Lachlan grins at us.
There’s a lovely red-haired woman waiting for us in the foyer, and the smell of tea and something delicious and freshly baked. My stomach churns with hunger. I’m starving. The sound of children’s laughter echoes from another room, and the clink of dishes in a room behind her.
“Welcome,” she says, taking Tate’s two hands and kissing him on the cheek. “Is your mother well?”
I’ve heard a rumor that Flora and Maeve are mates, and this confirms it for me.
“Aye, Maeve, she’s sent her love and says there was no time, but next time she’ll send a tin of her shortbread.”
“Making this granny plump, she is, your mother doesn’t have a scrap of fat on her.”
Tate grins and kisses her cheek.
“Maeve, meet Fran. My lass.”
My lass.
Even as early as a week ago, what I’d have given to be his lass. Now, though… I wonder what the trade-off is.
She gives me a warm embrace, as several women and blokes come out of the dining area. I hear names, though I recognize no one. Keenan and Caitlin, a stern bloke a few years older than Tate with gray around his temples but kind green eyes, and his gorgeous black-haired wife. A red-haired beauty who throws her arms around Lachlan’s neck. That must be Fiona. And a plump, vibrant brunette who grins at me and waves like we’re long-lost friends. Megan, she’s called, holding the hand of a stunning bloke with glasses, a McCarthy Clan Superman come to life.
We’re ushered into a large dining room, and I watch as the lasses kiss their children good night and nannies whisk them away. The room quiets, as we all take our seats, staff wordlessly filling teacups and passing platters of rich, decadent slabs of soda bread and iced tea cakes. I take one small tea cake, my hunger eaten by nerves, but Tate rolls his eyes and fills a plate until it resembles the platter. He shoves it between us.
“It isn’t often we get to sample the McCarthy’s kitchen,” he says. “Eat up, lass.”
“You do say the most romantic things,” I tell him, liberally buttering a golden scone. I don’t have to be asked twice.
Megan winks at me.
The room quiets as Keenan takes his place at the head of the table. “Tate,” he begins. “Tell us why you’re here.”
Tate clears his throat. I know there’s no time for sugarcoating the truth. I know what’s happened matters now, that we have to protect his sisters, and the safety of the Clan. The scone feels stuck in my throat as he tells them everything.
That I’m the writer.
That my ex-husband betrayed me.
That his last words hinted at Interpol interference.
Tate sees the question in my eyes when he mentions Interpol, and speaks as if he’s addressing the whole room, though I know he’s only speaking for my benefit.
“International Crime Police Investigation,” he says. “Someone’s betrayed us.”
Keenan sobers, and I can tell he carries the weight of Clan leadership on his shoulders. The interconnectedness of the Scottish and Irish has never been more apparent than it is now.
“Fran’s confessed to all,” Tate says. “And she’s come with me to help me investigate.”
Keenan asks about the next book, and I feel my cheeks color.
Megan squeezes my hand. “I love those books,” she whispers. “It will be alright.”
Tate continues. “I got word from Leith just as we landed, they’ve brought her ex in to question.”
I shudder, imagining what exactly that would look like.
“He still alive?” Keenan asks with the cold, calculating look of a man who’s not above taking a life if he feels it necessary.
Tate nods. “Aye. And you know why we’re here, Keenan. You’ve had dealings with the Welsh, and you’re a refuge while we question who we need to.”
