“No,” she says with exaggerated patience, “I want to get the hell out of here and on my way home.”
“That won’t be happening. But you’re welcome to freshen up, Angus will show you where the bathroom is.” I can hear the low buzz of the helicopter returning to the lodge. Leaving the room, I grin as she shouts out, “You’re one to talk, MacTavish! Ya’ smell like you’ve been marinating in wet dog!”
It’s nearly dawn as the chopper lands, and I breathe in deep, the air here is pristine. The pale violet sky is lit up with streaks of pink, blue, and yellow, shining through the deep crevices in the mountain range.
The co-pilot opens the back door, helping our visitor out of the helicopter. The man does not look happy to see me.
“This had better be a matter of life or death, my son,” he scowls.
Dipping my head in respect, I promise, “It is in ways I am not at liberty to explain, Father Barclay, but I am deeply grateful for your patience.”
He’s been our parish priest since I was born, and he’s eyeing me, all squinty-eyed and suspicious, just like the day he caught me making out with Bonnie Stewart in his office. I’d just gotten her shirt back on in time, so there was nothing specific he could chastise me for, though my time in the confessional with his probing questions went on for years.
“I’m sure you will understand,” I promise smoothly, “let’s get you inside with a comfortable chair and a wee restorative before we talk.”
I’ll take him into the study on the opposite side of the lodge. There’s going to be a lot of shouting.
Chapter Nine
In which Father Barclay's patience - and faith - are tested.
Isla…
Lachlan attempted to engage me in small talk until I bluntly told him to go feck himself. Handcuff me, throw a bag over my head, and then he thinks we’re gonna talk about the Rangers vs. the Celtics game?
So, he sat there, humming and grinning and cracking his knuckles until I was ready to come over the table and stab him with his own bottle of stout.
“Isla, there’s someone I want you to meet.” Dougal’s back and he’s followed by a sour-looking priest. Years of Catholic school have me on my feet and bowing my head respectfully.
“Father Barclay, this is Isla Blackwood. Isla, Father Barclay has been our parish priest since he married my parents.”
“Good…” What the hell time of day was it? “Good morning, Father. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you as well, my child. This is an…” The priest’s mouth thins and I stifle a chuckle as Lachlan and Dougal give him appeasing smiles. “This is an unorthodox meeting, to be sure. But I have been convinced of its crucial nature.” He’s fixing Dougal with a stern look.
“It is indeed, Father,” Dougal says with the kind of grin worn by attractive psychopaths.
“Let us begin,” Father Barclay says with a sigh. “If the two of you will join me?”
My eyes bulge as he pulls out a Bible and settles himself by the fireplace. “What- what’s happening here, then?”
Dougal looks down at me with his psychopath grin and eyes the color of a glacier. “He’s here to marry us.”
“What the actual fecking hell?”
“No cursing in front of Father Barclay,” he barks, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the fireplace.
Digging in my heels, I punch him in the shoulder. “Ya’ lavvy-headed eejit! Get your hands off me!”
He’s got muscled arms as big as a silverback gorilla and they’re around me like a vise, holding me immobile except for my madly kicking feet. “You stole something from my family that would mean the end of us,” he hisses in my ear.
“Good!”
“Your father never told you what you were stealing, did he?”
I press my lips together.
“I didn’t think so. Just be aware that this is mutually assured destruction for both families. And the Blackwoods had to get greedy and violate the agreement? I didn’t think your clan could sink lower,” Dougal snarls.
