Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“Who’s there?”
“Father MacGowen, show your bloody face!” an angry snarl of a voice declares. What an idiot. The priest just stepped right in front of the altar bravely, the call to have him come out completely unnecessary.
“Who’s that?” Father asks. I can’t see a thing from where I am, but can only hear them. I begin to tremble as the heavy footsteps draw closer. How many are there? “Is that you, Alaster Aitken? Why come in here all forceful-like, when we can have a pleasant discussion?”
But I can hear the thread of fear in his voice. Rumor has it these were the men that hurt him last month. No one knows why, only that he was found bloodied and bruised in the sanctuary. Some suspect it’s a warning to the citizens of Inverness, though none of us know exactly what the details are. My brother mentioned it could be the men of the north, but I know that isn’t true. I’m one of the few that knows Father MacGowen is allies with the men of the north. I may be the only one.
“Now, gentleman,” Father MacGowen begins, and I suspect he’s only stalling because of me. He wants me to get away, but the distance from here to the sanctuary is too far for me to go unnoticed. “Honestly, you shouldn’t come here into a house of God with violent intents.”
One of them sounds as if he’s making a spitting noise. I flinch. Is he spitting on the beautiful carpet? The intricate altar? The bastards.
“Violent intents, boys,” one of them says with a laugh. “Imagine that, eh?”
“Now what on earth would give him that idea, hmm?” another says. There’s a sound of a scuffle and I wince at Father MacGowen’s cry of pain. I have to help him. What can a girl like me do, unarmed, against a passel of violent men? I close my eyes and rock back and forth, berating myself. I can’t even defend myself against one violent man, never mind several.
“You told the authorities we robbed you. Admit it.”
“I did not,” Father MacGowen says staunchly.
“Bollox,” one shouts, and there’s the unmistakable and all too familiar sound of flesh on flesh. I go to cover my ears. I can’t bear to hear them hurt him, when suddenly the sound of the door clanging open makes all else stop. Has someone come to help, or have more come to attack? I freeze, holding my breath, listening for a hint of who’s come.
“Let him go.” The voice is deep and commanding, like I’d imagine the commander of an army to sound. In my mind’s eye, I picture the newcomer with a sword and shield, like the men of old. Has someone come to intervene? One of the townspeople, perhaps, who heard the commotion?
“Who the ever loving fuck are you?”
“Doesn’t matter who we are.” There’s more than one, then. “I said, let him go. If you want a fight you’ll have one, out in the graveyard. With me.”
The noises I hear next are confused and muddled. Curses and grunts, and to my shock, I see four huge, masked men dragging the others past me and straight out the door to the graveyard. No one sees me. No one even looks my way. One grabs Father MacGowen, and the door clangs shut behind them.
I should run. I should hide. But I’m far too invested in this now to leave, and there’s no way I’d ever leave my one and only friend bereft. I look around me for a weapon of some kind, but only see my mobile that’s fallen to the carpet in my haste. I can’t use my fists. I can’t even use my voice. But I can use what little I have. I pocket my mobile and run outdoors after them.
* * *
Chapter Three
Leith
If not for the promise of the sacredness of the church, I’d have broken Alastair Aitkens’ hand the moment I saw him touch Father MacGowen. It takes all my self-control to drag his sorry arse down the steps of the church—none too gently, I’d add—to the cemetery behind the church.
I toss him in front of a gravestone, watching as Clyde, Tate, and Mac rough up the other two.
“Now, boys,” MacGowen begins. “I don’t want bloodshed here on the church grounds. If you’ll please —”
“Go into the parsonage, father,” Tate says firmly. “Go now or I’ll take you myself.”
He shakes his head. “Can’t do that, son,” he says. “I won’t leave you men out here unattended.”
We’re about to rough up the Aitkens boys, they’ll put up a fucking fight, and I’m not keen on him witnessing this. He’ll know who we are even though we’re masked.
“Go, Father,” I order. “Now. To the parsonage, straight away.”
He opens his mouth to protest, then shakes his head, mumbling a prayer under his breath, and heads to the parsonage.