Protector in a Kilt, page 1
Protector in a Kilt
Kilted Hearts
Book 4
Kait Nolan
Take The Leap Publishing
Copyright © 2023 by Kait Nolan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Invite
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
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1
“Mom! It’s her! It’s her!”
The whisper shout carried across the hotel lobby. Well used to being recognized, Isobel knew she should keep walking. That was what she’d been trained to do. Not to interact with the public, except under controlled circumstances. But a quick glance to the left, behind her dark glasses, showed her a child of maybe ten, standing with his mother. The boy clutched a violin case in his hands as he stared at Isobel with wide-eyed excitement.
Feeling the weight of her own instrument case in her hand, she wavered. She was early for their scheduled departure to the venue. Her keeper hadn’t made it downstairs yet. Saying hello to a fan wouldn’t hurt anything.
Switching directions, she strode over, shoving her sunglasses to the top of her head and offering a warm smile. “Hello.”
The kid lost a couple of shades of color from his cheeks, blue eyes going even wider as he blindly tapped at his mother’s arm. “You’re… You’re Elizabeth Duncan.”
To the rest of the world, anyway.
But she didn’t drop the smile. “I am. And what’s your name?”
“T…Tobias.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” She nodded to the case still clutched in one white-knuckled hand. “Do you play?”
Tobias nodded like a bobblehead doll.
His mother wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “For a couple of years now.”
“That’s wonderful. I’ve been playing since I was little, too.” Isobel remembered what it was like when music was new, when she’d been able to play simply for the joy of it, and she envied the child.
Apparently emboldened by the interaction, Tobias took a step forward. “You’re my favorite musician! I have all your albums on my phone!”
Warmed by his enthusiasm, she dialed up the smile. “Thank you. I’m flattered. Are you in town for a competition?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you nervous?”
He hugged the case a little tighter. “Yeah.”
Isobel remembered those days, too. She crouched down to the boy’s level and dropped her voice. “Can I tell you a secret?”
He leaned closer. “What?”
“I get nervous, too.”
“You do?”
“Sure do. Know how I beat it?”
“How?”
“All those butterflies and ick that you feel when you’re nervous about something are the same physical responses in your body as excitement. So you can kind of reprogram that message in your brain by telling yourself that you’re excited. And once you pick up the instrument and start to play, you lose yourself. Everybody else doesn’t matter.”
“Wow!”
Enjoying the conversation and feeling a little reckless, she made a snap decision. “You wanna try it?”
“How?”
Isobel knelt and opened her own violin case. “Play with me.”
Tobias’s eyes went big as saucers. “Really? Now?”
“I have a few minutes. What’s your competition piece?”
“‘Han Solo and the Princess’ from The Empire Strikes Back.’”
Grinning, she lifted her instrument. “I approve. C’mon.”
The boy scrambled to pull his own violin from the case, and they checked their tuning. She’d already drawn the bow across the strings when she felt the shift in the air, that frisson of cold that told her she’d miscalculated, and her time was up. But she was in it now. A crowd was already beginning to circle around them. Her manager would do nothing in front of prying eyes or rolling cameras, so she’d finish this out and wring every drop of pleasure from the encounter.
Isobel let herself sink into the music, glorying in the synergy that came with playing with someone who held true talent. The boy was good. Not as good as she was at his age, but few people were. By the end of the song, every single person in the massive lobby had stopped to listen. Multiple phones were held up, recording. As applause echoed through the space, Isobel lowered her violin and beamed at Tobias. “Take a bow.”
Pink all the way to the tips of his ears, he clumsily folded himself at the waist beside her.
At the edge of the crowd, Paul was waiting in his bespoke suit, his face an even mask. But she could see the storm beneath. He didn’t have to say a word.
Quickly returning her violin to its case, she straightened. “I have to go. But it was really nice to meet you. Both of you.”
Tobias’s mother beamed. “Thank you. You’ve just made his decade.”
“Good luck with your competition.”
The boy waved. “Thank you!”
As soon as she was within arm’s reach, Paul’s hand settled on the small of her back. Isobel’s skin crawled at the touch, but she moved toward the exit so as not to cause a scene. She’d been well-trained not to do that, either.
The car was waiting. The moment they were inside, Paul addressed the driver. “We’re late. Make up some time.”
“Yes, Mr. Burgette.”
As they pulled out of the hotel drive and into the flow of London traffic, Paul raised the privacy screen, locking them into relative isolation. “You’re playing a sold-out concert tonight. What the hell do you think you were doing?”
The furious whip of his voice drained away the joy she’d taken in playing just to play. She sank into the seat, as if that would give her any extra space from him. “Just having a little fun with a fan.”
“Fun? You don’t get paid to have fun. You get paid to work.”
The truth was, she barely got paid at all because the revenue she generated through concerts and album sales went to accounts to which he held the purse strings. She was granted a small stipend. An allowance. Because he took care of everything else. That had been the pattern of their relationship since he’d signed her as a client at just twelve years old.
“It was one song. It didn’t hurt anything.”
“You don’t waste your talent on the unpaying masses.”
Of course not. Because in his world, nothing was free. Including her. She was a product, not a person.
“It’s my talent to spend where I choose.” The words slipped free, fueled by a deep-seated resentment.
Paul’s hand snaked out, fingers closing around her wrist in a grip so hard she could feel the bones rub together. She barely held in the yelp and wince as he leaned into her space. “Your talent belongs to me. Your music. Your performances. I own you.”
As it was true, she didn’t argue the point. Trembling, she murmured, “You’re hurting me.”
He released her, breath coming fast.
Isobel ran careful fingers over the tender flesh of her wrist. This wasn’t the first time he’d man-handled her, but he’d never left marks before. Gently flexing the joint, she knew she’d have to ice it or she’d never make it all the way through her performance. She’d been skating dangerously close to this edge for a long time, testing the boundaries of her prison. It seemed today she’d gone too far.
It wasn’t like him to be careless with her. To risk her ability to perform. To leave marks where anyone could see. He was escalating, and that scared the shit out of her. She knew what he was capable of when challenged. The threat of it had kept her in this cage more effectively than any lock.
Knowing her only move now was placation, she attempted to salvage the situation. “Dennis told me it’s good optics to interact with fans.” She picked one of the execs at her record label, knowing Paul wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the contract that had made him a rich man.
He sighed, his tone softening in the Jekyll and Hyde switch at which he was so adept. “Elizabeth, your job is to make the music. Mine is to worry about everything else. Including fan relations. You know we’re on a very tight schedule. Courtesy of your little free concert, we’re going to be late for soundcheck, and it’ll throw everything else off. Do you know how many people are waiting on you?”
As if she were some sort of diva making unreasonable demands instead of spending ten minutes with a fan? But Isobel felt the familiar weight of guilt settle over her. There were dozens of people who’d be at the venue. Lighting and sound technicians. Roadies. Security. Not to mention all the additional musicians who were part of her show. All those livelihood
Keeping her gaze downcast, she gave him what he wanted. “I’m sorry, Paul. It won’t happen again.”
“No. It won’t.” The finality in his tone warned her that the already short leash he kept her on was about to be tightened to a chokehold.
Her stomach curdled at the idea of her world shrinking that much more. Things would get worse before they got better. She knew first-hand they could always get worse.
The intercom buzzed. “We’re a mile out, Mr. Burgette.”
Eyes on the passing streets of London, Isobel took in the signs. A pub. A clothier. A coffeeshop and internet cafe. Some sort of tourist shop with the Union Jack motif screaming from the window displays of every product it could be printed or pasted on. These were places she was never allowed to venture because they weren’t part of Paul’s plan, and he’d effectively cut her off from making any friends who might have enjoyed such frivolity.
They arrived at the venue, and Isobel schooled her features, knowing all eyes would be on her until the soundcheck was over. She understood her role here and played it well.
As Paul had predicted, everyone was waiting. More guilt trickled through her at that, and she made quiet apologies, hurrying to the stage. She blessed her years of experience for allowing her to smile and nod and give the appropriate feedback when asked, even though her mind wasn’t on it. She usually found solace in holding her instrument and coaxing out the music that was both her passion and her prison. But she felt the ache in her wrist where he’d gripped her and knew it was now or never.
She needed to get out. Needed to run. And it needed to be soon, before Paul did more than leave some bruises.
With an odd sense of calm, Isobel made it through the rest of the soundcheck, going through the motions, looking for an opportunity. It came when she spotted Paul walking off with the venue manager. She’d met the other man last night and knew he could talk the ears off a donkey.
Flagging down Paul’s assistant, Veronica, she let some of the exhaustion show. “Hey, I’m going to go catch a nap in my dressing room before tonight. Will you see that I’m not disturbed until it’s time to get ready?”
“Of course. Hair and makeup will arrive at six.”
That would give her two hours. “I’ll be ready.”
She didn’t let herself hurry. That would draw attention. People were everywhere, going about the business of preparing for the show later that night. There was security, but that was on the venue, not directly on her. Once she’d closed herself into her dressing room, she locked the door and emptied her purse, carefully working her fingers into the hole in the lining to retrieve the stash of cash she’d been secreting away for months. She counted the bills. It was only a few thousand pounds. Not a small amount, but a paltry sum to fund an escape.
It had to be enough.
She’d make it enough.
Keeping a few bills out, she returned the money to her hiding place and repacked her purse, taking only those things she deemed necessary, which didn’t include the mobile phone loaded with spyware that told Paul every little thing she did. There was little to nothing she wanted from this life. Knowing her long, honey blonde hair would be memorable, she twisted it into a knot to hide its length. She wished she had a change of clothes, but she’d have to make do.
Urgency beat in her blood. Now that she’d made the decision, every cell in her body screamed at her to flee. When it came time to slip out of the dressing room, she hesitated only briefly, staring at her violin case where it rested on the counter. The idea of leaving it felt like amputating a part of herself. It was the last piece she had of her father. But she had a concert tonight. People would notice if she left carrying it and would remember. No one, especially Paul, would ever imagine she’d leave it behind. That would hopefully buy her more time.
Swallowing down the tears, she stepped out into the hall.
No one took special notice of her as she wove her way through the labyrinthine corridors to one of the exits. At least, not until she made to leave.
A security guard raised his brows. “Help you?”
Fighting to keep her breathing even, she smiled and hoped it didn’t look as fake as it felt. “You can, actually. I heard there was an excellent kebab shop in the neighborhood, and I thought I’d nip out to grab one before the show. Do you happen to know where it is?”
There was staff to run such errands, but evidently the man was either used to the eccentricities of the talent or really loved his kebabs. “Course I do. You want Kebabish. You’re gonna go out this door to the left. At the end of the alley, you’ll take a right, and go about two blocks. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you!”
He opened the door for her. “The lamb shawarma is brilliant.”
“I’ll definitely have to try it.” She stepped outside. “Back in a bit!”
Forcing herself not to hurry, she followed the alley to the street, in case he was watching. Then she turned in the opposite direction and hurried back the way they’d driven to the venue. Her heart thundered with every step as she scanned the signs. Spotting the souvenir shop, she slipped inside, quickly purchasing a Union Jack baseball cap and a t-shirt with a profile drawing of the late Queen Elizabeth. A block farther down, she found her intended destination. A half-dozen people were scattered through the internet cafe, everyone intent on their screens.
Isobel purchased an hour’s time from a bored clerk behind the counter near the door, then made her way to the bathroom to change into the t-shirt and hat. The more like a tourist she looked, the better. As she stripped off the long-sleeved blouse she’d been wearing, she noted the bruises already coming up on her wrist. Those were noticeable, too, but there was no help for it. She just hoped no one asked questions.
Settling in at a station in the back, Isobel followed the instructions and logged in. And at last she had the opportunity to browse without restriction. This was the piece of her escape she’d never been able to orchestrate before: transportation.
A quick search pulled up several websites dedicated to used cars. She clicked the first one and scrolled through, finding few options that fit within her meager budget, none of which had an automatic transmission. Chewing her bottom lip, she moved to the next and repeated the search with similar results. The third site produced more options and had a chat function to allow messaging with the seller. She sent an interested query to every one she could afford and waited, watching her time tick down. Without a phone, she had no way to call any of them, and who knew how long it would take any of these people to respond?
With six minutes left on the timer, a reply popped up.
Isobel leapt, saying she wanted to purchase the car and asking if the seller was able to meet this afternoon.
To finally sell this thing, I’ll meet you right now.
That didn’t bode particularly well for the vehicle, but desperate times.
I’ll take it. Where can I meet you?
Ewan McBride eyed the storm clouds building on the horizon above the endless stretch of empty hills. Riggs Moor was one of the most remote places in Britain, which was exactly why they’d chosen it. No cell service. No people. Hell, the nearest public access road was two-and-a-half miles from the trailhead, and they were well beyond that. It was a good place to face demons.
Ewan had conquered most of his, but his friends were still working on it.
Beside him, Finley Patterson unsnapped the chest and waist straps of his pack and slipped it off, leaning it against a rock. He stretched, loosing an enormous sigh as he took in the view. “Damn, I needed this.”
“Which part?” Alex Conroy wanted to know. “Us or being well the fuck away from civilization for two weeks?”
“Both. It’s harder than I thought it’d be, going back into the real world. How do you make it look so bloody easy, McBride?”
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