made her backtrack.
William Asher.
The name of Owen’s assistant.
Catriona recalled Kilty mentioning that Asher wasn’t Owen’s assistant’s first name, but her last.
Kelly Asher.
Asher was a pretty common name, probably.
But what if Asher the assistan
t helped Fiona kidnap Toby?
Another thing had been bothering her since her last conversation with Broch—how did he know Amber was stabbed? Sean had told her to keep that information secret, and already a man, not even from the current century, knew.
What had Kilty said?
Asher received a call from Owen’s manager.
Catriona moved to her computer to look up her studio contacts and find Owen’s manager’s name.
Bingo. Seth Shapiro.
She dialed him.
“Hello?” said a man’s voice.
“Seth Shapiro?”
“Yes?”
“This is Catriona Phoenix. I work with Parasol?”
“Oh, of course, hi Catriona. This is all terrible, isn’t it?”
“So you know about…” Catriona let her sentence hang to see how he might fill in the blank.
“Toby, Amber—just terrible. I was at his house, congratulating him on Toby’s return, when he got the call from his sister, Samantha. She found the body, you know. What a nightmare.”
“No doubt. So, Samantha told Owen exactly how Amber was killed?”
“How? Wait, are you saying they found the person who did it?”
“No, I mean, the sister told him it was a murder?”
“Oh, sure. In so many words, from what I could gather. There was no wondering if she’d had a heart attack, if that’s what you mean. Wait, did it turn out to be an accident, after all?”
“An accident?” Catriona scowled.
How could someone accidentally stab herself to death?
She paused a moment, figuring the best way to proceed. “Seth, I apologize that I’m being a little evasive here, but can you tell me, do you have any idea what exactly happened to Amber?”
“What? No. Why are you asking me these things? Do I need a lawyer?”
“No, no. You heard Amber was murdered from Owen, but do you know any other details? Like how she was killed—if she were stabbed, shot, beaten to death—”
Seth’s voice rose another octave. “What? No. I have no idea what happened to her. You are starting to freak me out and I’m afraid I need to end this phone call.”
“I’m sorry. Please, don’t—”
She heard the line click dead and lowered the phone from her ear.
Okay. I could have handled that better.
That was poorly handled and confusing. How had Asher known Amber was stabbed if she didn’t learn it from Seth?