Big Brody growls across the table. I cut my eyes to Brody without moving my head and gently massage his thigh. When I turn my attention back to the conversation, Big Brody is saying, “Ewan, if I had any inkling that my bairns’ lives were in jeopardy, or Erika, a gathering wouldn’t save the man in my crosshairs. But a party! Heh, Leith, where are the feckin’ balloons?”
Nan sits forward, softly adding, “Ewan, ye’ve a right to be livid regarding the events surrounding Erika being shot. As ye can see, Big Brody’s torn up about it himself. We’ve tried to address the matter with ye—”
Erika cuts in, trying to quell the argument. “All I need is a few weeks of physical therapy, Da. ‘Twas an exit wound, missed my liver and other vital organs. McFarland and MacKenzie clans are invincible.” She lifts her glass of lemon water. Chevelle begins to follow suit, but no one else has taken their eyes off the ticking bomb.
To my right, Knox scoffs under his breath, muttering something in Gaelic. I’d go out on a limb and translate it as uppity bastard or bougie bastard, depending on one’s choice of vernacular.
Big Brody has shouted something I missed, listening to Knox, and Ewan snubs him with a scoff, tossing in how he has a private plane ready to go. Then he declares, “Clan McFarland and MacKenzie require a real union . . . A marriage.”
“Feck me,” Brody mutters next to me.
“What’s going . . .” I softly begin, pausing to still the tremor in my voice only to hear his name.
“Brody Boy,” Ewan turns to Big Brody, “my daughter, Erika, and yer son, Little Brody, must marry.”
I search out Chevelle, but neither she nor Leith are here. Damn, she’d mentioned they were going to deal with the train wreck who pitted the Roman family against the MacKenzies.
“Da!” Erika gasps. “We’ve nae feelings for each other. None!”
“And I’ll not ask the two of ye to marry.” Nan shakes her head. “Erika’s my daughter regardless of whom she loves.”
Beside me, the muscles in Brody’s rigid body stiffens as he stands. “Ewan, ye will be needing us to show our loyalty?”
“Show our loyalty?” Darkness bursts from Big Brody. “I’ve already said my piece. Clan MacKenzie’s done with Clan McFarland—get that through yer fecking heids.” He shouts something in Gaelic. One of the waitresses who’s refilling glasses of lemon water goes rigid. The clear liquid in her carafe splashes across the table next to a big, red teddy bear of a guy that I think introduced himself as Firth. He’s softly waving away her attempt at an apology while his entire family nods to the possible warning Big Brody gave.
Clearly, the warning went over Ewan’s head. He smooths down his suit lapels. “That’s very unfortunate.”
“Wit the feck do ye need us to do?” Brody asks, still an immobile, tall figure. His father is just as an impressive force while seated. “Ye tell me after dinner, Uncle Ewan. We’ve an empire to maintain, yeah?”
“We,” Camdyn grits from the opposite side of the table. A look of pure menace washes over Camdyn’s face. Jamie looks at his plate of food, despondent. A guy who looks a lot like Knox, who I thought was named Jamie too—or could be James—offers a concurrent eyeroll.
Only one person appreciates Brody’s suggestion. While I feel like the guy I’m falling for offered to go on a murdering rampage for the McFarlands, Ewan grins. It’s clear what he wants. “I have one request of Clan MacKenzie, Brody Boy—”
“Call me Brody Boy one more time; I dare ye!” Big Brody threatens.
Ewan glances at his two henchmen. The two blockheads rise. The second they do, Brody’s eyes search out mine. The depths of them are a warm summer rain, surrounding me with their intensity. Brody snuffs the fire burning between us, sneering,“Uncle Ewan, I’ll marry the lass.”