“Ah, well, I’m a romantic,” I said, starting back up the stairs.
“Margaret,” he made a meal of the name, “Margaret…” I could feel it, like he was going to make a meal of me.
“What?”
“If you give me back my watch I’ll make sure nothing happens to Frankenstein. Unfortunately, I can’t promise anything for you.”
Closing the door carefully so my shaking hands wouldn’t slam it behind me, I at least managed a half-grin when I heard him cry out in outrage, “Are these fucking overalls?”
After that I let Grandad take him his meals and an occasional book (mostly textbooks on native crop farming and some 70s romance novels of my gran’s that I also found in the attic), and I waited three days for Viktoria to finish her thing, or for there to be any word about Davies’ disappearance.
Everything was too quiet.
Chapter Eight
In which Alec endures boredom, dreadful reading material and an infuriating desire for booze.
Alec…
After that brief visit from ‘Margaret,’ it was three days of Grandad’s company.
He clomped irritably down the stairs, wearing his Frankenstein mask, put my meal just within reach and left again.
By the second day, I’d had enough.
“Liam, what are the chances of you adding a book or two in addition to your hospitable dining experience? By that, I mean books that don’t involve crop rotation - though I did find it fascinating - or swooning Victorian maidens?” To his credit, the foodwasalways good; things like hearty stews, and home-made bread.
If it was possible for a plastic mask to change to a scowl, Liam’s mask would be wearing one. “Are the accommodations not to your liking, Your Grace?”
I chuckled politely, because it was more helpful than wrapping my chain around this ancient bastard’s neck and strangling him. Of course, part of my foul mood could be that I hadn’t had a drink since I woke up deeply hungover in this cellar that no self-respecting rat would call home.
“It would help pass the time while you and your granddaughter come to your senses.”
Shite. Some of my irritation was seeping through the cracks of my genial smile. Traditionally when this happened, I pulled out my gun and ended whoever was causing said irritation. Grandad here? It just wouldn’t be sporting.
“Not the best way to get me to do ya a favor, lad.”
“True,” I agreed pleasantly. “The isolation must be getting to me.”
“I’ll think about it, then.” He stomped back up the stairs.
What was really getting to me was my arsehole security staff. How could those bloody sons of bitches not have found me yet? I’d been spending my alone time deep in thought about the various ways I intended to kill every fucking one of them for being outsmarted by an extremely attractive but cunning environmentalist and her band of mud-covered morons.
Every time I thought about ‘Margaret’ flirting and drugging me with such ease… it both enraged me and made me feel some grudging respect for her. There have been assassins sent after me from half a dozen crime families - and that was just in the last year - who couldn’t touch me, yet this woman with her sensible trousers and ridiculous penchant for endangered wildlife scooped me up and imprisoned me without ruffling her perfect, glossy hair?
Of course, if I hadn’t ditched my security team and ended up in that shitty pub, blasted half out of my head, it wouldn’t have been quite so simple.
Exactly, you fucking idiot. What were you doing, sucking down a bottle of what was likely kerosine instead of scotch without backup?
The scolding little voice in my head sounded annoyingly like Alastair. That asshole had no business lecturing me on common sense after marrying into the family that… Well,thatfamily..
The second level of disgust was with myself. A nagging little voice in the back of my mind kept pushing fora drink, nudging me relentlessly, making me sweat, even in the cool cellar. After that snide comment from ‘Margaret’ about my drinking, I’d rather suffer with the need for a bottle of scotch than the shame and desperation of having to ask for one.
So, I spent my time working out with my limited resources, sweating out the booze and the rage, and reading about organic farming, which was only slightly more enthralling than watching moss grow on the stone walls. My luck changed slightly on day three when Grandad set down a tray of sandwiches and a battered copy ofThe Monkey Wrench Gang.
“Ah, something new. Thanks, Liam.” I even managed to inject a thin layer of courtesy over the top of my usual withering sarcasm. “Any plan yet?”
He folded his arms, glaring at me through his Frankenstein mask. “Never ya mind.”
