Boaking - Scottish slang for vomiting
Chapter Fifteen
In which Luna’s experience in Europe is nothing like the coffee table books.
Luna…
When I was six, Mom let me pick out a big book full of colorful pictures at the thrift shop for a dollar. “It’s called a coffee table book,” she’d said.
I never fully understood what that meant since no one ever put their coffee cup on it, but we’d curl up on our lumpy sofa most nights, and she’d turn the pages with me. We’d trace the pictures of the vineyards in Tuscany with our fingertips or the Eiffel Tower in Paris.
I remember the chapter devoted to Scotland - images of extremely hairy, fluffy cows, which always made us laugh - and pictures of the tall, Gothic-style buildings in Edinburgh. My favorite ones were of the mountains, so unimaginably green. I looked through a dictionary until I found the name of the greenest green color, which is emerald.
Kai’s eyes are emerald, and they’re looking at me with something that resembles compassion as I hug his toilet like it’s a long-lost sweetheart returning home from the war.
“I just wanted to go to Europe,” I wheeze. “That’s all. An adventure that I could remember when I’m fifty and workingsome shitty job. That once in my life, I experienced something magical.” Dry heaving only because there’s nothing left to exit my body, I cover my mouth. “This was not in my coffee table book.”
His dark brows draw together in confusion as he wipes my face again like I’m a toddler, but he humors me. “That’s understandable, little fox. Ya dinna often find events like this on the standard tourist itinerary, aye?”
Bracing myself on the sink, I stand up. “I only understood about maybe half of what those words meant in there. Especially your Uncle Lachlan. Is it possible that Richard Armstrong could really… He was talking about nerve gas, right? Like the military uses in a war?”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that, but aye,” he says gravely. “But we will never let him get that far. We shut it down on the island, and we’ll do it again.”
“You don’t know where he is, though.” I rinse my mouth out half a dozen times until he produces a toothbrush and toothpaste from somewhere, and I gratefully brush my teeth.
“We’ll find him, it’s not for you to worry.” He’s leaning against the sink, studying me.
“Itisfor me to worry,” I say sharply. “Your family is in danger, and he’s lumping me in with you, too. I can- I can go home. No one’s going to chase me to Iowa.”
Kai shakes his head. “They will come after ya, lass. They’ll chase ya down like hounds chase a fox, and they will tear ya to pieces.”
“If that’s meant to be a cautionary tale,” I say shakily, “I just want you to know it’s not helping.”
“I canna give you false comfort right now.” His hands come down on either side of me, pinning me against the marble countertop. “It’s bad. It will get worse but we will stop him and the rest of those greedy blue bloods.” He leans so close that I can see myself reflected in his eyes.
I look horrified.
“Until that happens, you are my responsibility.”
Frowning, I shake my head. “No. This isn’t like the ancient myth that if you save a life, you are responsible for them for the rest of yours. You did save me, and thank you. But that’s it. I’ll find my own way out of this.”
“Little fox…” he looks at me with something like pity. “You are mine to care for, mine to protect. And I will do exactly that.”
After an infuriatingly implacable Kai ignores my arguments about my freedom. I storm up to the guest bedroom. I can’t go back in the study and look at those enormous MacTavish men discussing the End of the World As We Know It if Richard Armstrong, that insane son of a bitch, can manufacture this gas.
Pacing in front of the windows, I ponder my options. I could just run away. There’s a fire escape on the building next to his, and I could probably make the leap.
And then do what?
Grabbing a pillow from the multitude on the bed, I scream “FUUUUUCK!” into it.
“Hello, Luna Jones. I’m Kenna MacTavish, Kai’s sister. Can I come in?”
She patiently knocks on the door until I finally give up and open it. Kenna is beautiful and tall, like everyone else in their family, with hair as dark as Kai’s, though her eyes are a warm brown.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be here last night to greet ya.” She holds out a pink pastry box, and I immediately open the door wider. “While I know Sloan introduced ya to Turkish food, ya will never have truly lived until ya try the Dundee cake and Scottish macaroons from McCormick’s Sweet’s. Oh, and the Ecclefechan tarts.”
Opening the lid with a flourish, she grins at my rapt expression.
