Page 17 of Rekindled (The MacTavish Heirs #5)

In which there is a proper dinner and Scotch.

Catriona…

The sun is edging toward the horizon by the time we reach the Ourika Valley, heading into Setti Fatma for the night. I watch with some amusement as Lucas pays the driver, barely hiding his impatience as he politely barters on the tip.

Setti Fatma is a traditional Berber village, tourists come here to marvel at the famous seven waterfalls, the red clay homes and colorful restaurants and shops along the river.

Several establishments have plump, enticing cushions and seating on the very edge of the rock wall next to the water and I sigh longingly.

“Ye must be starving,” Lucas says, taking my arm. “Let’s find a hotel and order some food. What would ye like?”

“We’ve been living off protein bars and whatever ye could catch in the mountains. We’re ordering everything on the menu.” He laughs, and it feels like something loosens in my chest.

We check into one of the larger hotels, the woman pointedly eyeing our ring fingers before guiding us to our room. It’s tiny, but clean and elegant, the balcony overlooking the downtown hubbub with chairs and a little table on a vibrant red rug.

“Most of life happens outdoors here,” Lucas says, pulling out his phone and making sure it’s charged. “The terraces and decks are usually bigger and more comfortable than indoors.”

“Makes sense,” I say, eyeing the single bed. And I mean single, it’ll barely fit us both if I lie on top of Lucas like he’s my mattress. The thought sends a bolt of heat through me and I turn away, pretending to focus on the river until I hear him open his phone.

“Chieftain. I have Catriona. She’s safe.”

Hurrying over, I put my face next to his, hearing my Da’s deep sigh. “Thank the Lord. Put her on, please.”

“Da? I’m here.” I’m suddenly all weepy and have to wipe my eyes.

“Catriona! My girl. Your Ma is gonna murder me for not calling her down, but we must talk fast. Where are ye?”

“Setti Fatma,” Lucas interjects. “How do ye want to handle extraction? ”

Da’s tone changes. “Aye? That’s excellent.

I have a friend who keeps a house in Setti Fatma.

He might be there. I know he’ll direct his staff to come for ye if he’s not.

Let me make a call. Catriona, are ye awright?

That feck Dubois, he dinnae…” He chokes and it makes my heart hurt, hearing my big, strong da get all emotional.

“I’m fine, Da, just grand. He dinnae hurt me and I have so much data to share.” I grin spitefully, thinking of what we can do to this lunatic.

“That’s my good lass,” Da says approvingly. “I’m proud of ye. Ye kept your head.”

“Lucas got me out safe.” I eye his cold expression. I’m thinking he and Da are not yet on warm and friendly terms. “The castle was better guarded than the Crown Jewels, but he had me out and away before they knew what hit ‘em.”

“This is the first safe call we could make,” Lucas says. “Dubois sent out a hell of a search party, but she’s here and unhurt. Have ye heard from any of my team?”

“Aye, five of them, one carrying your friend Morris. I’m sorry.”

Clearing his throat, Lucas keeps his composure. “Thank ye, Chieftain.”

“No, thank ye.” Da chokes up again. “Thank ye for saving my girl. ”

Then Lucas says something odd. “The Pakhan , Maksim Morozov, officially released me from his service, a year early.”

There’s a slightest hint of a growl from Da, which he conceals with a cough. “I’ll call ye back with instructions.”

“Oh, I love ye so much,” I croon to my tagine, stirring the lamb stew and stuffing my face with creamy couscous while I wait for the savory stew to cool.

“Are ye talking to me or to the tagine?” Lucas smiles at me wickedly, but he is in no position to judge, he’s on his second round of flatbread and meat skewers.

Our amused server has made three trips up to our room, quietly clearing our dishes and brings out a big tray of salads and mint tea when he sees us slowing down slightly.

“Would you care for bottle service, sir?” the waiter asks. “I could bring it with your dessert.”

“I’d love a drink,” I say. The thought of a nice scotch warming my insides right now sounds wonderful.

We’d noticed there wasn’t a bar in this hotel, but in such a traditional Muslim city, we dinnae expect one. For a foreigner, drinking alcohol is acceptable, ye just have to be more subtle about it to show respect .

“Yes, please,” Lucas hands him several large bills. “Scotch, if you have it, Macallan would be grand.”

“Stop checking your watch,” I say, “ye know Da is putting together some enormous military operation right now.”

“I hope not,” he frowns, “a bit too high-profile for here. Though I’m sure he’s already got half the crew mobilized."

When our beaming waiter returns, he offers a plate of dates sweetened with honey and orange blossom water, and two rather large bottles of Macallan.

“I was thinking a glass,” Lucas says.

“I’m thinking two bottles is grand because I’m not sharing mine with ye.” I grab one of them, wondering if it would be uncouth just to drink it straight from the bottle.

With a sigh, he hands me a glass, pouring one for himself. “To getting ye home safe.”

“To crossing the Atlas Mountains to find me,” I add.

We tap the glasses, and I’m acutely aware of his lips as I sip from mine.

Full lips in his dark beard, thicker since he’s not shaved in several days.

When he laughs, his even white teeth flash, making him look like a pirate, swashbuckling his way across the high seas with that dangerous glint in his eyes.

A braw as hell pirate.

My glass is already empty and I pour another one.

“We aren’t out of Morocco yet,” he warns, still nursing his first.

“If we canna finish one of these bottles without still keeping the heid, we must renounce our Scottish heritage,” I scoff, happily halfway through my second.

His phone rings and we both reach for it. Lucas puts it on speaker.

“I have your contact,” Da says. “Ye will be the guests of my good friend, Marabout Badis Mahmoudi.”

“A holy man?” Lucas asks, surprised.

“You’ll find that Badis is a bit of everything.

Marabouts can act as diplomats, teachers, advisors in local politics.

He’s highly regarded in all of Morocco, but particularly among the Berbers.

There are several ancient, religious sects in this region, and he is the head of one that leans toward the mystic side of faith.

Fortunately, he’s in Setti Fatma hosting a huge celebration tonight.

His men, Aksil and Idir should be at your hotel within the hour. I’m sending ye a picture of them.”

“Chieftain,” Lucas hesitates, clearly not wanting to insult Da, “you have complete faith in this man?”

“He would guard ye with his own life,” Da says with utter certainty. “We have looked out for each other in the past.”

Even as his daughter, I’ve never heard the full story of Da’s life before he married my mother and moved into the role of Chieftain. I’ve heard some things that I’d dismiss as tall tales if they were about anyone else. But Da? Anything is possible.

“Thank ye, Chieftain,” Lucas says. “We’ll see ye soon.”

Why did he add that extra deep tone when he said, “We’ll see you soon?”

Ah well. “I love ye, Da. Tell Mum how much I love her and that I’m fine. I promise.”

“Love ye, mo chat-fiadhaich, my wildcat.” I can tell Da dinnae want to hang up, but there’s no reason to give that fecker Dubois more opportunity to track us.

The room’s quiet once again, the sounds of the street taking over, laughter and the muted murmur of diners below, the rush of the river alongside the hotel.

“Have one more drink with me?” I ask. “I dinnae think we’ll be drinking at Marabout Mahmoudi’s home. ”

“One more,” Lucas relents. We eye each other, sipping our drinks, and one more turns into two. I’m feeling the warm glow in my stomach, soothing, making my muscles relax. Even Lucas looks like he’s not wound so tight.

We watch over the balcony as two men matching the picture Da sent enter the hotel. Four more men quietly take up position by the doorway.

“Are they armed, do ye think?” I ask.

Lucas is up, fitting his Glock in his shoulder holster and pulling a jacket over it. “I’m not certain, but did ye see the big one? He dinnae need a gun. He’d just tear your head off your shoulders.”

***

Braw - Scottish slang for good or attractive, in this case, hot as hell.

Keeping the heid - Scottish slang for keeping calm, in control of your mental faculties.