The cellar was only marginally warmer than the air outside as he made his way through successive doors to the far end of the house. There, he took a staircase he’d rarely used—rarely had access to—and climbed it to the solid oak door at ground level. When he opened it and stepped through, the heat of the room was almost a shock to his chilled skin.

  A fire blazed in the hearth, its warmth and light shuttered from the outside world by the den’s heavy curtains. Trophies and award plaques glinted all about the room.

  “He’s gone,” he said.

  Sten stepped forward and helped him into a robe. Lach tried to tie the belt, but his fingers felt numb. Sten did it for him with a hard jerk.

  “Good,” his father said. “Take your seats. We’ve much to discuss.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Vince set the rake against his shoulder and checked his cell again. Nothing. He had the ringer on, and vibration, so he’d known before he looked, but he couldn’t stop himself from doing so.

  Breathe…

  He slipped the phone back into his trouser pocket and started raking again.

  “How is she?”

  He looked up to find Sarah walking toward him in her olive-green wellies. “Almost finished.”

  “Mmm.” She came to stand beside him and considered the plot. Leaning close, she whispered, “You’ve been over it four times.”

  “Two, at most.”

  “Ben’s been spyin’ on ye. As have I.”

  He gripped the rake tightly.

  “No word?”

  “Not yet.”

  She grunted softly. “Would ye care for a change of scenery? We’ve—”

  “Yes.”

  Sarah chuckled. “You don’t know what the job is!”

  “Doesn’t matter. I mean, I don’t mind, whatever it is. I’ll help however you need.”

  “Well…the bad news is it’s hauling rocks. The good news is it might wear ye out enough to sleep through the night.”

  She said it lightly, but after a few days in her presence he could hear the friendly concern. “Thanks. I’d be grateful.”

  “As would we. Come, follow me.”

  He spent the next two hours transferring a pile of field stones from a field near the lodge to a wall on the ridge to the west. Sarah offered the use of a wheelbarrow, but he turned it down. The job didn’t seem urgent—just something they’d come up with to help keep him from going crazy. By the time he carried the last few rocks up the ridge, the sun was setting on his fifth day at the lodge. Trudging back down the hill, he tried to feel gratitude.

  For my body. For my health. For the time and effort I can give to Ben and Sarah.

  It helped, a little. He toed off his boots inside the mudroom off the kitchen and slipped upstairs. Once he’d put both phones on their chargers, he peeled off the rest of his work-stained clothes to shower before supper.

  Five days. It’d been five days with no word from Lach. Not even any communication from McAlistair to the Murrays, which seemed weird. The guy had a lot going on, what with his whisky going up in smoke, but wouldn’t he check in with them to see if their car had turned up?

  The car Sørensen had taken. Vince could only guess that no news was good news, as far as that went. Seemed like the authorities would’ve had enough time to poke through the wreckage for casualties, but maybe not. It’d been a big fire. He found himself thinking about Sørensen more every day—about the qualities he’d never appreciated. Qualities that Lach might have appreciated a lot. The worry on Lach’s face and in his voice that night wouldn’t leave Vince alone. Not because he begrudged Sørensen any good feelings Lach had for him, but because if Lach was worried, shit was dire.

  He could only assume Lach had sent Cross an update, because their boss hadn’t contacted Vince. He wasn’t sure whether to add that to his gratitude or not.

  The weirdest part was that he felt like a fugitive. It was the way Lach had sent him away—in the dark, at speed, to avoid his father. Vince had definitely taken the guy’s Land Rover without permission, but according to Ben, McAlistair hadn’t thought to ask about the car until they’d been gone for some time. He’d cut the power and then left for home in his chopper. The day Vince brought their wagon back, Ben and Sarah had taken it to fetch the Rover.

  They were treating him as kindly as they had when Lach had been with him, but he could only imagine what they thought of the situation. Mostly: why would Lach send his boyfriend to the hunting lodge at a time of crisis? They were probably wondering why Vince didn’t just go home. It wasn’t like he was going to hunt McAlistair’s pheasant while his company suffered its worst setback since Prohibition.

  But he couldn’t leave. The mission seemed lost at this point, but he couldn’t just go back to base without knowing Lach was okay. And he couldn’t leave the lodge until Lach contacted him.

  Vince had promised, and as much as he felt like clawing his own skin off with frustration, he had to trust that Lach knew what he was doing. That the best way he thought Vince could help was to stay here.

  He turned off the shower and grabbed his towel, and resigned himself to another night pacing the lodge’s empty rooms.

  “Good job this morning.”

  Lach looked up from the burnt barrel stave in his glove. His father was picking his way through the debris toward him.

  “The board were impressed,” Hamish said. “Several told me after that I should have brought you on sooner. I told them I’d tried, but…” He looked around the blackened, roofless warehouse and grimaced. “Apparently I needed help. Find anything?”

  Lach pitched the charred wood aside. Seemed that was all he’d done for the three nights since the fire inspectors had left. They’d made a preliminary judgment of accidental combustion, but they’d also taken a lot of samples with them. If they discovered accelerants, Hamish McAlistair was determined they not discover any other evidence of the fact he’d paid to have half his warehouses incinerated. “No.”

  “Good. Where’s Sørensen?”

  “Back in the tenners.”

  “All right. Keep it up.” He clapped Lach on the shoulder, then walked back toward the entrance.

  The fire had been contained to one warehouse, sparing the rest of the distillery and its admin and commercial spaces. They’d been lucky that the explosions hadn’t seemed to jar any of the equipment in the production buildings. Besides the stock, McAlistair’s had lost a delivery lorry and a couple of forklifts. No lives, thank God. Just barrels and barrels of ten-, twelve-, and twenty-five-year-old amber. He’d stood behind his father that morning while he delivered the bad news to the board of directors, unable to focus on any loss but his own.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about Vince. At least Lach knew what was going on. Vince was stranded at the hunting lodge with nary a clue what was happening. Hamish had threatened to void their deal if they tried to contact Vince in any way, and now Lach couldn’t help but suspect every passing staff member of spying on him and Sten—even Archie. The older man had been especially accommodating since the fire, but Lach didn’t trust anyone but Sten at this point. When Hamish had demanded Sten’s mobile, the big man had handed it over with an admirable show of reluctance.

  As he cleared debris, looking for leftover incendiary evidence, Lach tried to set aside thoughts of Vince, to trust he’d do what Lach had asked him to do. Ben and Sarah would take care of him, but Lach knew Vince well enough to know he’d be going out of his mind. Frankly, he was impressed Vince hadn’t sneaked back already. He wasn’t famous for patience.

  Hell, as much as Lach hoped Vince stayed put, he could’ve used some of the man’s calm assurances just now.

  Footsteps crunched behind him again. He straightened and turned to Sten. “Any luck?”

  “No.” Sten wiped his forehead, smearing soot across it. “Still looking. Might not be here. Could be it’s in the other warehouse, or the distillery. Or the offices.”

  The multitude of options sounded wearying to Lach. Sten’s fortitude continued to surprise him. The fellow was driven. The night they’d made their bargain with Hamish, Sten admitted to Lach that he’d heard his father tell Vince about the renovations. As soon as their hunt was over, he’d taken the wagon and sped toward the coastal port, hoping to stop any demolition before it could happen. He’d thought they would assume he’d gone for a night out, but then Lach had hightailed it after him, and Vince after Lach.

  And now this mess. But they still had a plan: to find the second passageway to the underground chamber. They’d been picking through the rubble for three long nights, looking for it, and three nights had been more than enough time to recognize how he’d dragged his feet on so much of this mission. It was important to Sten, which was one thing. They were friendly still, and he wanted the man to find his treasure.

  But it had been so important to Vince, too, and that should have been enough to light a bonfire under Lach’s arse. This legend held something for Vince that, while Lach didn’t fully understand it, he did understand now what Vince meant to him.

  And he wouldn’t let him down this time. He couldn’t and still hope to be an honorable man Vince might be able to respect.

  “Send me the link to the images, would you? I might be of more help then.”

  Sten pulled out his phone—his mission device, which Hamish didn’t know about. He punched at it with his big thumbs, then nodded. “Done.”

  “Thanks. Did you send it to my freelance email or personal?”

  Sten frowned, then looked back down at his phone. “Oops.”

  An uneasy feeling slid into Lach’s gut. “Oops?”

  Sten glanced up at him, sheepish. “I texted it to you.”

  Ballocks.

  “Texted what to Lach?”

  They both turned to find his father standing a few meters away.

  “A meme,” Sten said.

  Hamish McAlistair approached them. “I like memes. Show me.”

  “It’s stupid, Da. Just something to break up the night, aye?”

  “Break up the night.” His father considered that. “I seem to recall that Lach doesn’t have his mobile. And further, that Vince has it, along with his own. But lo—Sten has an extra one. So here’s what you’re going to do, Sten. Open your app and text our Vince. Tell him that the crisis of the fire has passed, that your visit here is finished, and he should return and collect his belongings.”

  Bring Vince back here, into his father’s clutches? Nah. “Don’t, Sten.”

  Sten looked between them, uncertain, until Hamish reached behind him and pulled out a handgun.

  Christ. Lach leapt to stand between them. “Da, what’re you doing? Put down the gun.”

  Hamish lifted it, aiming just over Lach’s shoulder, where Sten’s heart would be. “Start texting, Sørensen.”

  “Da.”

  “Do it.”

  Sten unlocked his phone and opened a message. He held it up to Hamish—“To Vince”—and then tapped out a message. “Hallo, Vince, emergency over! Lachlan says come back, please.” When he’d pressed Send, he locked the screen and set his phone in Hamish’s outstretched hand.

  “Very good. Now. We’re going to take a walk. Not too far, only to the old works. I suggest you don’t try anything sudden. I’ve recently gotten in some excellent shooting practice. Let’s go, gentlemen.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Vince was in the small sitting room, staring at a photograph, when the floorboards in the hallway creaked. He knew they weren’t Lach’s, but he’d have given almost anything for that to be true.

  “Ah, my favorite.” Ben walked toward him with a tray. “Brought ye some tea, since ye’re up. It’s spiked.”

  Vince smiled. “Thank you. I’m sorry if I woke you. I can’t sleep.”

  “Of course ye can’t, lad.” Ben poured him a cup from a small teapot. “That’s Lachlan’s grandfather in that photo. In case ye couldn’t guess it.”

  Vince chuckled as he took the cup. In the photo, Lach was maybe twenty. His grandfather was silver-haired but otherwise a dead ringer for present-day Lach. They stood with an arm around each other’s shoulders, grinning. “They look a lot alike.”

  “That they do. Old Malcolm was a handsome fella. And a flirt?” Ben huffed. “If you think Lachlan’s a kilt-chaser, ye shoulda seen Mac. Utterly shameless.”

  Vince’s neck grew hot, thinking about how he’d reprimanded Lach at the airport.

  “He even tried his tricks on Sarah before we were promised, but she could always see through them. I like to think she chose…wisely.”

  Vince grinned. “Indiana Jones fan, are you?”

  “Oh, aye! As were those two.” He pointed to Lach and his granddad. “Always scoutin’ about, lookin’ for Roman coins. Not as many to be found out this way as down south, but they discovered a few. They’re in that case, over there.”

  Vince had walked past it without looking closely. Now his gaze ate up the small coins. The faces stamped on them had been rubbed smooth by millennia of human hands and the elements. He tried to imagine a younger Lach, excited to have found one, and he was glad Lach had had a partner in crime. No wonder he’d wanted that mission looking for the Ninth Legion. Vince wished he’d known, but then he hadn’t shared his own obsession with Lach, had he?

  “Well, I’ll leave ye to it. Do help yerself to the kitchen, should ye want it.”

  “Thank you, Ben.”

  “Anythin’ for Lach’s man,” he said and shuffled away to his bed.

  Vince sipped the tea, savoring the extra warmth the whisky left in his belly. Ben had added just enough to ease the tightness in his back. By the end of his second cup, he was ready to try to sleep again. He rinsed the cup and teapot, and climbed the stairs to his room.

  Once he was there, though, he couldn’t stop staring at the two cell phones charging on the nightstand. He’d never noticed how many scratches crisscrossed his screen until it lay next to Lach’s perfectly smooth one. As he compared them, Lach’s phone buzzed and his screen lit up with a text. Vince leaned close, but disappointment prodded him in the gut. It was some random guy. Jeremy, whoever that was. This had happened a few times since he’d been at the lodge. Lach seemed to have a collection of text buddies, all wondering what he was up to. Annoyed, Vince flicked at the notification.

  The home screen came to life.

  Of course it did. Lach didn’t use a PIN. Vince knew because he’d given the guy a whole separate lecture about that a year ago. They hadn’t even been going out anymore. Lach must’ve loved that little chat.

  His gaze skipped around the apps on the screen. The usual assortment, though they were all hanging out singly, not grouped into folders like Vince’s. They covered nine screens. He counted them twice as he swiped lazily from one to the next. He needed to put the phone down. It wasn’t his, and he’d come up here to sleep anyway. But one icon kept catching his eye as he passed it.

  Lach’s photo cache. The app was one he didn’t recognize, which didn’t surprise him. It probably had special features that an amateur like him would never bother with. But Lach would. He’d have long since explored all of them. Mastered them, probably.

  The icon glowed like an elegant land mine. There was no telling what was hiding inside it. Based on Lach’s text notifications? Other guys. Maybe a lot of them. And opening it would be a breach of trust he wasn’t sure he could live with. He was the one so hung up on honor, after all.

  Thing was, though…he missed him. He couldn’t have his presence or his warmth. Couldn’t even have his voice, since Lach hadn’t called. But he could have some part of him. He could have the way Lach saw the world, through his lens.

  He opened the app.

  Here were folders. Dozens of them, on an expanding carousel. To his relief, none of them were overtly titled MEN. He’d have thought they’d be arranged by subject, but the labels were more like moods. Active. Thoughtful. Relaxed. Inquisitive. With a silent apology to Lach, he opened that last one.

  And saw himself. He was leaning over the GPRS, positioning it for an image. Lach had taken it the day they’d tried to map the tunnel.

  He swiped sideways and found himself again. Same day, nearly the same pose. Another swipe, another similar picture. The next one, though, was in the upper gallery of the house. Then the library. Then the kitchen, where Lach had caught him talking to the chef. Vince had been trying to fill those interminable days of the storm. The photos were in reverse order, and they were all him.

  He opened the folder called Active and found more. Only a few of these were from this mission. Most were older. He couldn’t figure out how Lach had gotten some of them without his knowing.

  Thoughtful taught him he scowled too much. Relaxed… There weren’t many pics in that one. He swiped through the carousel, dipping in here and there, until he reached the very end, where his thumb stuttered.

  The last folder was called Stripped.

  The images inside were all black and white. They were closely framed, too—a hand, a jawline, the curve of a shoulder in a black gym tank. But they were of him. Those were his nails, and a scar he’d gotten from a bee sting as a kid. In the middle of the bunch was a close-up shot of his face. He looked really focused and pretty intense. Like whoever he was looking at was about to get thoroughly and memorably fucked.

  Lach had taken it before their breakup. They hadn’t seen each other for a couple weeks, and the moment he’d locked the hotel room door, Vince had practically chewed Lach’s clothes off him. “Hold on,” Lach had said and pulled his phone from the heap on the floor. “You have five seconds,” Vince had told him.

  This was the shot. It was buried all the way at the end of the folders. Did Lach still look at it? Vince liked that thought. Lach must look at some of them, if he was still adding pictures. Did he just swipe through, or did he spend some time with them? Use them, maybe—

 

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