“You say ‘they’ as if they act like a unit,” Islan says. “There are individuals within family units, you know.”
“Of course,” Mum says. “But don’t be naïve about things, Islan. Families have codes of honor and conduct, and you know what’s good for the goose…”
Islan rolls her eyes. “I think it’s unlikely an entire Clan is rotten to the core.”
Is she speaking of us?
I mull over what Mum said about the Welsh.
“They are brutal," Mac says. That's rich coming from him. I’ve seen my brother interrogate men twice his size and bring them to their knees. He’s the quickest bloody draw on a gun, too, his aim perfect every time.
“That they are,” Mum says. She looks at Fran and doesn’t speak for a moment. I wonder if she’s trying to figure out if it’s wise for her to tell all in front of Fran, but what she doesn't know is that Fran knows more than we do most likely.
“They were the only ones in these parts that had anything to do with human trafficking,” she says quietly. “They were in on Afghani trade with the Russians.” A chill creeps over me. She isn’t talking about trading drugs or guns but far more sinister transactions. She frowns. “It was partly why our friends in Ireland didn’t want anything to do with them.”
Leith drums the table thoughtfully. “We’ll have to give Keenan a call,” he says.
Fran’s eyes meet mine. She knows something.
“Aye,” I say. “You do that after breakfast and we’ll reconvene?”
“Aye.”
“Why do you ask?” Mum asks him.
Leith shakes his head. He’s smart enough to know that if he tells her the girls are threatened, she’ll lose her mind. She’s a strong, capable woman, strong enough to raise every one of us and go toe-to-toe with Bram Cowen. But her girls are her babies, and she won’t take a threat to them lightly.
“We’ve some investigating to do,” he says noncommittally. “I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.”
That he will. She looks from me, to Mac, to Leith. “Aye,” she says. “I trust you boys will keep me apprised of anything urgent?”
“Of course,” Leith promises.
I stand up from the table. I reach for Fran's hand. There’s no point in pretending that she isn’t with me, that she didn't spend the night at my place and that she won't tonight. Bryn stands, too. “Have a moment to get some clothes?”
Bryn is a former Aitkens, rival mafia. She doesn’t ask questions.
“We don’t right now, can we meet you later? I’ve got some things to work on.” I want to fill Fran in on what we know about the Welsh and see what she can shed light on.
“Of course,” Bryn says. “I’ll drop some things off for you.”
“Thank you.”
Nan’s eyes twinkle at me as she makes air quotes. “Things to work on,” she says, snickering into her cup of tea.
I groan. “Honestly, Nan, will you get your mind out of the gutter?” Leith says, as we leave.
“Now why would I do a fool thing like that?” she says behind me. “What is this, a convent?”
The door shuts behind us with a bang.
“Your gran’s a hoot,” Fran says. “I’ve always loved her.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I mutter. “Alright, lass, we’ve got to talk.”
She shivers, and I drape my arm instinctively around her shoulders. She draws closer.
“About what?”
“The Welsh.”
She grimaces. “Why?”
“I can’t tell you, not yet. Can you tell me what you know?”
A shadow crosses her face, and I can tell this costs something for her. Not sure why.
“Aye, I can.”
Why does she look pained when she says that?
“Your brother knows I’m the writer, doesn’t he?” Fran says quietly when we reach the door to my house.
“Which brother?”
“I suspect Leith, though maybe at this point it’s both of them.” She blinks rapidly, as if she’s fighting back tears.
I don’t deny it. There’s no point. “He’s likely guessed it, aye.”
“Does that mean I’m in grave danger?”
“You’re in grave danger already. But for now, he trusts me to handle this. He gave me a job to do, and I’m going to do it well.”
“Right.”
We enter my house, and I gesture for her to sit on one of the loveseats in the living room.
I take a seat across from her, lean forward, and rest my elbows on my knees. I hold her gaze, and she squirms as I don’t relent. The next few days will put both of us to the test.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispers. “Please, Tate, seriously.”
“Why not?”
“Because you look like you want to eat me alive.”
Heat flares between us, fast and furious.
My voice is husky and affected when I whisper, “I do.”
Her cheeks heat, and her jaw drops open. “You did not just say that.”
“Actually, you did. Want me to repeat it?” I love teasing her. Fran’s no wallflower, but when I push her buttons, I love the way I make her squirm. The image of her splayed out on my bed, bucking under my punishing stripes, sends heat coursing straight through me.