Page 4 of Blood Game

He cut her off. “Aye, you did mean it.”

He knew where the attitude came from—the loss of her brother, the pain of that sort of thing, the helplessness, and the anger—things that couldn’t be undone and had to be lived with.

“We’ll leave it at that.”

He slammed the trunk lid and rounded the car to the driver’s side. He leaned against the roof line of the rental.

“I’m not the enemy. So, let’s try this one more time. You’re welcome for the help back there, although you probably could have taken the bastard down yourself with just a few words.”

Direct shot.

She took a deep breath but held back what she would like to have said.

“The military is what I do,” he continued. “Because there are dangerous people in the world. I don’t get into the politics of it. I let other people do that, even when they fuck it up.”

The anger was there, but carefully controlled. She heard it in the way the accent sharpened around the words.

He made a sweeping gesture of the car park. “If you have a problem driving up together, there are plenty of other cars. Help yourself.”

Blunt, to the point. And she had to admit that she deserved it. She’d been condescending and judgmental, two things she had little patience for in others, none when it came to herself.

They stood there like a couple of MMA combatants, except he wasn’t the enemy, and she didn’t want to be. She was past the point of tired, and there was a lot to deal with once she reached Inverness.

She slipped into the passenger seat and slammed the door.

CHAPTER

TWO

Kris awakened suddenly, disoriented in that way of waking in strange places when the brain slowly catches up.

It was dark, a thin stream of headlights angling past then disappearing in the distance, and she realized she must have been asleep for quite a while.

Everything gradually came back, along with the realization that they’d left the main roadway. A sign loomed out of the dark and icy rain as James Morgan angled the rental car around a curve in the road.

Kingussie.

It was one of a half-dozen small towns between Edinburgh and Inverness, spread out along the foot of the Cairngorm mountains. In the summer months it was a haven for cyclists and hikers. In the winter, the hikers and cyclists gave way to skiers.

The older part of the town was close to the roadway which had once been the only major coach road that linked the two cities. The newer parts of Kingussie spread back toward the hills with an assortment of inns, hotels, and restaurants.

The lights of a roadside tavern gleamed through the rain. He eased the rental car to the curb at the front of the Red Stag Alehouse beside a half-dozen other cars. He set the brake and cut the motor.

“We’re stopping?” she asked.

“I’m hungry, and we’ve a couple more hours.” He got out of the car and pulled on his jacket.

At least that was something they could agree on. She’d had only an energy bar since early morning, and she was suddenly starving. She grabbed her jacket and shoulder bag.

The air was sharp and a light snow had begun to fall as they drove north. Assuming she was going to make a quick trip over and then get back to New York, she’d only brought a light jacket, and shivered against the sudden cold after the heat inside the car.

Inside the alehouse, a fire burned at a hearth, large enough for a man to walk through, with logs piled high. The evening crowd had just started to arrive, along with a couple of older gentlemen who played at dice, one of them slamming the cup down on the table, the other roaring with laughter as he called for another round of ale, an older couple at a table near a street-side window with a black-and-white dog dozing at their feet, and two young couples who looked as if they had been hiking and got caught in the sudden change of weather.

Hats and jackets were lined up in front of the hearth, steaming faintly, while customers warmed themselves on pints of ale and amber-colored drinks that could only be whisky, probably from one of dozens of distilleries throughout Scotland.

The great room had the usual stag and boar heads mounted on walls over dark wood wainscoting. Comfortable-looking, overstuffed chairs sat before the massive fireplace. Framed pictures of sports teams filled the wall behind the bar. There were a half-dozen empty booths tucked beneath street-sidewindows, with more seating at tables and chairs. James Morgan headed for a table in the corner next to the fireplace.

He pulled the chair out for her, then took the one opposite against the wall. It triggered a memory, and she frowned. Her brother had done the same thing when he was home on leave and they went out to dinner.