All the men at the table parted their lips in protest, but Laird quieted them with a scowl. Then turned it on his wife. “There is safety in numbers, lass. ‘Twould be best if we stayed together until we are sure of Jameson’s upcoming move.”
Bugger it, but his frown, however ferocious, never swayed Scarlett when her mind was set.
“Then I guess I know how all of you will be spending the day as well,” she retorted pertly. “Hope you had enough to eat. I know none of you like hospital food.”
More silent protests, but this time everyone’s eyes were upon Laird. Pleading. Hoping he’d reel in his wayward spouse and make her see sense.
“Lass…”
She shook her head before he could present an argument. “If you all want to hunker down here and wait like a bunch of sitting ducks for all hell to rain down on you, that’s fine with me. I’ve spent the better part of my adult life living like this and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s you can either become a recluse or face adversity with your chin held high. And believe me, they like it when you cower and I bet Jameson is no different. I refuse to give him the pleasure. Besides, this is exactly what bodyguards are for. If you don’t want to play one, I’ll just call Tyrone to do it. He’d even enjoy it.”
Nothing like having one’s manhood truncated and tossed in your face to motivate a man.
Aye, Laird knew Tyrone Halliday had often served as Scarlett’s bodyguard, but with such a sharp tongue, she needed no protection. He recalled a time when most every word from her lips had been just as waspish. When she’d been fearless and bold and every confrontation between them was akin to facing the English army across a battlefield.
The years had softened her more than he’d realized. Life here was transforming her into the Scarlett Thomas of old. While he rather liked her audacity, the sooner he got her home the better.
Before she got them all killed.
To the last, they all knew where they’d spend the day. No man worth his salt would take a set-down like that as anything less than a challenge.
Laird itched to bring his blade along for protection. Unfortunately, not only would it attract unnecessary attention, it would be useless against a modern weapon. Instead, he instructed Rhys to bring his dagger. The jeweled piece wasn’t the most lethal of weapons, but it would do in a pinch.
While the others readied themselves for the endless day ahead, Laird rummaged through Scarlett’s bag and retrieved her pistol. He tucked the gun in his waistband at the small of his back, as he’d seen on the television. He pulled his shirttail over it and added a sport coat to disguise it more thoroughly then slipped an extra magazine into his pocket.
Hopefully he wouldn’t shoot himself in the arse before the day was done.
Scarlett
Well, she’d talked the big talk now she had to walk the walk. Ballsy had suited her much better when she was young and stupid.
Now her arrogance would put them all in harm’s way.
They might have been better off cowering.
“What happened?” She blasted the question at Tyrone the moment he fell in step alongside of her as they entered the hospital.
The men spread out to pace the perimeter of the reception area. There were a lot of bodies there this morning. Only a few pointed cameras in her direction or seemed sick or injured. They’d want to weed out any potential threats.
Hermione stayed close to her side, clinging to her hand and trotting to keep up with Scarlett’s agitated pace. Claire and Emmy followed behind.
“He used his NSA connections to be released from holding before the police could press charges against him,” he told her as he waved off one of the persistent reporters who was up early enough this morning to catch her arrival. “Is this your daughter? Or shall I say, your other daughter?”
Scarlett forced a pleasant smile for Hermione and swung their clasped hands back and forth until her daughter giggled. “Yes. Hermione this is Mr. Halliday. Can you say hello?”
The toddler dropped into a pretty curtsey. “Pleased to meet ye, sir.”
His brows shot upward. “I’m going to add that to the list of questions I’m not going to ask.”
“Good idea,” Scarlett agreed. “These are my friends Claire Urquhart and Emmy MacLean.”
They made polite greetings.
“We’re going to go grab some coffee before we go up,” Emmy told her. “You want anything?”
Scarlett and Tyrone declined and the two women veered toward the cafeteria. Scarlett turned back to the matter at hand. “So what next?”
Tyrone shrugged as they headed down the hall to the elevators. “I’ve put some of the boys I’ve hired out there to find him and track him, but we’ve got nothing so far. He may be using a fake ID or disguising himself. Either way, he’s gone to ground.”
“Pretty far under,” Scarlett grumbled. “The dirt bag. I can’t believe they wouldn’t hold him for attempted murder.”
“No witnesses, Scar,” he reminded her.
“I would have lied.”
Tyrone’s smile was grim as he looked over his shoulder at the four Scotsmen grilling every person present that morning. “Really? What about them? They all strike me as the upstanding sort.”
They were.
That was the problem. None of them could think like Jameson. He risked his livelihood in his pursuit of Hugh. Followed them to another country to satisfy his vengeance. If their conclusions last evening were correct, he’d trailed her and Laird to the theater with the intent of killing them from the shadows, without even having proof of who Laird was. Jameson had shown himself capable of harming innocents along the
