“By a matter of seconds, I must say.” Richard snorted, putting his hands on his thighs, his breath coming out in hard pants. His cropped blond hair was matted with sweat, but his blue eyes were twinkling, and his easy smile spread on his lips.
“Minutes,” Tavish corrected. “But in a strange way it helps. I’m becoming increasingly desperate to beat it.”
“Such need is dangerous,” informed Hugh.
Anyone who didn’t know the brothers would say Hugh had a sour disposition, especially in comparison to his brother’s easiness—the brother who had physically lost much more.
“To admit to it is freeing.” Tavish empathized with his friend. Hugh’s physical scars were less serious than Richard’s, but the ones in his mind were invisible and ran deep down in his soul.
“You ruin the fun of running, counting minutes,” complained Richard.
“Nae. I’m not thinking of a thing when I run, not even time. I imagine dark clouds on a sky. And their shadows on a river. I keep on running, running in my own silent void, following their shapes as the water slides faster. The time is marked by the watch. It gives me more control over the need.”
“What is lethal to your infamous control is this growing obsession with that artist,” Hugh said somberly.
I’ve no control where that woman is concerned. Tavish harrumphed, drying his forehead with the towel Hugh handed him.
“What’s her name again?” asked Richard.
“Laetitia. Laetitia Galen,” Tavish offered for the hundredth time, knowing Richard wouldn’t let it go until he introduced her to him. He palmed his flat stomach. “I’m hungry. Is there any food in this old house?”
“Not for sweaty men.” Martha Smith was smiling, by the opened iron doors, her hands on her hips, watching the three of them talking. “Shower, you two. And Hugh, you come and help.”
“Aye, ma’am,” the three answered in unison.
The manor was built in the Jacobean style: richly carved stonework and iron gates and imposing doors that reflected the grandeur of centuries past.
Tavish loved coming to Lakeside Manor, where two of his best friends and their widowed mother, Martha, lived. What he loved most was the welcoming friendship, which offered shelter for his battered spirit, and the happy, open-arms hospitality, when he wanted to share good news.
Tavish wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing there since yesterday evening when he arrived from his meeting with Laetitia: sharing good news or asking for shelter.
Maybe both.
Martha had a full English breakfast made from local organic produce waiting for them in the dining room. Deep-set, antique cushioned chairs were placed around two long, dark-wood dining tables.
Two English bulldogs slept on the hearth. They raised their heads, and the male, who had a pronounced underbite, came to sniff Tavish.
“Hullo, Churchill.” Tavish scratched behind the dog’s ear. “How is your wife doing, pal?”
The dog huffed unhappily, as if he had understood the question.
“Venus’s cesarean is set for a week from now.” Hugh went down on his haunches to ruffle his hand over the head of the fawn-brown female bulldog.
“Four puppies. Three already reserved. Want one, Will?” Richard asked. “Make for good company.”
“After they ate all my shoes and gnawed all the chair legs,” Martha complained, “they decide to settle down and become good company. Don’t let yourself be fooled, my dear.”
Tavish smiled at Martha. “I won’t.”
“You love them anyway, Mum,” Richard propped himself on a chair after serving himself.
They sat there in companionable camaraderie, yet Tavish was even quieter than normal. They talked for a bit more—a little of this and a little of that—as they finished their breakfast. Martha and Richard left to attend to chores.
“Want to share?” Hugh put both elbows on the table and rested his chin on the back of his hands. He had a vague idea of what was nagging his friend; however, he had never seen Tavish steeped in such brooding.
“I’m not thinking clearly,” Tavish said gruffly. “I’m feeling—Fuck, Hugh! I don’t know how I should feel.”
“Ah. Your beautiful golden-haired girl with a secret smile on her face. Laetitia.”
“When I went to sleep yesterday, I did it with a light heart.” His throat constricted so, the words stuttered. “Then daylight brought everything back in a rush. Those who I left. Johanna.”
“You can’t change what happened, but you can control how you live from now on.”
“I wasn’t expecting a cliché from you.” He snorted. “All’s fair in . . . what?”
“Tavish—”
When his friend shook his head, Tavish cut him off. “Answer me.”
Hugh sighed. “Love and war.”
“You see, Hugh, there are two things that men—and women—will often lie about,” he said, poking at his leg and flexing it. “They’ll lie about what happened on their date last night, and they’ll lie about what happened to them in combat. That means that what we think has happened in combat is actually based in lies.”
“You are trying to lie to yourself. It was a fatality.” Hugh, like Tavish, was a calm moral compass when things were otherwise flying out in all directions. Measured and softly spoken, he was the friend with whom Tavish had more things in common.
“A fatality is not what I would call the terrible things that happened to Johanna during the last months of her short life.” Tavish’s voice caught. “Her bereft parents live surrounded in a cloud of cigarette smoke, like incense on the shrine of Johanna’s pictures and that damned useless medal. They wouldn’t call it a fatality.”
“They’ve never blamed you for what happened. You saved more than ten lives that day, before you were captured.”
“And those who died?” He shook his head mournfully. “Many times I wondered if God would ever forgive us for what we’ve done to each other. One day, I realized that God left that fucking place a long time ago.”
“I don’t get it. Are you are feeling guilty? Unworthy?”
“Nae, no’ exactly.” He grimaced. “She is the breath of fresh air that can’t reach the VIP tenth circle of hell Dante has created especially for me.”
“Don’t be so dramatic!” Hugh chortled. “Remember, it can always get worse.”
“Thanks for the support, Hugh,” he huffed.
“Anytime,” answered his friend, studying him. “If I didn’t know you, I would say you’re afraid.”
Tavish leaned his head back on the tall back of the chair. “It should be a good feeling: the thrill of not knowing what will happen next. The breathless excitement of passion. The beauty of a future filled with endless possibilities. I had forgotten it all.” He smiled with a wistful yearning.
“And that makes you . . .”
“Hell if I know!” he exclaimed, annoyed.
“Uncontrolled, as I’ve said before.” Hugh tutted. “You’re under her thrall, and that makes you deeply uncomfortable.”
“I’ve known her for two weeks. I hardly think she has such power over me,” he pointed out, his demeanor not entirely disguising a bone-deep frustration that gnawed inside him. “Besides, she is going to sign a contract with the gallery.”
“Oho. Ethics?”
“For Christ’s sake, Hugh!” Tavish threw both hands in his hair. “I want her under me, willing!”
“As if seduction had ever been a problem for you,” Hugh muttered and rose, motioning for Tavish to follow him. “You help me groom the horses. I help you trap her.”
CHAPTER 19
Beardley Lodge
Monday, September 22, 2014
4:34 a.m.
The nightmare wedged its tentacles in Laetitia’s mind, so vivid it carried her to that otherworldly place where memory confused itself with subjectivity.
“I’m not feeling well.” Laetitia wavered slightly on her feet.
“It will pass. No time.” Two red hazy for
ms flanked and steadied her by the elbows, steering her by the dim staircase without pause, their voices echoing and silencing in Laetitia’s ears. Laetitia was towed through the maze of underground halls, corridors, and rooms made of bones, full of laughing and partying people she didn’t know. At the end of the last and longest room, a nebulous black shape floated in front of large, immensely tall wooden double doors.
“Fulffffill wishhhh. Take place. Ussss.”
Laetitia blinked hard twice. I’m hallucinating.
There were strange moving designs on the door panels. Angels flew around a young blonde woman in a pristine white gown and a bloodied square cross pendant. On the other side, the same woman with a savage smile on her face and in medieval battle gear rode a monster of a horse, followed by an army of inhuman beasts. Both women’s palms joined to become one, and beneath their hands, the sleeves of their gowns united to form a triangle.
A chill ran down Laetitia’s spine as both women beckoned and mouthed, “Welcome.”
The black shape disappeared into the wood, and the doors opened as if pushed.
From above, she could see herself as she crossed the threshold. In her white, unadorned Celtic tunic, the young, pale-blonde Laetitia was an angelic beauty among older women and men in red velvet robes rhythmically singing in a trancelike state. A cacophony of whispers, moans, wails, rhythmic loud drums and bells, and trembling low lights from candles promised a night of evil darkness.
The doors banged shut. Everyone in the room fell silent and turned to look at her. She kept her gaze fixed on him.
He was wearing a white robe embroidered with Celtic symbols cinched by a large, heavy corded belt. He strode toward her, scowling, “We have been waiting for you for a long time.”
“I’m sorry, Brother,” she said, contrite. The sibilant sounds were quite inhuman, and for a moment, Laetitia was tempted to cover her ears, but she wouldn’t dare.
“She shhhall be a good wiiife.”
She turned and saw inside a black, shadowed face.
“Good evening.” She dipped her head in respect, as she had been taught all her life, but lightheaded as she was, she tripped on her feet.
She was roughly and firmly grabbed by her elbow by uncaring hands.
“A very sssstupid wiiife.” On a blurred male face, the scorn was so latent it couldn’t be mistaken for another emotion.
She felt someone bind her left wrist and his right wrist together with a heavy cord, and she was led, walking and stumbling, until they were in front of what she thought was an altar.
A Celtic sgian-dubh, with antlers set with rubies and diamonds, was unsheathed, raised high, and gleamed in the light, catching her gaze.
However, when she looked up, it was not a crucifix she saw but a bleeding child pinned to a cross.
Laetitia sat up on the bed with her hand on her throat, choking on her breath and thinking she was going to vomit. The pain of the branding between her shoulder blades was as vivid as if it had happened just now.
It took her a few moments to remember where she was, and she had to turn on the bedside lamp to assure herself she was on her king bed, in her bedroom, in Beardley Lodge, as rain tapped lightly at the window.
She sat up and looked at her hands, sure she would find them covered in blood, soaked in it, but there was only sweat.
It had been one of those nightmares where she could feel herself so immersed in the ambiance that she could swear it had been real. Where the monsters were so real she could feel their rough touch and foul breath.
Those monsters lived hidden somewhere, and also inside her.
They were the scariest ones she had ever met.
In the skies over Warwickshire
1:05 p.m.
Looking at the fast passing ground from the window of his brother’s helicopter, Tavish felt for a moment like a survivor in some postapocalyptic world, imagining a part of his life that was gone now. He wondered what it would have been like if nothing he had gone through had happened—what it would be to live without memories of the horrors of war.
“You are too sour for a man who is going to see a beautiful woman,” said Alistair.
“What?” Tavish shook himself out of his dark thoughts. His brother had a smug look on his face.
“Not what, who. Laetitia Galen. The beautiful artist whose works you want all for yourself.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, Alistair Connor! Don’t get ideas in your head. This is work.”
“You are sexually attracted to her. She is attracted to you.” He arched an ink-black brow so like Tavish’s. “A good fuck won’t hurt.”
Fuck? Tavish pulled himself to full height. Even seated, he was taller than his brother. In his quiet voice, so contradictory to his eyes, he said, “I fought against the Taliban for more than four years. During that time, I saw many children, women, and men die. I killed men, women, children—”
“Who would have killed you,” Alistair added swiftly.
“I killed more people than I can count on my fingers and toes put together, instead of healing them,” he continued, as if Alistair hadn’t spoken. “I doona want a fuck with her. I want more.”
Alistair smirked. “Good.”
Tavish’s stoic mask came over his face. “Fuck you, Alistair Connor.”
“Nae, thank you.” Alistair pressed to see a reaction. “What is life without a risk?”
“Safe.”
“Dull.”
“Prudent.”
“Tedious.”
Tavish sighed heavily. “Maybe we should agree to disagree.”
“Have you given up already?”
You son of a bitch. “You are treading on dangerous ground, Alistair Connor.” He ran a nervous hand through his hair. “For almost six months, I was holed up in a psycho hospital. I live with nightmares. For years, my wails and shouts have become a constant companion for the emptiness inside me. I still fight with the depression that has settled over my mind like a thick blanket.”
Alistair repented for provoking Tavish. “I didn’t mean that. You know it.”
“I’ve been taking drugs to stabilize my humor for more than six years. And even so, like that”—he snapped his fingers—“just by hearing a common sound or seeing something no one detects, I can go berserk. Do you really want me to engage in a relationship with a young, sweet, tiny woman who doesn’t know the monster I’ve become?”
“Monster? Bullshit! We all have our battles. We get past them the best we can. Do you think I was the same after Nathalie died? After I almost lost Sophia and our son?” A muscle twitched in Alistair’s jaw, but otherwise his poker-face mask stayed in place. “One step forward, Tavish Uilleam, is a battle won.”
He laughed, unamused. “Sometimes one step forward is ten steps backward.”
Alistair shrugged his powerful shoulders. “What does it matter how many battles you have lost, if you won the war after all?”
“The monsterly cost matters. As long as one is fixed on the outside, one ought to be happy. Mental disability is something the world can’t understand and doesn’t want to. This is who I am: a mentally disabled man,” he said, icily. “So, please, spare me these fucking cliché counsels.”
“You are terrified of losing control,” Alistair snorted. “Don’t waste your time trying to control the future; it’ll happen, you wanting it or not.”
Tavish expected Alistair to patronize him for the remainder of the flight. But he couldn’t have been more wrong.
“I want to see you happy, Brother,” he said seriously. “Make her yours, if she accepts; I’ll take care of the rest.”
I hope so. Tavish didn’t answer aloud.
And Alistair didn’t say anything more.
1:39 p.m.
The buzz of the intercom woke Laetitia. After lunch she had fallen into a blissful, dreamless sleep on the sofa, with Cleopatra propped on her feet.
She rubbed her eyes and combed her hair with her fingers, yawning, and stretched her arms ov
er her head. She was not in a hurry at all. She was not waiting for anyone.
The buzz sounded again.
She stretched her arm and picked up the phone, pressing the button, “Yes?”
“Laetitia? It’s Tavish MacCraig.”
She couldn’t have been slammed awake any harder if she’d been hit on the head with Sebastian’s frying pan. What is he doing here?
“Just a second.” She jumped off the sofa, almost flinging Cleopatra to the floor, which earned her an annoyed meow.
She shoved her bare feet into her flats, ran to the kitchen, and turned on the surveillance camera. The car parked in front of the lodge gate wasn’t his black Range Rover but a red Land Rover Defender. Otherwise, the face on the video matched the name.
She pressed a button to let him in and flew up the stairs to her room, already taking off her painting sweater and throwing it toward her bathroom. She grabbed a cream cashmere sweater trimmed with baby green leaves; a long, flared leaf-green wool skirt; and white tulle and lace underwear, mentally thanking Elizabeth for all the wonderful second-hand clothes and gifts.
Hopping from one foot to the other into her bathroom, she pulled her sweatpants off. In less than the four minutes it took Tavish to drive to her house and park his car, she had refreshed herself, brushed her teeth and hair, and changed clothes.
He was climbing up the steps when she opened the door for him and was greeted by the blast of Tavish’s full charm.
“Hullo, Laetitia.”
Lustful thoughts about how hot his body would be under the black suit that molded his broad shoulders and the tailored trousers that encased strong mile-long legs clouded her mind. She said, “Hi.”
Bloody hell! He cocked his head to the side and eyed her boldly from head to toe and back again. Slowly, very slowly, leaving her breathless. Jealousy bubbled inside him, and whatever hint of a smile he’d had vanished from his face. He asked bluntly, cutting her lustful thoughts, “Are you occupied?” Are you entertaining someone?