He just laughs, of course, pouring me another glass of wine.
Tasgall, who I’ve learned is a spectacular cook along with being a member of Dougal’s inner circle, brings out a huge platter of seafood. There are mussels, langoustines, scallops, and salmon all sizzling in a butter and lemon sauce and my moan is audible, though Tasgall politely pretends not to hear me.
“What is that?” I ask, pointing to a separate plate of fish.
“Ah, Mrs. MacTavish, you've never had an Arbroath Smokie?” Tasgall pretends to look shocked.
“Please, enlighten me.”
“Freshly caught haddock, smoked in pairs using a traditional smoking process that smokes and cooks the fish at the same time,” he explains, putting down a basket of crusty rolls. “It’s delicious. It’s said the cooking process was brought to this part of Scotland by Viking settlers.”
“Thank you for the meal and the history lesson,” I smile up at him, an action that makes Dougal frown. So, I smile even more warmly until poor Tasgall quickly makes his escape.
“Maybe I need to send him down to our cement factory for guard duty,” Dougal grumbles, “or our dock by the fish processing plant.”
“And lose these meals?” I’m poking greedily into a langoustine like a seagull going after a bagel. “I will fight you to the death.”
He nearly spits his mouthful of wine out on the pristine white tablecloth but recovers in time. “I’ll have to remember that. Never stand between my wife and her food.”
I point my little seafood fork at him. “You’re not one of those men who thinks a woman shouldn’t consume anything but salads and air, are you?”
He has the effrontery to look insulted. “Are you mad? God, I hate it when women do that nibbling thing at meals. You should eat well, and for feck’s sake, you should enjoy it.”
Damn him. That was perfect.
Popping the succulent little langoustine tail in my mouth, I fight the feeling of relaxation spreading over me. This beautiful place… the incredible food… and the man who made me marry him is being so… charming.
I have to get out of here before I want to stay forever.
My chance comes sooner than I expected.
“I have to go into Glasgow for a meeting,” Dougal says the next day. He’s dressed in a dark grey suit, white shirt, and a blue tie that matches his eyes. He looks more like a handsome businessman than the demonic thug I’m sure he is.
He’s not happy about it, scowling as he finishes the full fry-up that Tasgall made for us. “I’ll be back by this evening.”
“Is this an emergency?”
“No, just a pile of eejits who can’t handle a board meeting without turning into feckin’ toddlers. They’ll haver about and complain until someone else makes the decision,” he grumbles.
“Someone has to be the responsible one,” I say, hiding my grin behind my toast, “though to be honest I’d not expect it to be you.”
He drops a kiss on the top of my head as he gets up from the table. “You’ll pay for that tonight, wife.”
Sitting at the table, I’m shaken. He gave me that kiss like we’d had breakfast together for years, instead of these tension-filled days. It’s all becoming too natural, too easy.
Dougal thinks he’s so cunning, changing the guard’s rotation and patterns every night, though after eleven days of this nonsense, there are only so many movements he can change. Once the two guards on duty cross each other, they both round the sides of the lodge and they’re out of sight for five to ten minutes.
The road leading from the lodge is terrible, but it goes somewhere and the thick forest surrounding us will provide good cover just a few feet in. I know where the blind spot in the security camera coverage is by the front of the lodge because I’ve lingered there, attempting to look suspicious more than once and no one came to check on me.
Finding a flashlight at the lodge was easy. I lifted a Swiss army knife off one of the guards earlier, along with his lighter. Unfortunately, I have no time to steal a phone, this is my window of opportunity. I’ve slipped my hiking boots on and tied a heavy sweater around my waist. The last thing I do is take off my wedding ring and leave it on my bedside table.
Strolling around to the back, I use the lighter to start a fire in the wood pile with a bunch of paper towels I’ve stuffed between the cracks. Fire is always an excellent distraction. I didn’t have the heart to start a blaze in the lodge, I’ve wandered through every square meter of it and it’s too beautiful.
There’s a big, satisfying plume of smoke rising above the slate roof and I’m back in the blind spot waiting for the sweet sound of…
“Fire! Fecking hell, fire on the terrace!”
There we go.
