Savage King (The Caraksay

Brotherhood Book 1) Ashe Barker

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SAVAGE KING
THE CARAKSAY BROTHERHOOD : BOOK 1
ASHE BARKER
ASHE BARKER BOOKS
COPYRIGHT

Copyright © 2022 by Ashe Barker

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.

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Cover Art by http://www.fiverr.com/designrans

Warning : This book contains sexually explicit content which is suitable only for mature readers. If
such content upsets you, please do not purchase this book
I’m going to lay her bare, body and soul, until there is nothing she can hide from me.

If running a successful crime empire has taught me anything, it’s that everyone has an agenda and
coincidences aren’t to be trusted.
So when a pretty young thing just happens to save my brother from certain death, I do what any
reasonable man in my position would do.
I take her. And I make her talk the way only a man like me can.
On her knees, with her bottom red and burning, she swears she knows nothing about the plot to
murder my brother.
Despite every cell in my body screaming at me to keep her, to claim her for my own, I’m forced to
set her free.
But as it turns out, Cristina isn’t as innocent as she led me to believe. And the secrets she keeps
are far more dangerous and deadlier than I ever could have known.
 CONTENTS

Prologue 1
Prologue 2

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
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue

Untitled
Capri Heat (Book 1 in the Elite Doms series)
Also by Ashe Barker
From the Author
About the Author
PROLOGUE 1

Chișinău, Moldova, 2011

Screaming.
So. Much. Screaming.
And pain. Excruciating agony, endless torment that just went on and on and on…
She begged for water, for drugs to make it stop, make it go away.
There were voices close by. Muted, quiet, gentle tones, intended to soothe, but nothing made any
difference. She was being torn in two. She would never survive this. They had been right, all of them.
It was too soon. She was too young.
A piece of ice was placed on her tongue. That helped, for a brief respite before it melted, and the
next contraction rolled relentlessly forward to rack her fragile frame.
“Soon, little one. It will not be long now…”
She opened her eyes, focussed on the uniformed nurse, and tried to gather the last shreds of her
courage. Her mother had always told her to be brave, to never let them see her fear.
“They feed on fear, these men who surround us. They know our weakness, but only if we let them.
Do not let them see it, cel mic.”
Her mother’s words rang in her head. If only she was still here, here to hold her hand, to comfort,
to reassure. Her mother had never let her down, until, eventually, she had.
She bit down hard, tried to stifle her screams, desperately searching for some reason to believe
she could survive this. Would survive it.
“I see it. The head. You must pant, like this.” The nurse demonstrated what was needed.
It would have been funny if she was not so terribly scared, so hopelessly alone.
So lost in a sea of pain.
“Push. Push now,” came the sharp command. “Harder.”
It hurts. I cannot…
“You can, you will. You have to.” There was no hint of compassion now, just professional
determination to see this thing done. “This baby needs to come out.”
I know. I know, but it’s so hard…
“You can do it. One last push.”
Beyond caring, beyond any coherent thought, she grasped the bedpost and did as she was told. Yet
another merciless, vice-like contraction seized her abdomen. She was sure she would simply die, and
she would welcome that if it meant this was finally over.
Then, suddenly, it was. Her body heaved. The pressure was unbearable for one searing moment.
She was hoarse with screaming, beyond agony. She knew a glorious sense of release as her body
finally split. A rush of warmth, then wetness.
And…emptiness.
The pain receded. Her world dimmed to grey.
Somewhere, far away, in the distance, and so faint she barely heard it, was the thin, high wail of a
newborn.
My baby… She drifted into blessed unconsciousness.
PROLOGUE 2

Isle of Caraksay, Outer Hebrides

2014

He panted, leaning forward, his hands braced on his knees; he drew in several deep, fortifying
breaths. His lungs now appeased, he threw all his energy into the final few metres. Athletic, fit, the
steep incline presented no real difficulties for Ethan Savage. He had spent too many hours in the gym
to be defeated by a bloody hill, but he had underestimated the gradient. If the terrain had been any
steeper, he would have needed grappling hooks. Still, he was almost there now.
Small stones scattered and crunched beneath his booted feet when he finally reached the summit.
He straightened, raised his gaze, then forgot to breathe altogether as he turned in a slow circle.
Fucking beautiful.
It had been worth the effort. He had spent the last gruelling hour scaling this hill, the highest on the
island, but it gave him what he needed — a clear view of his entire domain.
Or, it would be his, once he completed the purchase. He would be master of all he surveyed.
Monarch of his own personal glen.
A thousand feet below him lay the ruins of a fortress. It was not named on any map, but from what
he could gather from the locals, who were hardly local at all, given that the nearest inhabited island
was Pabbay, about five miles to the south, the castle was known as Carak Chastaeal in the local
Gaelic. Or, more simply, Carak Castle.
The ruins consisted of several large buildings, one of which was clearly the main keep, still
perching upon a promontory facing east towards the Scottish mainland, over eighty kilometres away
across the choppy waters of the North Atlantic. Clearly, the warriors of old expected trouble from
that direction and were determined to repel all invaders.
Ethan felt much the same way.
The keep appeared to have survived the attentions of any hostile visitors pretty much intact. Ethan
suspected that despite the fears of whoever built it here, the prospect of gaining dominion over this
barren and isolated lump of rock had not been sufficiently tempting to medieval warlords to merit the
bother and peril of crossing several miles of choppy water to reach it. Whoever once lived here had
been left pretty much to themselves, hence the presence of several more buildings scattered around
the keep and connected by drystone walls and overgrown footpaths. Stables, two barns, a cluster of
low, one-roomed cottages, and several more outbuildings of indeterminate origin. Clearly, the
previous inhabitants had been farmers as well as warriors, and fishermen, too, probably, if the
crumbling harbour was any indication.
 No boats bobbed at anchor now. No crofters tilled the earth or herded sheep on the surrounding
hills. No woodsmoke wafted from the cottages, no poultry scratched and pecked in the farmyards.
Only the deserted stone shells remained to betray the fact that anyone ever lived, worked, and died
here.
That was all about to change.
Ethan pulled his phone from his pocket. He scowled at the flickering bar on the screen indicating
barely a sniff of a signal. That would have to be sorted out. He held the phone high, managed to eke
out one more bar, and hit the number he needed in his speed dial.
It was answered on the second ring. Probably a good thing. Ethan did not imagine he would be
able to hang on to the signal for long.
“Ethan? How can I help you?” Zachariah Richs was a senior partner at Friedman’s, the private
bank that handled most of Ethan’s affairs.
“Zack? Hi there. I need a million and half.”
The elderly banker barely missed a beat. “I see. How quickly?”
“Within the day.”
“May I ask why?”
It was a friendly enquiry only. Ethan was not in the habit of explaining himself, and certainly he
had no need to do so. The bank would do as he instructed. But he had known and done business with
Zachariah Richs for the last decade, and he liked the ageing banker. More important, he knew that
nothing he told Zack would ever be repeated.
“I’m buying an island,” he replied. “By online auction. It closes in two hours. I’ll need a banker’s
draft.”
“Of course. Where shall I send it?” There was never the slightest possibility that the bank would
present obstacles. Ethan was good for the cash many times over.
“Savage and Southern. For the attention of Warren Savage.”
The prestigious firm of solicitors based in Edinburgh was headed by one of Ethan’s many cousins.
The practice was broadly legitimate, but it always paid to have a direct line to a senior partner when
discretion was called for. Not that this deal was dodgy, exactly. The island of Caraksay had been on
the market for over a year but no one seemed particularly keen to acquire a barren lump of rock at the
windy edge of the Atlantic Ocean, and Ethan’s money was as good as anyone else’s. Well, nearly, if
you were not too picky about its provenance. The UK money-laundering rules were a bloody
nuisance, but between Zachariah Richs and Warren Savage, Ethan could be fairly sure his cash could
not be traced back to anything illegal.
“The transfer will be on its way within thirty minutes,” Zack assured him. “Where is this island?”
“The Outer Hebrides,” Ethan replied.
“I see. May I ask why you want a Hebridean island?”
“I mean to live here.”
“Ah.” If Zack was surprised, he did not betray that fact. “Can I expect to be invited to your house-
warming party? Or should that be island-warming?”
Ethan had no intention of throwing parties, but he would be happy enough to host his old friend for
a weekend of fishing. “Yes. Bring a warm coat.”
CHAPTER 1

S tirling, Scotland.
March 2019

Cristina

I STEP OUTSIDE and sniff the air. This is just the sort of morning I like. Cool, but with the promise of
warmth later. A light breeze ripples the new leaves on the sycamores lining the street where I rent a
ground-floor flat. I close and lock the door behind me then pocket the key.
Today is the start of a fresh, spring day in Stirling, perfect for a quick five miles or so before I
make my way into the city centre to set up my stall.
I pull my hood up, stuff my earplugs into my ears, and click on the music app on my phone.
Madonna’s Greatest Hits. A bit dated, but still, one of my favourites. I set off at a brisk pace, my feet
slapping the pavement in time with Like A Virgin.
Five miles should take me about forty minutes. I’ll be back in time for a quick shower, then I can
catch the bus into town and be at the market by nine. I’m looking forward to setting up my display. I
have several new pieces that I created over the weekend, titanium pendants set with tiger eye and
bloodstone, with matching bracelets. Classy and elegant, but not too pricey. I’m keen to see how
they’ll sell, though I’m quietly confident.
My stuff is good, even if I am biased. Unique, even, as far as I can see. I like to blend traditional
Celtic designs with the more exotic styles of the Near East to create what I consider to be stunning
items of jewellery. The tourists of Stirling seem to agree. My pieces have been well-received among
the visitors from abroad who flock to places like Stirling for the romantic and historical connections.
I occasionally venture to Edinburgh, usually during the Festival when it’s busy and trade might be
better, but generally I prefer my regular site. I’m to be found there three days a week, in the
marketplace in the city centre a mile and a half from where I live. My pitch nestles between a stall
selling antique clocks and another offering silk scarves in every colour imaginable.
It’s a good living. Quiet. Peaceful. Predictable. And safe.
Exactly as I like it.
I reach the end of my quiet street and jog left into a busier road. A mile further, to the haunting
strains of American Pie Madonna-style, I leave the main road, continuing along a cobbled path
leading to the riverside. The local council, in their wisdom, has invested in a decent paved waterfront
trail to attract more visitors to the city, and it’s one of my preferred routes for a morning run. It’s away
from traffic, out of the din, and smells of the busy city streets, with occasional glimpses of an otter or
a kingfisher to brighten the day.
I’m panting now, but I have another mile or so in me yet. I’ll run as far as the next bridge, then
make my way back up onto the road and head for home.
I round a long, curving stretch of path. The bridge is up ahead, about half a mile away. The river
tumbles merrily on my right, the water level slightly raised due to the heavy rain we had a few days
ago, but nothing too alarming.
I can just make out a group of people walking over the bridge, four or five of them, perhaps. One
separates from the rest and jogs back to the start of the bridge, then down the stone steps onto the
waterside path in front of me. He reaches the path, then ducks beneath the bridge, heading away from
me.
I’m relieved. Never the most sociable of people, I’ll be leaving the path before I get to him, so I
won’t need to conjure up a smile and a ‘hello’.
He pauses in the shadow of the bridge and turns to face the wall.
Bloody hell.
I slow my pace. He’s still a fair way ahead, but I’ll make sure I leave enough time for him to
finish taking a leak, put everything away again, and get lost.
He finishes his urgent business and begins to retrace his steps. He doesn’t get more than a couple
of paces before more men appear from beyond the bridge. Four. No, five of them. They rush at the
lone man, who is clearly not best pleased to see them and not hanging about to pass the time of day.
He breaks into a sprint.
They all arrive at the foot of the steps together, and one of the men chasing grabs at the one
running away. He whirls and aims a vicious kick at the assailant’s knee. I’m still at least a couple of
hundred metres away, but I swear I hear the crunch of bone from here. The man goes down like a
felled tree.
It all took just a few moments, but it was long enough for one of the other men to get behind him,
blocking the escape route up the steps. Another attacker makes a lunge, but the victim dodges out of
the way, landing a swinging punch to another jaw.
Then, it’s all something of blur. There’s a scuffle, the sound of punches landing, grunts and snarls
as breath is forced from lungs and male testosterone erupts into violence. Rooted to the spot, I can
only stand and stare when the four men still on their feet set about the one on his own.
Suddenly, he breaks free from the skirmish and makes another run for it. He’s heading in my
direction. Instinctively, I side step off the path and into the shrubbery lining the route. No way do I
want to get involved in whatever this is.
I can see the first man clearly now. He’s covering the ground fast, only about a hundred metres
from me. He’s young, about my age, I think. Early to mid-twenties, with dark-brown hair. And well-
dressed in a casual sort of a way, expensive designer jeans and a button-down shirt to match, though
his clothes are looking the worse for wear right now. No coat or jacket, which seems odd, given that
this is March, in Scotland. Hardly a subtropical climate.
The other four are in hot pursuit and gaining. Their quarry is limping and holding his side, and
they are almost upon him. He whirls back to face them.
“Fuck off, Olensky. You really don’t want to do this.” He is walking slowly backwards, his gaze
swinging left and right, keeping each of them in sight.
‘Oh, I think we do.” The reply comes from the largest of the assailants, a bear of a man aged
around forty, I’d say, and whose craggy appearance suggests he’s seen every day of that life, and it is
delivered in a heavy Eastern European accent, not unlike my own.
The man has almost drawn level with the spot where I’m hiding when they catch him up and
surround him again. He throws a punch that catches the one who spoke right in the middle of his face.
“Wrong answer, arsehole. Do yourself a favour and piss off.”
Blood dribbles from the ‘arsehole’s’ nose, and his hand is tucked inside his jacket as though
holding bruised ribs. But still he advances, his mates at his back.
This time, the younger man is ready for him. He stands his ground, fists up. “Do you never get the
message, dickhead?”
Another of the men answers this time. “We have message for you, Savage, or rather, for your
brother.”
Again, I detect a slight hint of an Eastern European accent, but my attention is concentrated on the
glint of steel as the man at his side — Olensky? — pulls a vicious-looking knife from beneath his
jacket. So much for injured ribs.
The younger man clearly sees the value of caution. He’s outnumbered, and they are armed, with
murderous knives and equally deadly intent.
He backs away. “Don’t be a fucking idiot,” he begins. “You know how this will end.”
“It ends here.” Olensky lunges with the knife. “You always were the runt of the litter. It is time to
put you out of your misery, my way of showing you, and your brother, what happens to those who
cross me. You were warned. Now, it’s payback time.”
The one called Savage puts up an arm to defend himself. The knife slices through his sleeve.
Blood pours from the wound to pool on the stone flags.
“Fuck,” he mutters, grasping at his arm, at the same time swinging his foot up to catch Olensky in
the elbow.
There’s a sickening crunch and a wail of agony, but Olensky is not done yet. The rest of his thugs
grab Savage and pin his arms at his sides, while Olensky switches the knife to his other hand and
circles the prisoner.
“Let’s make this nice and slow, shall we?” He grins, revealing three or four yellowing teeth and
huge gaps where the rest should have been. “We really should savour the moment, perhaps take a few
snapshots to send to your brother. We wouldn’t want him to miss out on all the fun, would we?” He
moves in close, narrows his eyes, then slowly, deliberately, slices the blade across Savage’s
stomach.
It’s enough. Too much. The men holding him let go, and Savage buckles to his knees.
Olensky stands over him, his left arm dangling useless at his side.
“We cannot leave trash like this on the path. Someone might complain.” Then, as calm as anything,
he pockets the knife again, bends and wraps his meaty fist around Savage’s ankle. While his friends
watch, grinning stupidly, Olensky drags the dying man across the path to the edge of the river, then
simply shoves him into the water.
I let out a strangled scream. I can’t help it. Shock and horror overwhelm what’s left of good sense.
They all hear me. As one, they turn and see me for the first time. Olensky’s lip curls in a parody of
a smile in his weather-beaten features. He bares his nicotine-stained teeth at me, his eyes almost as
dead as those of his victim.
“You should not have been here,” he snarls, reaching for me.
Instinct kicks in. I have to get away. I dart out of the shrubbery and try to dodge past the group of
thugs, but they block the entire path. The knife is in Olensky’s hand again, and he is once more playing
to his audience. He circles around me, edging me backwards, towards the water’s edge. There’s only
one way to escape, and I take it.
I take another step back, twisting my body, and I dive into the river.
I surface to see Olensky and the rest glowering at me from the path. One of the men starts to take
off his jacket as if he might be contemplating coming in after me, but a shout from the bridge disturbs
them. More men are running down the steps, and clearly Olensky and his cronies have no desire to
discuss their recent antics with anyone else in a fair fight. He mutters something in Russian and
sprints off in the direction I came from, his thuggish mates at his heels, away from the men now
pounding along the bank.
I spin around, treading water and scanning the surface for any sign of the injured man. It’s the
blood floating to the surface that gives him away. I pick my spot, swim a few strokes, and dive.
When next I surface, the lifeless body of Savage weighing me down, there are two more men in
the water. One of them grabs Savage, the other reaches for me.
“I’m okay. I can get out on my own. Help him,” I splutter.
The man nods and turns his attention to assisting the one who was injured. By the time I reach the
edge and grasp at the hands reaching down to help me out, the body of Savage is already on the bank.
“Is he…?” I hardly dare breathe the words. Is he dead?
The faint wail of sirens is getting stronger. Someone must have called an ambulance. And the
police. I can only lie on the path, spluttering and gasping for air. I’m a strong swimmer, and I had no
doubt I could save myself. I wouldn’t have dived in otherwise. I don’t have a death wish. I wasn’t so
sure I could save the man, but I saw no reason not to try. Now, though, that dip in the icy waters of the
River Forth has taken everything out of me.
Apart from myself and Savage, there are six men clustered around us, two of them dripping wet
like I am but not yet shivering. For myself, it may be shock, or the cold, but I think I’m about to pass
out. I close my eyes and wait for the nausea to pass.
When my senses have rallied and I’m a bit more focussed, I raise my head and take in the scene.
Two of the men are on phones. One of them glances at me, mutters something into the mouthpiece, and
nods.
I am helped to my feet by two of them and bundled along the path in the direction of the bridge. A
pair of paramedics jog down the steps from the road and pause to ask if we are injured.
One of the men accompanying me gestures to where the casualty is still lying motionless on the
stone flags. “Over there,” he says, then takes me by the elbow to propel me up the steps.
I expect to be guided to the ambulance parked on the bridge, blue light flashing, but find myself
instead directed to a sleek, black four-by-four across the road.
“Get in.”
I shake my head, not happy about this. Something isn’t right…
“No, I don’t know you. I’ll ride in the ambulance. The police will want—”
“Do as you’re fucking told,” comes the snarled response. The man opens the rear door of the four-
by-four and bundles me onto the back. He follows me into the car, and the other man hops into the
driver’s seat.
Stunned and bewildered, I try to scramble across the seat and make a grab for the other door, but
he’s faster. He hauls me back, throws me down across the seat, then covers my body with his own so I
can’t move.
The car engine bursts into life. We are moving.
“Put your foot down,” he tells the man in the driving seat. “Get us the fuck out of here.”
CHAPTER 2

C araksay, Outer Hebrides

March 2019

ETHAN

“J ESUS ! HOW BAD ?”

I tighten my grip on the phone and concentrate on what I am hearing.
“It’s bad, boss.” Jack Morgan is my right-hand man and not given to over-statements. If he says
it’s bad, then it’s fucking bloody awful. “We got Aaron out of the water, but he’s been slashed across
the stomach. Lost a lot of blood.”
“Will he make it?” I demand to know
“Maybe. Probably. He’s in A&E at Stirling. They’re working on him now.”
“Are you there with him?”
“Aye, boss.”
“Good. Stay with him, and as soon as it’s safe, get him transferred to the Rothwell.”
The Rothwell is a private clinic close to Inverness where they charge an arm and a leg, but
discretion can be relied on. Right now, when his life is in the balance, my brother is better off in the
loving and highly efficient care of the National Health Service. As soon as he is out of danger, I want
him where I can be sure he will be well tended during his recuperation, and no one will pry too
deeply into how he came to be knifed in broad daylight and dumped in a river.
“Tell me what happened,” I growl.
“Aaron wanted a leak, so he nipped down onto the riverside path. We were up on the bridge. I
never saw where the men came from, but suddenly they were there. I can only think they’d been
following us and saw their chance. We heard the scuffle and charged down there to help, but they’d
chased him off in the other direction.”
“Who was it?” Now that I am satisfied my brother is being taken care of, I can turn my thoughts to
retribution. No one attacks me or mine without consequences. And they will be dire.
“We were too far away to see. The ringleader was a big man, about forty, grey hair and a beard.
He had four others with him, but I didn’t recognise any of them. From what we saw, Aaron dropped
one of them, broke his knee. He was down but tried to shoot at us as we passed him so we had to take
him out.”
 Fuck. We could have questioned him. Dead witnesses are no use.
The description we have fits about a hundred people I could name straight away, but what I do
know is that Aaron, Jack, and the rest were due to meet one of my so-called business associates, Eric
Manotov, this morning, to find out why he is so reluctant to pay me the four hundred thousand pounds
he owes me for the most recent shipment of counterfeit currency. Until I know different, I mean to
assume that Manotov is behind this.
If he is, he will pay, and dearly. This will be the most expensive four hundred grand he ever tried
to save.
“Thank fuck you got there in time,” I mutter. “He would have drowned…”
“We didn’t, boss.”
I pause. “Come again?”
“We didn’t get there in time.”
I rake back my hair. “Then how…?”
“There was a bystander. A jogger.”
“A…jogger?” I can hardly believe what I am hearing. “What has this jogger to do with it?”
“She was there, saw the whole thing. It looked as though the crew who attacked Aaron were about
to see her off, too, but she dodged them and dived into the river. It was her who got Aaron out. Well,
she dragged him to the surface. By then, we’d arrived. Me and Cal jumped in, too, and pulled him out.
But he’d gone under and was being swept downstream. We would never have found him in time if she
hadn’t been right there and gone straight in after him.”
My mind is racing with possibilities, but one fact screams out from the rest.
A witness. A live one. Someone got a close-up view of the bastards who tried to murder my
brother.
“Where is she now?”
“Tony spirited her away. I thought you might like a word.”
Fuck, but my men are good. “I would. I’ll talk to Tony straight away. Let me know as soon as
there’s any news about Aaron.”
“Will do, boss.” He ends the call.
Tony answers on the first ring.
“Boss?”
“Bring her here,” I order, without preamble. “The helicopter will be waiting for you at Oban.
And, Tony, whatever you do, don’t let the police get their sticky paws on my witness.”

Cristina

“WHO ARE YOU?” My voice is shaking, I can hear the quiver as I try to speak. I bite back tears of fear
and frustration. “I want to go home. You’ve no right to—”
“Shut up,” comes the growled response.
“I will not. I—”
I am still pinned beneath him, but he raises his head to regard me, his blue eyes chilling in their
intensity. “There’s enough ketamine in the boot to fell a carthorse,” he informs me coldly. “Unless you
want some of it, just keep quiet and do as you’re told.”
I gape at him. I have no doubt he means it.
This is madness. All I did was go for a morning run, I never asked to get mixed up in… in
whatever this is. Quelled for now, I fall silent.
Eventually, he lifts his weight from me, and I am able to breathe again.
“You can sit up if you like, but remember what I said. Keep fucking quiet.”
Shaking, I shove myself up and shrink into the corner furthest away from him. I’m still dripping
wet, and bloody cold, but I don’t dare to ask for a towel. It seems I don’t have to. The man beside me
reaches up and flips open a hatch set into the upholstery above his head and pulls out a car blanket.
“I want your phone. And anything else in your pockets.”
“My…? Are you trying to rob me?” I am incredulous. Overkill would hardly describe it.
He gives a short, harsh laugh. “No. You’ll get them back. Probably.” He holds out his hand.
“Don’t make me have to search you.”
“My phone’s waterlogged anyway,” I tell him, digging in the pocket of my hoodie. I offer the
drowned iPhone to him. There seems to be no point in being awkward, he’ll take it anyway.
He checks the screen, then pockets it. “Wallet?”
“I don’t have one on me. My cards and such like are in my phone case.”
He retrieves the phone and checks. My credit card is tucked in there, along with my driving
licence, a Nando’s loyalty card, and my emergency twenty-pound note.
He grunts and tosses the car blanket at me.
I wrap it around myself and hunch forward, trying to get warm. Well, warmer.
The familiar streets of Stirling slide past. We’re heading out of the city and soon we are purring
up the dual carriageway heading north.
“Where are we going?” I whisper, not entirely sure I want to brave this man’s wrath again.
“You’re going on a little trip,” he replies. “You might as well settle down, get some rest. We’ll be
a while yet.”
“A trip? Where to?”
His eyes narrow. “Remember what I said. Enough chatter.”
I subside into silence. My instinct for self-preservation has become finely honed over the years,
and my gut tells me I should do what I can now not to antagonise these men. Don’t invite violence.
Keep calm and hope they do the same. I huddle in my towel and watch the landscape glide past.
The thug at my side seems considerably more interested in my driving licence and credit cards
than in me. He’s constantly on his phone, texting or whatever. He even pauses to take a picture of me.
There’s a lot of low buzzing as replies seem to come in.
Incredibly, I must have somehow dozed off. When I open my eyes, we are passing along the edge
of a loch. I don’t recognise it, but road signs declare that we are ten miles from Oban. My heart sinks.
Oban is a busy ferry port.
Where are they taking me?
Our destination is not the harbour, apparently. The driver takes a turning signposted for the
airport, and my sense of dread deepens.
What if they somehow know who I am? What if they take me back there?
“Please,” I begin. “I have some money, in the bank. I could—” Whatever it costs me, I need to
stay here, in the UK.
“Shut up,” comes the curt response.
“Who are you?” I ask again. “Why are you doing this?”
 “You’ll see, soon enough. Ah, here we are.”
The car passes through a large metal gate and comes to a halt on a wide expanse of tarmac.
Beside us is a helicopter, the rotors already whirling.
“Won’t be long now.” The driver turns to grin at me from the front seat. It’s the first time he’s
spoken as far as I can recall. “I hope ye dinnae get airsick, lass.”
As soon as the car door is opened, I scramble out. I cast desperate glances to either side of me
and assess my chances of out-running these men. I’m fit, and my stamina is as good as anyone else’s,
thanks to my regular five miles a day. The huge gate is only a few hundred metres away, and beyond
it, the road. Maybe I could—
“Don’t even think about it.” The man who sat in the back with me grabs my arm and tugs me
towards the helicopter.
Panic sets in. I struggle, squirming wildly in my desperation to escape. It does me no good at all. I
am simply lifted bodily, slung over his shoulder, and dumped in the middle one of three seats behind
the pilot. The men from the car settle themselves on either side of me, one of them buckles me into my
seat, and within moments, we are airborne.
The flight is fairly short, and all of it over the choppy channels separating the Hebrides from the
mainland of Scotland. It’s a fine spring day, and the views would be stunning if I was not quite so
terrified. We pass over the Isle of Mull, and I recognise the pretty little brightly coloured seafront
terrace at Tobermory. I’ve seen pictures of it. Then, we’re over the open sea and making our way
west, I suppose. What else is out here? Just a few islands as far as I can recall, then the vast expanse
of the Atlantic Ocean stretching all the way to America.
After about half an hour, we seem to be circling. I can’t really see much outside because of the
large men flanking me, but I can tell we are descending, coming in to land.
There are treetops alongside, then a slight bump and the engine noise drops. The rotors overhead
slow to a gentle swirl. The man who drove the four-by-four swings the door on his side open and
leaps out. He turns to me, his arms outstretched.
I’d rather plunge to my death than accept help from any of them. In a last, and probably pathetic,
show of resistance, I perch on the edge of the doorway then drop the three feet or so to the ground.
At once, the wind hits me, buffeting me and reminding me, if I needed it, that I am still damp and
very, very cold. I grab for the blanket, for what good that will do. It’s almost as wet as I am.
I gaze around me. We are in some sort of a paved courtyard. Directly ahead is what looks to be a
medieval castle, with the churning waves as a backdrop. Several more buildings are set on the
hillside behind me, some of them quite large. I can pick out the roofs of what appear to be a handful
of cottages nestling lower down the valley. It would all be quite picturesque, I suppose. If I was here
willingly.
Three men, all wearing smart business suits, emerge from the main castle building and stride
towards our little group. The one leading is the tallest and most imposing, despite being the youngest
of all of them. Instinctively, I back away, only to be seized by the thug who offered to pump me full of
ketamine.
“Here she is, boss. Shall I take her down to the cells?”
The man who seems to be their leader rakes me with his gaze. His eyes are cold, grey, assessing.
He furrows his brow, then gives a brief shake of his head. “She’s shivering. She’d probably freeze to
death down there and be no use to me then. Take her to a guest room. One with a sea view, I think.”
“Fair enough.” The grip on my elbow tightens. “This way.”
I start to fight again, this time for my life, blinded by panic. There’s no way they are taking me
inside anywhere, not if I can help it. I know about men like these, and I’d rather die out here, in the
open air. Within moments, I find myself on my knees, my wrists secured behind me by this oaf’s huge
hands.
“Wait.” That tone of command again.
I blink back tears of sheer terror when he drops to his haunches in front of me. He takes my chin in
his hand and is oddly gentle as he raises my face to meet his steely gaze.
“There’s no point in fighting us. I want to talk to you, and you will answer me honestly. If you do
that, there will be no need to hurt you. Do you understand?” His tone is low, and chilled, but not
harsh. Not yet.
I don’t answer. I can’t. I am so paralysed by fear that the words stick in my throat.
“Do you understand?” he asks me again, his tone hardening.
I manage a nod.
It’s enough, seemingly. He straightens and helps me back onto my feet. The thug behind has
released my wrists, but I still feel the dull ache where he held me. I’ll have bruises to show for his
manhandling, soon enough.
“Tony here will take you inside and show you to your room. Take a warm bath. Get some rest. I’ll
have food sent up.”
I can only stare at him and wonder, quite irrelevantly, how such a sinister individual with the
power, wealth, and authority to quite literally snatch me off the street and have me brought to this
remote place, could be so handsome.
And why is he bothering to be kind when he means to murder me?

ETHAN

“IS SHE SETTLED ?” I ask Tony fifteen minutes later when he appears in the doorway of my office on
the first floor of the castle.
I prefer to locate most of my key operations in this building, the largest on my island, leaving the
rest free for accommodation, recreation, and domesticity.
Since I purchased the isle of Caraksay five years ago, along with all the ruined buildings scattered
about the tiny lump of Outer Hebridean rock, I’ve invested the thick end of thirty million quid in
getting the place up to the standard I require.
I live here. I work here. This place has to offer me convenience, comfort, and first-class
communications. I run an empire stretching across most of Europe and the United States, and I do it
all from my private island.
First came a reliable generator to back up the wind turbines I prefer to use. I care about the planet
as much as anyone, but I can’t be without electricity. Ever. Next came the state-of-the-art IT
installation and Wi-Fi connection, and, naturally, my helipad. I can be in Edinburgh within an hour,
Glasgow even quicker. I keep a private jet at Oban, so the rest of the UK and the world is just a hop
away.
The largest of the ancient barns is now a garage, workshop, and hangar. Motor vehicles are not
much use here on the island, but I like to have my four-by-four to hand. I retain a small car ferry to get
to and from the mainland when I need to and to bring in supplies. The helicopter lives in there, too,
out of the elements. The weather can be fierce here in the Western Isles.
The other barn is fitted out as a gym and pool, with a sauna and a range of spa equipment. For
myself, I prefer to keep in shape with weights, but I have twenty or so men who live here with me,
and they need to be entertained and kept in peak condition. To that end, I also have a small cinema and
games room tucked away in what I think was once a dairy.
There are apartments for my men here in the main keep, and this is where I prefer to live myself. I
find the sea views therapeutic. The cottages are also fitted out as accommodation for those of my men
who prefer a bit more privacy. The largest one is occupied by Mrs McRae, my housekeeper, and one
of only two females in permanent residence on my island.
Tony enters and drops into a leather armchair, one of a pair opposite my desk. He doesn’t wait for
an invitation, doesn’t have to. Everyone here knows who is boss. I have no need for posturing and
formality.
I get up from my chair and go to the coffee machine set on a side table. My preference is a strong
cup of Arabica with a dash of cream. I pour my own, and one for Tony, then join him in the other
armchair.
“Casey will be here in a minute,” I tell him, referring to the other female resident on Caraksay.
Sure enough, the door opens, and my cousin dashes in, laptop under one arm and a can of Diet
Coke clutched in her free hand.
Casey Archer is twenty-five years old but looks about fifteen. Her mother and mine were sisters,
both dead now. My Aunt Lia married Jerome Archer as part of a deal between our two families,
intended to bring our respective operations together for mutual benefit. It worked on a business level.
The Savage empire gained access to lucrative drug trafficking routes throughout Asia, and the Archers
benefited from our contacts in finance and money laundering. The links still pay off, and our families
are close. Well, close-ish. I tend to think of us as being in a state of guarded truce.
Unfortunately, the match was a disaster on a personal level. Jerome Archer was handy with his
fists, a required qualification in our line of work, but it’s generally best to be choosy. It is definitely
not a great idea to beat your nearest and dearest to a pulp on a regular basis.
My Aunt Lia fled, bringing her four-year-old daughter with her. They moved in with us, and my
father explained to Jerome exactly why they would not be returning to his home in London. He always
had a soft spot for Lia.
There was a period of hostility. Jerome resented my parents’ interference, but eventually he saw
the wisdom of letting his wife go. I don’t think he gave a second thought to his daughter. His attitude
was softened by the prospect of a lengthy spell behind bars if he severed his business alliance with us
and could no longer access our clout with the UK financial fraud investigators.
So, Casey grew up with Aaron and me, first in our mansion on the outskirts of Glasgow, and
eventually she moved here when I relocated to Caraksay. She was younger than us and never had her
nose out of a book, but we were all fond of her. She was like our little sister.
She was always a nerd, but brilliant with it. Wee Casey held a Master’s degree in computing
sciences by the time she was eighteen. I doubt there is an IT system anywhere in the world that she
couldn’t hack, and these days I get the benefit of her considerable talents. She is my spy. My
intelligence gatherer. My eye on the world through the lens of artificial intelligence, tempered with
plenty of the genuine stuff.
“Do you want some of my caffeine or are you happy with your own?” I ask when she drops to sit
cross-legged on the floor in front of us, the can of Coke teetering beside her on my best quality
Axminster and the laptop balancing on her knees.
Her response is a grunt. She rummages in her jeans pocket for a pair of glasses, which she
perches on her nose.
I get her a coffee and put it on a table that I draw up alongside her. I take the precaution of
retrieving her Coke and setting it next to the cup. That carpet cost a fortune. “So, what more do you
have for me?” I ask.
“Plenty,” she replies. “I already told you that her real name isn’t Sarah Robbins.”
“You did.” I take a sip of my coffee. I passed Casey the details on the driving licence which Tony
texted over to me, and she was quickly able to establish that it was a fake. A good fake, but even so.
“Who is she, then?”
“I used the photo Tony took on the way here and ran it through a reverse image search. At first,
nothing. She wasn’t anywhere in Google.”
I wait. There’s a ‘but’ coming.
Casey has a decidedly smug look about her. “So, I went on the dark web. And… Eureka!” She’s
been tapping away on her laptop as she speaks, and now she turns it so I can see the screen.
“Bloody hell,” I breathe. “Is that…?”
“The one and only,” Casey confirms.
“So, what the fuck is she doing in Scotland?” I wonder aloud.
There is only one way to find out, and I mean to have answers.
CHAPTER 3

C ristina

THE DOOR CLICKS SHUT behind me, and the key turns in the lock on the outside with a resounding
clunk. I don’t even try the door handle. I may not be in a cell as first suggested, but I am a prisoner
even so.
And, what a prison. The castle may have appeared medieval from outside, and indeed, retains
many features betraying its ancient origins such as the massive stone staircase leading from a huge
main hall, the brightly coloured tapestries adorning the walls, and the mullioned windows piercing
walls at least two feet thick. But on even the brief glimpse I got on my way up here I can see that it
has been extensively modernised, and in a manner sympathetic to the character of the place.
Someone knows what they are doing.
I already spotted the discreet underfloor heating and concealed lighting activated by motion. The
staircase and hallway were illuminated before us as I was bundled along. The original torch holders
are still embedded in the walls, but I suppose those are purely for decorative purposes now. My room
is stone flagged, but with a plush carpet which I suspect is Persian. The furniture is traditional, solid,
oak pieces that look old but are probably new.
A solid four-poster bed dominates the space, dressed in heavy dark-blue curtains suspended from
an ornately carved frame. A robe the colour of duck eggs is draped over the duvet. I pick it up, and it
feels like silk.
Is this meant for me to use?
The mattress is high, but I give it a pat and decided it feels comfortable. I wonder how long I am
to be held here and whether I will actually get to try the bed out.
That man down in the courtyard did say that I was to rest, but I doubt if I will. Terror will do that
to me, every time.
The bath he mentioned, though, now that is an entirely different matter. I’m so cold I’ve almost
stopped feeling it. Almost, not quite. I check for a connecting door that might lead to a bathroom.
I find a likely candidate — the only candidate — and step through. The facilities are luxurious
and ultra-modern. Gleaming white tiles, a toilet and bidet, a gloriously proportioned bathtub on claw
feet, and a separate shower cubicle. A bale of fluffy white towels is laid out on a counter in which is
set the wash basin, complete with a trendy waterfall tap. Classy miniature toiletries are lined up for
my use.
It’s almost as though I was expected, though I suppose this is a room kept in readiness for any
guest. Apart from the lock on the door…
I have no way of knowing how long I have before that lout, Tony, comes for me again. The shower
would be quicker, but I need the warmth, so I turn on the bath taps instead, then perch on the rim to
watch the water level rise. I squirt in some bath foam I find in one of those tiny, one-portion plastic
bottles and inhale the heady aroma of bamboo and jasmine, if the label is to be believed.
I don’t care. I’m not proud. It smells nice, and the water is steaming. I strip off my damp clothes
and dump them on the floor outside the bathroom, then slip the silk robe on over my goose-pimpled
skin. It takes a few more minutes for the bath to fill, by which time I have made use of the toothbrush
and paste I find in sealed packs in a mirrored cabinet above the washbasin. I leave the robe over the
heated towel rail and step into the bath.
By the time I emerge, finger ends crinkled and my body pink from the too-hot water, I feel vaguely
human again. Warm, certainly, and calmer. Surely they wouldn’t give me all these nice things, this
comfortable room, if they mean me real harm.
I’ve had time to ponder my predicament whilst I soaked, and I can only assume these men have
made a mistake. I witnessed something, became embroiled in a quarrel between men I’ve never met
before. I was unlucky, wrong place, wrong time. I shouldn’t have been there. It was just dumb bad
luck that had me jogging along the waterfront at that precise moment.
I could have been five minutes earlier, or later. Or taken the route through the park. Once I explain
that I know nothing, saw nothing other than a fight that ended up with a man being stabbed and pushed
into the river, they will let me go. Surely.
I put the silk robe back on, then make use of a wide-toothed bomb to get the tangles out of my hair.
That alone is no mean feat. I have unusually long hair which takes some managing, but at least my
tangled mane is now fragrant and clean after being lathered in almond shampoo and conditioned with
something equally delectable. There is even a dispenser with hand cream which I use before leaving
the bathroom to explore my surroundings a little more.

“I EXPECT you feel better after that.”

I whirl at the unexpected voice. The man from the courtyard, the one in charge, is lounging in a
chair beneath the window. He’s changed his clothes and now is dressed in black denim jeans and
black T-shirt. Crisp lines of dark ink snake from the sleeves of his shirt almost to his elbow, and from
the collar to curl about his neck. A serpent, perhaps? If anything, he looks even more formidable than
he did before.
“I… I…”
“Please, sit down. I had food brought up for you.” He gestures to the other chair set at an angle to
his own.
A low table is between the chairs, and on it I see a tray. There’s plate of sandwiches and a pot
containing, I think, coffee, if the aroma filling my nostrils is any indication.
“I’m not hungry,” I lie.
He shrugs. “You may be glad of it later.” He pauses, then, “I told you to sit down. We need to
talk.”
Well, on that I can agree. “I don’t know what you think…”
“Sit,” he repeats, and this time there is not a hint of the polite request in his tone. It’s an
instruction, pure and simple, but still, I try to convince him to listen.
 “Of course. Yes, we should talk. I’ll just get dressed and—” I glance over at the spot by the
bathroom door where I dumped my soggy clothes. “Where are my things?”
“Laundry,” he replies, offering nothing further. “I don’t like repeating myself and I won’t tell you
again.” He tilts his chin towards the empty chair, and I sink into it. “Thank you.” His smile is tight and
entirely without warmth.
I shift in my seat, conscious that I am naked beneath this thin silk wrap. I tug the edges closer and
tighten the belt, then meet his gaze. I was not brought up to cower and beg. I’ve had my moment of
weakness, but I’m determined to do better from now on. All I have to do is convince this man that I
am no threat to him, and he’ll have no reason to hurt me. He said as much when I first arrived.
Didn’t he?
“What… what is it you want to know?” I begin. “I can tell the police what happened. There was
no need for… for all of this.” I wave my hand in the general direction of the sumptuous room.
“You won’t be discussing my business with the police,” he informs me. “And we will come to the
matter of what you saw and heard in Stirling. First, I want you to tell me about Sarah Robbins.”
I frown. What is there to say? My life is mundane to the point of boring. I like it that way.
“I live in Stirling. I make jewellery and I sell it to tourists. I just…”
He shakes his head. “You misunderstand me. I want to know about the real Sarah Robbins. The
Sarah Robbins whose identity you stole.”
I gape at him. My stomach lurches. I open my mouth to issue a denial, then shut it again. What
would be the point? He knows.
Somehow, he fucking knows.

ETHAN

THE BLOOD DRAINS from her face. Her eyes are like deep pools of melted chocolate. She starts to say
something, then thinks better of it.
Wise move, girl.
I let a full half minute tick by before I break the silence. Enough time for her to appreciate the
mess she’s in. I can tell by her stricken expression that she is under no illusion on that score.
“For reasons I don’t yet understand, you saved my brother’s life. I have reason to be grateful to
you, and I am. Profoundly grateful. And it’s for that reason, and only that reason, that I am prepared to
give you one final chance to tell me the truth. So, I shall ask you again. Tell me about Sarah Robbins.”
There’s another pause, then, “She… she died.”
“I know that.” Casey has already filled me in. The real Ms Robbins, aged just nineteen, met an
untimely death on the back of a motorcycle three years ago. “And you used her personal details to
acquire a fake driving licence in her name.” I take the licence from my pocket and set it on the table
next to the tray. “It’s very good, by the way. Did you pay a lot of money for it?”
She nods, which comes as no real surprise. I happen to know she has access to a great deal of
money, though I don’t yet know how she is getting her hands on it without leaving any digital trace.
Still, all will become clear, I daresay.
“What’s your real name?”
 “I can’t tell you.”
I tilt my head to one side. “You already used up your one and only chance.
“Please…” She raises her gaze to mine. “Please, just let me go.”
That won’t be happening. Even before I discovered who this woman was, I was seriously
concerned that she happened to be on that path at the same time as my brother. Was she following
him? Or maybe she was tailing his assailant. And, in my world, people don’t fling themselves into
fast-flowing rivers to rescue perfect strangers. If she went into the water trying to escape from
whoever knifed Aaron, why didn’t she do just that? She could have disappeared, saved herself and
left Aaron to drown. Or better still, why not make a run for it before any of them even saw her?
Bottom line is, I don’t believe she was there by chance. More to the point, I don’t believe in
coincidences, and this one is getting more suspicious by the minute.
“Your name,” I repeat. Despite what I said, I am giving her a final chance.
She shakes her head, and tears stream across her cheeks. “I can’t. I won’t.”
I get to my feet with a sigh. Genuinely, I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but I need to know
what’s going on here, and in particular, who this woman now works for. I reach out and grab her by
the wrist.
She puts up a fight, obviously, but it’s an unequal struggle. Moments later, I have her secured to a
conveniently located ring set into the bedpost, her hands dragged above her head and her toes just
reaching the rug. The silk wrap, which I have to admit, looked exceptionally fetching on her, lies
crumpled on the floor.
I take my time now, pacing around her to view her naked body from all angles. And a fine sight
she truly is. Tall, slim, her skin a beautiful olive tone, and her pert breasts displayed to exquisite
effect by her current position. The nipples are tight and a pretty shade of deep pink. My cock twitches
at the prospect of watching them pebble and harden once I start work.
Her dark auburn hair is waist-length, and one thick strand has fallen over her shoulder to conceal
her right breast. I lift it away, allowing my knuckles to graze her skin.
She flinches. Her full lower lip is gripped between her teeth, and her eyes are closed, though this
doesn’t stop the flow of tears. It’s clear to me that she’s truly terrified, and I wonder what could be so
terrible that she’s prepared to endure whatever she imagines I have in store for her rather than simply
tell me her name.
“You see, now, how easy this is. You’re here. You’re mine, and no one is coming to save you. But
there’s no need for all this unpleasantness. All you have to do to put a stop to this is tell me the truth.
Answer my questions. I can hurt you, and I am prepared to, but I don’t have to, and I don’t especially
want to.”
I pause again, let the words hang there between us. And I’m surprised to find it’s actually true. I
have no real desire to harm this woman. Apart from anything else, it would be a waste. She’s fucking
gorgeous, and I can think of far better uses for this delectable body.
But I have a job to do and I was never one to shirk my responsibilities. I loosen the buckle on my
belt, then slide the leather through the loops.
“Turn around,” I growl, at the same time folding the belt in half and securing the buckle in my fist.
I half expect her to disobey, but she doesn’t. It can’t be easy, but she manages to manoeuvre
against the post and turns away from me. Her heart-shaped bottom is presented nicely for my
attentions.
How many strokes? It’s probably best not to go easy on her, that would only draw it all out. I can
have her begging for mercy and offering to tell me anything I want to know within a few moments.
 I decide on that approach and raise my arm for the first swing.
The leather lands across both cheeks of her bottom with a resounding crack. She screams and
hauls herself even further onto her toes. A beautiful red stripe blooms before my eyes.
A shift my stance slightly, ready myself for the next blow. “Tell me your name, and this all stops.”
Her fingers are clenched into tight fists above her head. Her entire body is rigid. But she says
nothing.
I deliver two more hard swipes with my belt, taking enough time between each for her to think
better of all this and give in. It also affords me the opportunity to witness the effects of my handiwork.
Her golden tanned skin marks so prettily, but I will have to be careful not to break it. That would be a
shame. And clumsy.
I lift my arm for the fourth stroke but lower it again when she cries out.
“Cristina. My name is Cristina.”
At last.
I drop the belt onto the rug and move in close behind her, my body pressing against hers. “I’m
pleased to meet you, Cristina. Or should that be Ms Bival, since we have only just been introduced?”
She turns her head to face me. “You knew? All along?”
“The first rule of interrogation, Cristina. Ask questions to which you already know the answer, at
least to start with. And now that I better understand your pain threshold, we can continue.”
“Y-you said it would stop,” she whimpers, “If I told you my name.”
“And it will, as long as you keep on telling me the truth. And when you start to tell me things I
don’t already know. For instance, what are you doing in Scotland?”
“I like Scotland,” she replies.
“Me, too. Let me rephrase that. Why are you scratching out a living making trinkets for Japanese
day-trippers rather than living like a princess in Moldova?”
“You know who I am? You know my brother?”
“Not personally. I know of him.”
Casey had proudly showed Tony and me a picture of the brother in question, one Marius Bival. It
was taken at his father’s funeral four years ago. The old man, Timofei Bival, died in a hail of bullets
in a drive-by shooting as he left one of his clubs in the capital city, Chișinău. His current mistress and
three of his bodyguards were killed in the attack alongside him. It was a bloodbath by all accounts.
The assassination came at the end of a bitter series of clashes with a rival outfit as both struggled to
establish supremacy in the murky world of protection and illegal gambling.
I don’t suppose there are many in my line of work who don’t know what happened to Timofei
Bival, the head of organised crime in Moldova until he pissed off one enemy too many. My interests
weren’t directly affected by the murder. The Bivals were neither rivals nor allies to my family, though
we maintain a polite distance. My father dealt with them from time to time, though we conduct hardly
any business in Eastern Europe. That part of the world is too volatile, and too corrupt even for my
not-so-delicate sensitivities. Still, you never know what friends you might need, and the channels of
commerce remain open if under-used.
But the violent end met by Timofei steeled my resolve to remove myself from view. There’s
always someone ready to launch a challenge, an attack, seek retribution in the bloodiest way possible.
At least now that I live out here on my private island, they can’t do it from a passing Mercedes.
“So, who is she to Marius?” I had asked, peering at the image of a young woman exiting the
church on Bival’s arm. There was no doubt that this was the same woman who was even at that very
moment enjoying a hot soak in one of my guest bathrooms. She was younger, but the photo was taken
four years ago. The girl in the image was dressed in black, half her face covered by a mourning veil,
but there was no mistake.
“His sister. Cristina Bival,” Casey informed me. “Aged eighteen when that was taken, so twenty-
two now. I’ve been digging, and there’s no trace of her after she pops up briefly in Budapest in
October, twenty fifteen. Two months after that picture was taken, she just… disappeared. She went off
the radar. No electronic trace since then. Nothing in her banking records, no financial transactions,
and nothing on any of the travel passenger databases to say where she might have gone to. I’ve
unearthed plenty of email traffic, though, suggesting Marius didn’t know where she was either. He’s
been looking for her. There’s a reward, the equivalent of around a million dollars.”
People don’t just disappear. I know that. And I also know that Marius must want his sister back
very badly if he’s prepared to pay that much. Armed with that knowledge, and leaving Casey with
instructions to keep digging, I came up here to see what else I might unearth using my own methods.
So far, it’s going well.
CHAPTER 4

C ristina

MY HEAD IS SWIMMING , I’m bewildered, confused. Hurting and utterly terrified, I drag in a ragged
breath.
“Are you going to send me back?” I have to know, but I hardly dare ask.
“I might. There’s a generous reward.”
“H-how much?” Maybe I can outbid my brother. He has more money than I do, but I’m prepared
to pay every penny I have to stay free.
“A million dollars, give or take.”
I slump in my restraints. I can’t raise even half of that.
His hand is in my hair. He takes a fistful and draws my head back, so I am forced to meet his cool,
assessing gaze. “The money would be useful. I might sell you back to Marius. On the other hand, I
owe you, for my brother’s life. So, I’ll give you a chance to persuade me otherwise. I want some
answers, and you’re going to tell me everything I want to know. Yes?”
His grip tightens. My scalp is burning.
“Cristina?”
“Yes,” I murmur. Why not. I have nothing left to lose.

I’ M astonished when he reaches up to free my wrists. Has he done beating me?

I’m even more surprised when he wraps his arm around my waist to stop me from crumpling to
the floor, then bends to retrieve the silk wrap he took from me so effortlessly. He hands the garment to
me, then waits while I put it on. My fingers are shaking when I tie the belt. I reach behind me to touch
my throbbing buttocks.
Christ. I never knew anything could hurt as much as that belt.
His lip quirks. “Sore?”
“You bastard,” I reply.
“Now, now, let’s remain civil. You can sit down if you want to. Or lie down if you prefer.”
He treats me to that sardonic, knowing smirk again. I itch to slap his handsome face, but I know
that would be madness. I’m desperate, not suicidal.
The bed looks even more tempting than it did before my bath, but I make my way over to the chair
instead and ease myself into it. If I sit still and don’t squirm, it’s bearable. Just about. When he pours
me a coffee from the pot still there on the tray, I pick it up and sip gratefully. It really is very good,
and I hadn’t realised how dry my mouth was.
“Would you like some water as well?”
“Yes, please.”
He crosses to a small fridge I never noticed before and brings me a bottle of crystal-clear spring
water. His fingers are firm and capable as he unsnaps the cap, then hands it to me.
I take a long drink, then replace the lid. “What’s your name?” I ask. He’s the one doing the
interrogating, but it seems reasonable, in the circumstances.
“Ethan Savage,” he replies easily.
I gasp. I’ve heard of the Savages, even tucked away in Moldova for most of my life. Everyone has
heard of the Savages. They are one of the most famous, or should that be infamous, crime families in
our shady international network, with a well-honed and richly deserved reputation for ruthless
brutality. My father, no stranger to a spot of maiming and killing himself, admired and respected
James Savage, the father to this man now seated before me. He even attended James’ funeral, though
only because he was in the UK at the time. He wanted to pay his respects, he said. And I don’t doubt
there was other business to be transacted, too, at such a fortuitous gathering of the world’s Mafia
families. My father never was one to pass up an opportunity.
“From your reaction, I assume you know who I am.”
“Yes.” There is clearly not a shred of good to be done by lying.
“And, you know my brother, too?”
I didn’t, but I can work it out. “That was him. By the river.”
“Yes. But you already knew that.”
What is he talking about? I shake my head. “The other man, Olensky, he called him Savage, but I
never made the connection. It’s a common name.”
“Olensky?” One dark eyebrow arches.
“Your brother knew the man who attacked him. He called him ‘Olensky’. There was a scuffle
when they surrounded him. Your brother got away and was making a run for it, but they chased him.”
His steel-grey gaze sharpens. “What else did you hear?”
I think hard, try to recall the details. I see no harm in telling all I know of this. It had nothing to do
with me, after all, or with my situation.
“Your brother told Olensky to fuck off. He told him that he really didn’t want to do this. Olensky
said he did. He pulled the knife, but your brother wasn’t backing down. He got in a couple of
punches, or kicks. Olensky slashed at him and caught his arm. There was a lot of blood. Then the
others grabbed your brother and held him while Olensky went for his gut. He said something about
making it slow, and he took his time doing the cut across his stomach. That… that was the end of it.
Your brother went down, and Olensky just threw him into the river. None of the men had spotted me,
until then. I think I must have cried out or something.”
“Why did you save Aaron?”
I shrug. “I was in there anyway, escaping from those animals.”
“Not good enough. I know you were trying to make a run for it, or that’s what it looked like
according to my men. They saw the whole thing from the bridge but were too far away to help. You
dived into the water to get away from the men who attacked my brother, but why not just swim across
to the other side and get out of there? It’s obvious you’re a decent swimmer. You could have made it.”
“I… I don’t know.” It’s true. I never even considered leaving that man to drown. “I just… I never
thought. Instinct, I suppose.”
His eyes narrow. He doesn’t believe me. And why would he? Who does anything for nothing? Our
world is one of deals, of arrangements, trades. Not random acts of kindness.
“Please,” I beg. “It really is that simple. I had no idea what was going on or who he was. He
needed help, and I was there.”
He regards me for several moments, then pulls his phone from his pocket. He hits a button, I
assume on his speed dial. It’s answered at once.
“Check out the name ‘Olensky’,” he barks. “I want to know who he works for.” He ends the call,
then returns his attention to me. “Where were we? Ah, yes. You were about to explain to me why
you’re here in Scotland, working a market stall, when half the Moldovan Mafia is looking for their
missing princess.”

ETHAN

HER FEATURES HAD REGAINED some of their colour, but she pales all over again. What is she hiding?
I wait, let her consider her options, not that she has any. Not really. It’s mainly a matter of whether
she answers my questions without a fuss or if she chooses to do it the hard way.
After several seconds I arrive at the conclusion that she won’t be going for the easy route. My
dick twitches in my jeans. This is all about to get interesting.
“Cristina,” I begin. “You really don’t have a choice. You must appreciate that by now.”
“I can’t,” she whispers. “It’s not… it’s nothing to do with this. With you.”
I regard her coolly. “I’ll be the judge of that.” Should I proceed here or have her taken down to
the dungeon?
I opt to stay where we are. I have everything I need here.
“Stand up, Cristina.”
Her eyes widen. “Why? What are you going to do?”
I flick the fingers of one hand, a signal for her to get to her feet.
She obeys but is already backing away from me. No problem. There’s no escape until I decide to
let her go. If I decide to let her go.
“Take off the robe, then come here,” I order her.
She shakes her head. “Please, just leave it. I swear, I—”
Enough.
I reach her in one stride and grasp her by the wrist. She struggles, but I’m twice her size. It takes
me no more than a moment to untie the belt and slide the robe from her shoulders, before securing her
wrists with a cable tie I had in the back pocket of my jeans. I have several more, nice and handy.
I pick her up and deposit her facedown on the mattress, then quickly fasten her bound wrists to the
bedhead with another cable tie. She fights, writhing furiously against the bedding as she tries to free
herself.
She’s going nowhere. I leave her to discover that for herself while I prepare for what I have in
mind.
I had a suspicion we might reach just this sort of impasse, so I came prepared. I open one of the
drawers in the dressing table and take out the small leather case I put there whilst she was still in the
bathroom. I consider the contents, then make my selections.
I sit beside her on the bed and take a moment to admire her reddened bottom. The marks from my
belt are beautifully vivid, and I suspect I could bring out an even prettier bloom with a bit of due care
and attention. But the way she’s thrashing about, the danger of permanently marking her is too great. I
guess I shouldn’t care, but I do. Cristina Bival is far too pretty to ruin needlessly. And who knows? I
may need to do business with her brother one day.
“Do you know what this is?” I ask, holding a butt plug between my thumb and index finger.
She turns her head to look, then embarks upon more frantic squirming with renewed enthusiasm. I
take that as a ‘yes’.
“What about this?” I’ve already selected a small tube from several I had in the case. Chilli oil,
one of my personal favourites. This blend is specially prepared for my current purpose and extremely
effective. I squeeze a drop onto my fingertip, and with my other hand I grasp a handful of her hair to
hold her head still while I dangle the pungent essence under her nose.
She sneezes. Her eyes are watering. I’m not sure if it’s the scent of the oil or real tears.
“I expect you can work out what’s coming, but just in case…” I release her hair and smear the
drop of oil onto the plug. It may be a powerful concoction, but one drop is not nearly enough. I squirt
another generous measure on and make sure the business end of the toy is properly coated. “This goes
inside your pretty little arse. You may decide not to cooperate, and I can’t blame you. I’d wriggle a
bit, too, if I was in your position, But it’s going in. And it’s staying there until I’m satisfied you’ve
answered all my questions.” I flash her a smile. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t usually take all that long.”
“You’re a filthy pervert,” she hisses.
Fair enough comment, I suppose, though I do rather resent ‘filthy’. I’m not in the mood to stand for
a lot of backchat, though. Not right now. A degree of respect is called for here to put her in the right
mindset to cooperate, and I mean to teach her the error of her ways. I reach for my belt, still lying on
the floor where I dropped it.
“No,” she croaks, “please, no more…”
“You called me a bastard earlier and now a filthy pervert. I think one stroke for each insult is
fair.”
“No, don’t. I’m sorry…”
“I expect you are. Now.”
This is non-negotiable. I fold the belt and grasp the buckle within my fist, place my knee in the
small of her back to hold her still, then deliver the promised two strokes without further ado. I wait
until her screams subside, then lean over to murmur directly into her ear, “The next time you
disrespect me, Miss Bival, will earn you two strokes, then four, and so on. Are we clear?”
She whimpers into the mattress, so I lay my palm over her punished bottom and squeeze the flesh,
eliciting another gasp of pain.
“I said, are we clear?”
“Yes,” she grinds out. “Very clear.”
“Excellent. See how well this is going? So, the easiest way of doing this will be if you tuck your
knees under you and lift your bottom for me to slip the plug in. The alternative is for me to fasten your
ankles to the bedposts, legs spread wide, naturally, and I put the plug in that way. Not so good an
angle, more uncomfortable for you, but either works. Alternatively, you could just tell me what I want
to know, and we can go back to playing nicely.”
Her eyes are wide, the fear in them almost palpable. “I can’t tell you. I can’t tell anyone. They’ll
kill me…”
Ah, not me she’s afraid of, then, despite the butt plug…
“Who? Who’ll kill you?” I sense that I am getting somewhere, but she’s clearly not about to
cooperate. I take hold of her ankle and tug it towards the foot of the bed.
“My brother. Marius,” she sobs.
I secure her ankle with another of my trusty cable ties and reach for the other foot.
“You’re scared of him?” I ask, at the same time pulling the second cable tie tight. Nothing like
stating the obvious.
She has gone still now, no longer struggling. It’s as though she’s resigned herself to whatever I
mean to do and decided that is preferable to crossing Marius Bival.
“Everyone is scared of Marius,” she replies. “He’s evil.”
I’ll have to take her word for that, since I don’t know the man personally. I met the older Bival
once or twice, and he seemed reasonable enough. If I recall correctly, these days the Bivals
specialise in drugs, cocaine primarily, and human trafficking. Those are not areas I choose to trade in,
so our paths don’t tend to cross. It’s an unsavoury line of business, perhaps, but I’d hardly describe it
as evil. Well, not by my standards.
“Why would you say that?” I ask, at the same time parting her buttocks to inspect her tight little
anus. “I won’t be using lubricant because the chilli oil sort of does the job itself.”
“Don’t touch me.” She bucks hard against the restraints.
I place the tip of my index finger against the puckered entrance and press gently. “Tell me why you
say Marius is evil,” I insist.
“No, no, no…” she wails as I sink my finger inside her as far as the first knuckle.
I wiggle my finger around a bit, just to make the point that I can, then I withdraw it and grasp the
butt plug. I place the snub nose of it against her anus and start to push it inside.
“Don’t,” she pleads. “Leave me alone…”
I twist the plug to ease its passage. Despite her protestations and pleading, her entrance stretches
obligingly around it, and I am able to wedge it just inside. I pause, let her experience the singular
sensation of being held wide open in the most intimate and humiliating manner possible, then I ram it
home. Her body closes neatly around the intruder, and I sit back to wait.
It doesn’t take long. Within seconds, she is squirming and panting.
“It burns. Take it out. Please…”
I take hold of the protruding finger grip on the toy and twist it inside her, swirling it a little for
best effect. She lets out a hoarse scream, then lapses into plaintive moaning.
“Why did you leave Moldova?” I ask. “And why should I not sell you back to Marius? He does
seem very keen to find you. Maybe when I tell him I have you I could get him to make me an even
better offer.”
“I helped you. Your brother…” She pants harder in an effort to maintain some semblance of
composure.
“So you did, though I’m not sure I believe you that it was done out of the kindness of your heart.
You’re a Bival, not Mother Theresa.”
“I never… I just… Aaaah!”
“Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll remove the plug. If you’re very, very forthcoming, I might
even be nice enough to squirt some yoghurt into your arse to take the burn away. Would you like that,
Cristina?”
“Please…” She’s weeping now, her fingers opening and closing like claws. She squirms about on
the mattress, seeking some sort of relief.
There is none to be had, not until I say so.
“Why did you leave Moldova, Cristina?” I repeat, twisting the plug back and forth slowly.
“I… I…” There’s another pause, then she whimpers piteously as the heat in her arse builds. At
last, she can take it no more. “He would have forced me to marry Petru,” she wails.
“Petru?”
“My father’s second-in-command. Now my brother’s.”
“What was so terrible about that?” My family haven’t gone in for arranged marriages since the
disaster which was my Aunt Lia’s union with Jerome Archer, but it’s still a common enough practice
among Mafia brotherhoods. Surely Cristina Bival must have been raised to expect such a match.
“He didn’t want me,” she grinds out between laboured breaths. “He didn’t want any woman.
Never has.”
“Ah. Well, I can see that might complicate things, but even so…?”
“He and Marius are lovers.”
This gets more and more convoluted, I can see that. I can also readily imagine that Marius might
prefer his personal preferences to remain private. Our world is not exactly enlightened. To be openly
gay is not generally considered a good look in mobster circles, there are many who think it smacks of
weakness. And there’s also the pressing matter of heirs to take over the empire. Maybe he didn’t have
the stomach to fuck his sister himself and this may have seemed like the best option to Marius, a way
of securing the next generation of Bivals.
“So, a cosy little threesome, then?”
She shakes her head. “Never! I’d die first.”
“Well, since you mention it…”
“They killed my father.”
Whoa! I cease my twiddling with the plug in her arse. “Explain.”
“Marius and Petru. My father discovered what they… he found out about them and threatened to
have Petru executed if Marius didn’t end the relationship. He would have done it.”
I have no doubt that he would. But for Marius to resort to murdering his own father, now that’s a
stretch. “Are you sure? How do you know they killed Timofei?”
“I heard them talking, after. They were in my father’s old study, Petru and Marius. The door was
open, and I was outside…”
“What did they say?”
“Petru wanted to check Marius’s phone, to make sure that he deleted the texts to and from the
Roscas. He didn’t trust him, he said.”
Pieces are starting to drop into place for me. “It was said that Andrei Rosca ordered the hit on
your father, but never proved as far as I know.” The rumour had circulated through our underground
networks, but I’m not aware of any hard evidence. The Roscas and Bivals were rivals, enemies in
business and probably more besides. These things happen.
“Marius told the Roscas where my father was that night. That was what was in the text.”
“And he actually left it on his phone?” The smoking gun. Is the man a total idiot?
“He said not, but there was a fight. I think Petru got the phone from him, then he read the text out
loud. That’s when I realised what it meant.”
“Were you and your father close?”
She hesitates, then, “He was always stern. Business came first, before anything else. He was
never affectionate… But, yes, I think he cared about me, in his way.”
 It doesn’t escape me that she does not say that she cared much for him. I file that away for later.
“So, that’s what this was about. You flounced off in a sulk because your brother offed dearest
Daddy.” The sneer in my voice is deliberate. I’m goading her into some sort of reaction.
“You’re heartless. It wasn’t like that.”
“What was it like, then? I assume Marius knew that you’d overheard.”
“I… I burst into the study. I screamed at them. It was the shock…”
“Not your wisest move, I take it.”
“Marius slapped me, told me to shut the fuck up. I was dazed, but still I tried to get away. I was
screaming, I remember that. I was hysterical, I suppose. He dragged me upstairs. All the servants
were gawping, but no one tried to help me. They wouldn’t dare cross my brother, or Petru for that
matter. No one ever did. He locked me in my room. I was there for about two weeks before he let me
out, and then he said I was to marry Petru. It was all arranged. He told me that no one would believe
me anyway, about my father, and Petru was prepared to take me on despite the fact that everyone
knew I was a bit… emotional. That I’d never really got over the loss, but they were taking care of
me.”
It all sounds pretty callous, but not unheard of in our world. “So what happened? I take it the
wedding didn’t go ahead.” I’m sure I’d have heard if it did, and even if the details escaped me, I can
be sure Casey would have unearthed it all.
“They were getting me ready for the wedding. It was to be a big affair. I was taken to a dress
fitting. Cream taffeta, with a lot of lace. My brother had the thing designed. It was hideous.”
I allow myself a grin. She is definitely not the cream taffeta and lace type. I’d have suggested
emerald green satin might suit her better.
“Go on.”
“There was a private fitting room. The assistant had to go and fetch some shoes to match. I saw
my chance and went for it. I got out of the gown, grabbed my jeans and top, and scrambled out of the
window. I was almost naked, that’s the only reason I could wriggle through. I found myself in the
alley behind the dressmaker’s. There was no one about, so I pulled on my clothes, then strolled out
into the main street. It was market day, very crowded. I just… mingled in.”
“Mingled?”
“I walked for hours, heading away from the city. There was a truck stop on the highway. I went in
for food, and someone offered me a lift. A lorry driver.”
“Another kindly soul?”
She reddens. I can imagine how she paid for her ride. Needs must, I suppose. I shouldn’t care, but
it rankles. “Then what?”
“He was going to Budapest. I hid under the seat in his cab when we got to the Romanian border,
then again when we reached Hungary. I had no passport…”
“An inconvenience you managed to put right, I assume.” I remember her excellent fake driving
licence.
“I had my phone in my jeans pocket, and once I got to Hungary, I used the payment app on it to buy
the papers I needed.”
“Surely your brother could track the money.” Casey did easily enough. My personal spy followed
the trail as far as Budapest before it went cold. She did, however, notice an eye-wateringly large cash
withdrawal before Cristina went off the radar. I’m wondering what this little runaway did with the
cool half million she squirrelled away.
“A one-off payment, then I threw the phone in the river. That was what gave me the idea of getting
a job on one of the river cruise ships. The Rhine…”
“What sort of job?”
“I waited tables and mopped toilet floors as far as Rotterdam. No hassle with passport controls
as long as I stayed on board.”
A shrewd move, I’ll give her that. “What was the name of the boat? What company?” I intend to
have Casey check out every detail that I can. My chilli oil is persuasive, but I still don’t entirely trust
Cristina Bival to tell me the whole truth.
“I… I can’t remember the company, but the boat was called Europa Star.”
That’s enough to be going on with. I make a mental note. “How did you get across to the UK?”
“The traditional route. I bought passage in the back of a truck.”
Right. People smugglers don’t come cheap, but she could certainly afford it.
“Why here? Why the UK?”
“I… I don’t really know.
She’s lying. It’s there, in her tone.
“Not good enough,” I growl.
“I guess it was a far as I could get without crossing the Atlantic,” she blurts. “I was in London for
a while, but there are too many of our people there. I was sure someone would recognise me,
especially if Marius put the word out.”
‘Believe me, he did.” A million dollars’ worth.
“I headed north, first to Manchester, then Edinburgh. Eventually, I settled in Stirling. That was
three years ago.”
Closer to four by my reckoning, but I’ll settle for that.
For now.
CHAPTER 5

C ristina

IS IT DONE ? Is he satisfied with my story?

Ethan Savage leans on the bedpost, gazing at me. His face is impassive, could be carved from
granite for all he gives away.
I try to lie still. It’s less horrendous that way. Marginally.
“Is there anything else you want to tell me?” he asks at last.
“That’s it. That’s all of it,” I reply. Please, believe me. Please, don’t ask me anything else…
His brow creases. Something is still bothering him. He’s putting my story together but finding bits
where it doesn’t add up. I suppose he would, but it was the best I could come up with. I rehearsed it
in my head, a lot, during those first months of freedom. I was preparing for just this eventuality. Well,
not this, exactly, but I thought it best to have a story ready if it was ever needed. And most of it was
true.
I writhe, tugging uselessly on the restraints but only succeed in rubbing my wrists raw.
“Pack that in,” he commands. “I don’t want you bleeding all over the bed.”
“Then untie me. I’ve told you everything you wanted to know.”
“Have you? I wonder…” He narrows his eyes, then seems to make up his mind. “Right, we’ll
leave it there.” He produces a folding knife from his jeans and slices through the strip of plastic
securing me to the bed frame but leaves my wrists bound. “I daresay you’ll be glad if I remove the
plug.”
I grit my teeth and nod frantically.
“Up, then, on your knees and elbows, and turn your arse towards me.”
Humiliated beyond measure, but in too much agony to so much as squeak a word of protest, I do
as he says.
He uses his fingers to part my buttocks, then takes his time examining me. Eventually, he takes
hold of the thing, and I stiffen. Every time he moves it, waves of fiery torment sizzle through my
nervous system. He knows exactly what he’s doing, the bastard.
“Say please.” He waits, seemingly with endless patience.
“Please,” I grind out when I can bear it no longer.
He tugs, and I let out another sharp cry as my rear entrance is stretched all over again. It hurts
even more coming out, perhaps because my skin is now so sensitive.
“Is that better?” He pats my buttock.
 “Not really.” The plug may be gone, but the burning sensation has barely eased at all. “How long
until…?”
“Quite a while, sadly, though I could help you with that.” He produces a small jar from inside a
leather case. “The yoghurt I mentioned. It counteracts the chilli. Much the same way as it does with a
hot curry.”
“I hate curry,” is my less-than-useful response.
“If you want me to help you, I will. All you have to do is ask.”
“By letting you put that stuff inside me? I don’t think so.”
“Fair enough. I have some urgent matters to be getting on with, so I’ll leave you to your own
devices for a while.” He picks up the plug from the floor and heads for the bathroom. There’s a brief
sound of water splashing, before he returns to drop the horrible article, now cleaned up, back in his
leather bag. “I’ll keep this handy, in case we need to talk again.”
I kneel, heedless of my nudity. We’re well past that in any case.
“You… you can’t just leave me. I need…” I stop. I’m not entirely sure what I need, but I don’t
want to be left alone, my wrists bound and my arse still on fire. “Please, can I take a shower?”
“I wouldn’t advise it. The water would make things worse.”
“Then…”
He waits, one eyebrow raised.
“I’ll take the yoghurt,” I mutter. I know which battles to pick, and this is senseless. A bit more
humiliation won’t harm me.
“Ask me nicely,” he insists.
“Please,” I manage, though the word is dripping with sarcasm.
He shakes his head. “You’ll need to do better. I think it should go more like this. ‘Thank you, Mr
Savage, for removing the plug. Now, would you please put some yoghurt into my arse?’”
“I’m not saying that.”
“Your choice. Remember what I said about the water. Hot or cold, same effect.” He uses the knife
to slice through the cable tie around my wrists. “I’ll be off then.”
He’s reached the door before I manage to swallow what’s left of my pride. “Thank you, Mr
Savage…” I begin.
He halts, turns to face me, and waits for me to finish.
“Thank you, Mr Savage, for removing that vile plug. Now, would you… would you…?”
His smirk is nothing short of devilish. “Take your time. I’m sure you’ll remember your manners
eventually.”
“Please will you put the yoghurt in my arse?” I blurt, spitting the words at him. I’d prefer them to
be bullets.
“My pleasure,” he replies and returns to the bed. “Back on all fours and turn around.”
I position myself as instructed and wait. If anything, the internal heat is intensifying. It must be my
imagination, surely…
He gets the yoghurt pot out again and unscrews the lid. I’m expecting some sort of douche, he did
say he would squirt it in after all. But instead, he coats his middle finger with the white cream and
offers me a broad smile. “This may be a bit cold, but maybe you’ll welcome that. Now, keep still.”
He sits next to me and loops one arm around my waist. “Reach back and part your buttocks for
me.”
I groan. Is there no end to this mortification? But I do as I’m told.
I gasp when he touches me. He smears the cool yoghurt around my anus, and it feels heavenly. I
sigh with relief.
“Liking that?” he murmurs.
I don’t answer. I’m not giving him the satisfaction. But, oddly, perversely, I do like it.
I like it even more when he reloads his finger and gently eases it inside my arse. I expected
more… perfunctory treatment, but he’s taking real care, or that’s how it feels to me.
In. Out. Slowly, deeper with each stroke. He pauses, reloads, then drives his finger inside me
again. And he was not wrong about the cooling effect. My inner muscles cease their agonised
screaming and wrap themselves lovingly around his finger. I don’t even protest when he inserts a
second one, though I do feel the stretch.
“You have a beautiful arse, Cristina,” he says. “Designed for fucking.”
I clench, unable to stop myself. There’s something deliciously wicked about the sensations he is
evoking, with his sure touch and his dirty words.
His free hand, the one which had been splayed against my stomach, moves. He reaches lower,
between my parted thighs. I know what he means to do, but I don’t even think about trying to close my
legs.
The sensation when he trails his fingers through my folds is electric. I jerk hard, then writhe
against his hand. He circles my entrance with his fingertips, then finds my quivering clit and starts on
that.
“You’re soaking, sweetheart,” he murmurs, rolling my clit between his thumb and forefinger, all
the while finger-fucking my arse with slow, solid, soothing strokes.
Christ. Jesus fucking Christ. I rotate my hips in piteous, helpless arousal.
“Say please again, nicely this time, and I’ll let you come.”
Please, please, please…
He increases the pressure on my clit and swirls his fingers inside me. It’s enough. Too much. The
orgasm bursts from nowhere, uncurling, flooding my overstimulated body with pleasurable, languid
warmth. Waves of sensual heat pulse from my core, where his fingers are doing their clever work.
I groan, clench hard, then go limp in his arms.
When my senses steady enough for me to once again think straight, I’m lying on my side on the
bed, and he is curled around me. He’s taken his fingers from my arse at some stage. All I feel there
now is a not-unpleasant sense of sticky tightness.
“I… I really do think I need that shower,” I mutter.
“Later. For now, let me,” he replies.
He rolls from the bed and goes back into the bathroom. I hear running water again, and he returns
after a moment with a damp flannel.
I reach to take it from him. “Thank you.”
“Roll over,” he says, but there’s nothing now of the threatening manner he had earlier.
I turn without hesitation and lie on my stomach, then bend my knees under me to lift my backside
off the bed. I’m exposed, open, vulnerable, and I find it feels okay. Sort of, right, somehow.
He wipes me gently, in no hurry, cleaning every intimate inch of me, dipping his fingers into each
of my entrances until he teases another slow, comfortable climax from me
And I just hold still and let him.
ETHAN

I NEED A COFFEE. I could have someone bring a carafe to my office, but I want to stretch my legs, too,
have a bit of a think. It will help to clear my head, consider what I’ve been told, and sort out what
seems to be the whole truth and where I’m not so sure. I head down the massive stone stairs, then
through a narrow passageway behind the great hall, leading to the kitchen.
“Mr Savage?” Mrs McRae, my housekeeper, is at the sink when I enter. She turns, reaching for a
tea towel. “Is there something ye need?”
“Just this.” I cross the stone-flagged space to get a mug from a cupboard, then I flick the switch on
the electric kettle. I reach into another cupboard for a jar of instant coffee.
“I can bring ye some fresh,” Mrs McRae offers. “It will only take a few minutes.”
“This is fine.” I scoop a heaped spoonful into the cup, then grab a carton of milk from the fridge.
“Would you like one?”
“Thank ye but I just had one. D’ye mind if I get on?” She gestures to the stack of dirty dishes by
the sink. I interrupted her as she was loading the dishwasher.
“Feel free.” I dump hot water into my mug, splash in some milk, give it all a quick stir, then head
for the door. I can drink my coffee in the library. With any luck, there might be a fire lit in there, and
it’s always a good bet for a bit of peace and quiet. My men prefer the games room or gym when
they’re not working.
“Sir?”
I halt in the doorway. “Yes?”
Jacqueline McRae has worked for me for ten years now, and I’ve never once managed to
convince her to use my first name. I prefer ‘Mr Savage’ to ‘sir’, though.
“I was wondering if I might have a wee word, sir.”
I sigh. Such formality does not bode well. Has one of my men annoyed her? They’re not great at
keeping things clean and tidy, and their language is frankly vile at times, but she doesn’t usually
complain.
“Go on, Mrs McRae.” Just as she refuses to call me ‘Ethan’, she sniffs with disapproval if I
venture to be too familiar either. I’ve learned to put up with it, preferring to choose my battles. I pull
a chair out from the huge oak table in the centre of the room and sit.
I expect her to do the same, but she stays where she is by the sink. There’s an oddly stubborn tilt
to her jaw, but she looks nervous, too.
I wait, and she nibbles her lower lip for a few moments before lifting her gaze to mine. “I need
tae ask ye a wee favour, sir.”
I raise my eyebrows. This was not how I expected her to begin. “I see. What can I do for you, Mrs
McRae?”
“I have a wee niece. Our Megan. She’s my sister’s lass.”
“Your sister?” To my certain knowledge, I have never even heard of a sister, let alone a niece.
“Aye. Our Elspeth. She moved tae California wi’ her husband when she got wed. “He had a
business, something tae do wi’ swimming pools.”
I wait, sipping my coffee. I daresay she’ll get to the point at some stage.
“Aye, well, they’re both dead now…”
“Your sister and your niece?”
 She shakes her head. “Our Elspeth, I mean, an’ her husband. Our Megan is fine.”
“Okay…?”
“Well, when I say ‘fine’…”
Ah. Here we go.
“She were i’ the army. The American army, that is, but there’s been a spot o’ bother…”
I frown. “What sort of bother?”
“A misunderstandin’, probably, but Megan’s been discharged. There was some sort of court
martial, and…”
“You mean the army slung her out?”
“Aye. That’s it. An’ she has nowhere tae go, ye see, an’ no other family. There’s just me, so I was
wonderin’…” She pauses, then rushes on. “I wonder if she can come here tae stay wi’ me? Just for a
wee while, a couple o’ weeks or so. Till she gets hersel’ straightened out an’ decides what tae do
next.”
I set down my mug. “I’m sorry, Mrs McRae, but you know I never allow casual visitors on
Caraksay.”
She is not giving up without a fight. “I do ken that, but I thought if it were not for long, an’ if she
were tae stay in my cottage…”
“No visitors,” I repeat, getting to my feet. Least of all some random ladette who’s managed to
piss off the US military enough for them to oust her from their ranks. I can’t do with the
disruption. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”
“But—”
I’m already at the door. “If money would help, I’d be happy to advance you some. Will a grand
cover whatever she needs?”
Mrs McRae raises herself to her full height of five foot four and regards me with indignation.
“She needs a home. Friends. Not cash, but thank ye all the same. I’m sorry tae have troubled ye.” She
turns her back on me and resumes her urgent business with the dishwasher.
I am pointedly dismissed from her domain.

I FIND THE LIBRARY DESERTED , as I expected. And, yes, there’s a fire crackling in the grate. Even in the
height of summer it’s rarely especially warm in the Outer Hebrides, so we tend to require a fire all
year round. I sink into a winged leather chair and balance what’s left of my coffee on the wide, flat
arm.
First things first. Was Cristina Bival on that riverside by design or coincidence? Initially, I
assumed it was all some sort of setup, and I became even more convinced when I found out who she
actually was. A missing Mafia heiress turns up on a lonely footpath, in the middle of a fight between
two rival gangs, and that’s supposed to be just random. Wrong place, wrong time. Or right place,
depending on how you look at it.
I don’t think so. Or I didn’t. Now, I’m less sure. She seemed genuine enough, and I usually have a
good instinct for these things. And she did save Aaron.
As for the rest, her ‘escape’ from her brother, her apparent fear of him? I think the latter was
genuine enough, and I have Casey fact-checking what she can of the story.
As if conjured up by my thoughts, the door opens, and Casey dashes in. Her ubiquitous laptop is
under her arm, and her messy blonde hair is scraped back into a loose knot on the top of her head. She
advances on me with a triumphant smile.
“So, here you are. Mrs McRae said she’d seen you.”
“Did she say anything else?”
Casey shakes her hair, and her topknot of curls sways wildly. “No. Why?”
“Nothing.” I dismiss thoughts of Mrs McRae and her disreputable niece. “What do you have for
me?”
“Right.” She flops onto a sixteenth century solid oak settle a couple of paces away and opens up
the laptop on the seat beside her. “I checked out the name she gave you. Olensky. He works for Eric
Manotov, just like you thought. A sort of enforcer and bodyguard.”
I consider that for a moment. If Olensky is a bodyguard, the chances are that Manotov himself was
somewhere nearby when Aaron was attacked. It was probably done on his orders. Crazy. Why start a
war with me for a measly four hundred thousand? That would be small change to Manotov. And it’s a
war he has no hope of winning.
“The stuff about the wedding checks out, too. There was a betrothal to someone called Petru
Melnic, one of Bival’s close associates. Cristina disappeared a few days before the wedding. There
was next to nothing on social media about it, or the national or local news. He probably hushed it up,
but he was definitely looking for her. I already told you about all the email traffic and the reward.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Anything else?”
“I couldn’t find anything to corroborate the journey from Chișinău to Budapest—not surprising,
probably, if it was just some random, anonymous truck driver—but I accessed cruise ship timetables
for that period, and yes, there is a ship called Europa Star, and she does do river tours on the Danube.
She sailed from Budapest on March second and arrived in Stuttgart on the seventh. If Cristina actually
crewed as far as Rotterdam, she must have travelled overland to the Rhine and hopped on another
ship there, in Strasbourg, perhaps. There are plenty of cruises between Strasbourg and Rotterdam.
The journey takes about a week.”
I nod. “Okay, so it checks out, more or less. There are gaps, particularly around why she decided
to make a run for it, but I’m not really interested in the internal squabbles of the Bivals. I see no
reason to help Marius.”
“Well, there is the reward,” Casey reminds me.
I level a frown at her. “I’m not hard up. Have you got into her phone yet?” I handed the sodden
gadget to Casey the moment Cristina hopped off the chopper, and she’s been trying to dry it out before
switching it on. “Anything there to link her to Manotov?”
“Not yet. I have it under a UV light, so maybe, before much longer…”
“Okay. Let me know when you get it working.” It never occurs to me to doubt that Casey will
work some magic. She always does. “Unless there’s anything on there to interest us, I’ll let her go.”
Casey grins at me. She knows full well that I never intended to claim the money from Marius
Bival. I owe Cristina that much, at least, for Aaron.
“There is something else that might be of interest,” she says, producing a debit card from the back
pocket of her jeans. “This was in tucked in her phone case.”
I take the card and turn it over in my hand. The name on it is Sarah Robbins, of course. “I assume
you hacked into the account?”
She doesn’t even bother to answer that. “It’s a current account, with just over two hundred pounds
in at the moment. It seems to be the one she uses for her income from selling whatever it is she makes,
paying household expenses, that sort of thing. It goes into the red a lot.”
“The trade in hand-made jewellery must not be thriving.”
 “Apparently. But I dug a bit further, looking for linked accounts. And I found this…” She’s been
tapping away on her laptop, and now she turns the device around so I can see the screen.
“Ah. This is in her name, too? Or rather, the name of Sarah Robbins?” I’m viewing a transactions
list for a different account, one with a much healthier balance standing at a little over four hundred
thousand pounds. Now, at least, I know where she put the money she snatched when she left Moldova.
“It is,” Casey confirms. “And there’s only ever been one deposit, made when the account was set
up nearly four years ago. The half million. But check out the list of outgoing transactions.”
I do and let out a low whistle. “Only ever one recipient, and she pays him, or her, a little over two
grand a month. Every month.” I shoot Casey a glance. “Who is this, and what’s Cristina paying for?”
“Protection? Blackmail?” Casey cites the more obvious explanations.
I shake my head. “If she was paying someone to keep her secret, they would do better by just
telling Marius where she is and claiming the reward. A lump sum in the hand is better than a couple of
grand a month for Christ knows how long. As for protection, what does she have to protect?” I run a
few protection schemes myself, but they always relate to clubs, bars, one or two gambling rackets.
Trades that are a lot more lucrative than Cristina’s market stall, trades where the owners will pay
well to be spared the bother of unwanted police attention, or visits by my men to disrupt their
everyday business.
And there’s something else bothering me. The amounts being paid are not round figures, and they
are bank transactions. Blackmail or protection would probably entail round figures and definitely be
paid in cash.
“Can you trace the name on this account? I ask.
“I can, probably. I was on with that when you called me down here to report.”
“Don’t let me stop you.” I lean back in my chair and reach for my coffee. “Do it now.”
Her fingers leap across the keyboard, and she occasionally mutters something to herself. In less
than a couple of minutes, a triumphant smile flickers across her face. “Got it.” She grins at me. “The
recipient account is in the name of LG Associates. They, or rather he, is a private detective. Len
Griffin. He’s based in Glasgow. I’m just texting you the address.”
My phone pings accordingly, and I check the screen, then bring up my speed dial. Jack answers on
the second ring.
“Boss?”
“I need you to organise a little visit. I’m sending you the details now.”
There’s a few seconds of silence while Jack reads the address and name, then, “What does this
Len Griffin have to do with us?”
“Not sure. That’s what I need you to find out.” I explain briefly what Casey has discovered so far.
“I want to know why Cristina Bival is hiring a private detective, and what exactly she’s paying him to
do.”
“I’ll send Moses and Micky. They can be persuasive when called for.”
“Good choice. And that other matter?”
“Sorted,” he replies. “Ready when you are.”
I smile. Jack is nothing if not efficient. “Thanks.” I end the call.
Casey takes that as her cue to leave. “Right, I’ll leave you to it, then.” She gets up to go.
“Wait, there is something else you can do.”
“Oh?” She raises one eyebrow.
“I think Cristina may talk more freely to you. One woman to another, so to speak.”
“Do I look like a social worker?” Casey scowls at me. “I’m too busy for making small talk with
some… what did you call her? A Mafia princess?”
“Something like that,” I agree, though I’m revising my original assessment.
“If there’s more you want to know, why don’t you just… persuade her? You don’t need me.”
That’s true, but I really don’t want to have to get heavy with Cristina again if I can help it. I could
have just forced her to tell me about Len Griffin rather than dragging Jack into it, but why use an iron
fist when a velvet glove will do? That said, I can’t think of anyone less velvety than Casey right now,
but she’s all I have in the way of female company for Cristina.
“I may have to fall back on the tried and trusted methods, but first, I want to try it this way.” I
harden my expression. I’m not asking, I’m telling. Casey may be family, but she still does as she’s
told. Or she will.
Casey sighs. “Is she still a prisoner, then? Because I’m not a bloody jailor.”
“Yes, until I say otherwise.” Or, more accurately, until I’m totally satisfied that she had nothing to
do with the attack on Aaron. I’m fairly close to that but need to be sure.
“She can’t get off the island. Do you really need to keep her locked up?”
It’s a fair point. “What are you suggesting, Case?”
“I’ll spend some time with her if I must. I suppose I could show her round.”
“Show her round? I don’t want you to take her on some sort of day trip. You won’t be needing a
packed lunch and get her back in time for tea.”
“Prat. I meant, if she’s actually enjoying herself…”
I narrow my eyes. For all her obsession with her gadgets and keyboards and all things techy, I
forget how astute Casey can be around people, too. And she’s right. If Cristina is feeling more
relaxed, less threatened, she may decide to share.
“She’ll need something to wear if you’re going to be parading her about the island. You’re more
or less the same size…”
“I’ll find her something. Is that all?”
She’s clearly eager to be off. I suppose the sooner she finishes entertaining Cristina Bival, the
sooner she can get back to her geeky little turret in the east wing.
“Yes, for now.” I fish the key out of my pocket and hand it over. “There’s no need to lock her up
again. But keep on digging. Get that phone working. And, Casey, don’t get too close. There’s a lot we
don’t know still, and she could turn out to be an enemy.”
She shoots me a withering look. “I know that. And don’t you forget whose idea this was.”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 Large shirts or tobes, ready made, of striped cottons, and
white calico.
Coarse white calico. ⎱
much esteemed.
Fine do. do. ⎰

Frankincense,
⎫
purchased of the Jews in Tripoli, or
Ottaria, ⎬
Leghorn.
⎭
Spices,
The beads most in demand, indeed the only ones that they will
purchase, are:—
H’raz-el mekka, white glass beads, with a flower.
Merjan tiddoo, mock coral.
Quamur, white sand beads.
Quamar m’zein, small black beads, with yellow stripes.
H’raz-el pimmel, ant’s head bead, with black stripes.
Contembali, red and white.
Hazam el bashaw, the bashaw’s sash.
Sbgha m’kerbub, red pebble, from Trieste.
Sbgha toweel, long bead.
H’shem battura, Arab’s nose, a large red bead.
Arms of all descriptions, of an inferior quality, will always meet
with a ready sale, as well as balls of lead, and what we call
swan-shot.
 JOURNAL

OF

AN EXCURSION,
ETC. ETC.
 PREFATORY NOTICE
TO THE

Narrative of Captain Clapperton’s Journey from Kouka to Sackatoo.

The Manuscript of the following Journal was placed in my hands by Captain

Clapperton, on his departure from England, with a request that I would see it
through the press, whenever the account of the recent mission to Central Africa
should be published. In complying with this request, I have carefully abstained
from altering a sentiment, or even an expression, and rarely had occasion to add,
omit, or change, a single word; so that my easy task has been confined to the
mere ordinary correction of the press.
Captain Clapperton, like Major Denham, as will appear from his Journal, makes
no pretensions to the systematic knowledge of natural history. They were both
excellent pioneers of discovery, and capable of ascertaining the latitude by
observations of the heavenly bodies; and also to compute, to a certain degree of
accuracy, the longitudes of the various places which they visited: and even this is
no trifling advantage to geography, though it has but too commonly been neglected
by travellers. By a strict attention to these points, by comparing them with the
courses and distances travelled, and by Captain Clapperton’s frequent endeavours
to verify the estimated results by lunar observations (though not much to be
depended on by one observer, on shore), we may now be pretty well assured of
the actual and relative positions of many places, which have hitherto been wholly
dislocated and scattered at random on our best maps of Africa,—all of them bad
enough,—and the situation of cities and towns have also been ascertained, whose
names even had never before reached us.
The only traveller of the party, who was supposed to possess a competent
knowledge of natural history, was Doctor Oudney; and he was unfortunately
disabled from the pursuit of it by a protracted illness, which terminated in death. As
so little appears in the present volume from the pen of Doctor Oudney, and as
Captain Clapperton has stated (page 5) a wish expressed by that gentleman, a
short time previous to his death, that “his papers should be put into the hands of
Mr. Barrow, or Professor Jameson, provided the request meets with Earl Bathurst’s
approbation,” I feel it necessary to say a few words on this subject. Nothing could
have been more gratifying to me than to have undertaken and executed, to the
best of my power, such a task: it is quite natural that I should have willingly done
so, were it for no other reason than my having been instrumental in his
appointment, from the strongest testimonials in his favour which I had received
from Professor Jameson, whose acquirements in natural history stand so
deservedly high in public estimation, as to entitle any recommendation from him to
immediate attention. Unfortunately, however, for this branch of science, Doctor
Oudney, at a very early stage of their journey, caught a severe cold, which fell on
his lungs, and which rendered him, on their arrival in Bornou, nearly incapable of
any exertion. It will be seen from Major Denham’s Narrative, how frequently and
how seriously, not to say alarmingly, ill, he became from the first moment of their
arrival in Bornou. In a letter addressed to Mr. Wilmot Horton, of the date of the 12th
September, 1823, Doctor Oudney says, “I send you a simple itinerary from Fezzan
here; that to the river Shary, and the borders of Soudan, and my remarks on
Bornou, I must leave till another time. I cannot write long; one day’s labour in that
way makes me ill for a week.”
No account of these journeys to the river Shary, and the borders of Soudan,
appear among his papers; nor any materials respecting them, beyond what are
contained in a very general account of the proceedings of the Mission, in an official
letter addressed to the Secretary of State. The papers, delivered to me by Captain
Clapperton, consisted of an account of an excursion, jointly performed by these
gentlemen, from Mourzuk to Ghraat, the first town in the Tuarick country:—some
remarks on the journey across the Great Desert, which appear not to have been
written out fair:—and the rest, of mere scraps of vocabularies, rude sketches of the
human face, detached and incomplete registers of the state of the temperature,
and a number of letters to and from the Consul at Tripoli, respecting the pecuniary
and other affairs of the mission, wholly uninteresting, and of which no use
whatever could be made.
The Journey to Ghraat above mentioned, I have caused to be printed at the
end of the Introductory Chapter, with which it appears to be partly connected,
omitting some trifling details, of no interest whatever; and I requested Major
Denham to add a few foot-notes, chiefly geological, to his own Journal across the
Great Desert. It seems to have been well known to the party that Doctor Oudney
could not possibly survive the journey into Soudan; and, indeed, he was well
aware of it himself; but his zeal to accomplish all that could be done, would not
suffer him to remain behind. It was that zeal which led him to undertake the
journey to Ghraat, which not a little increased his disorder; for, to say the truth, he
evidently was labouring, while in England, under a pectoral complaint; but when I
told him so, and strongly advised him not to think of proceeding (as I had before
done to his unfortunate predecessor Ritchie), he, like the latter, persisted that,
being a medical man, he best knew his own constitution, and that a warm climate
would best agree with it. Neither of them, however, seem to have calculated on the
degree of fatigue, and the sudden changes of temperature, to which they were
necessarily to be exposed.
 With every disadvantage of collecting, preserving, and bringing home from so
great a distance, and over so dreary a desert of twelve hundred miles, specimens
of natural history, it will be seen, by reference to the Appendix, that this department
of science has not been neglected.
JOHN BARROW.
 JOURNAL

OF

AN EXCURSION,
ETC. ETC.
 SECTION I.
FROM KOUKA TO MURMUR, WHERE DR. OUDNEY DIED.

From our first arrival in Bornou, we intended to avail ourselves of

the earliest opportunity of exploring Soudan. Our preparations being
at length completed, and the sheikh having consented to our
departure, although with some degree of reluctance, Dr. Oudney,
notwithstanding the infirm state of his health, and myself, were ready
to set out on the 14th December, 1823. Accordingly we sent off our
camels and servants in the morning, and went in person to take
leave of the sheikh. On this occasion we found him in an inner
apartment, attended by two or three servants only. He asked us, as
he had often done before, if, in the course of our travels, we
proposed going to Nyffee. We answered, yes, if the road was open.
He replied, it was a great distance; and he feared we were not likely
to return to Kouka. We told him we hoped to return, if possible,
before the rains set in; but however that might be, we assured him
we should ever retain a grateful sense of his exceeding great
kindness towards us. He bade us farewell in the most affectionate
manner. About noon we left the town, accompanied by our comrade,
Major Denham, and most of the principal inhabitants. Even Hadje Ali
Boo Khaloom, with whom we had frequent occasion to be
dissatisfied, joined the train: they attended us to the distance of four
or five miles, and then took leave; our friend, the cadi Hadje
Mohamed Zy Abedeen, having first repeated the Fatha, or first
chapter of the Koran. We halted at the village of Fuguboo Thorio,
where our servants had pitched our tents, being distant from Kouka
about ten miles.
Our party consisted of Dr. Oudney and myself, two servants,
Jacob the Jew, a sort of major domo, and three men of Fezzan. We
had three saddle horses, and four sumpter camels; the servants,
except Jacob, were on foot. There were also in the kafila (commonly
pronounced goffle) twenty-seven Arab merchants, two of whom were
shreefs, or descendants of the Prophet, one from Tunis, the other
from Houn, near Sockna, and about fifty natives of Bornou. The
Arabs were mostly mounted on horses, which they intended for sale;
some having besides a led horse. The Bornouese were on foot; one
of them, a hadje or Mahometan pilgrim, who had visited Mecca,
would on no account stay behind at Kouka, but persisted in
accompanying us, for the express purpose of having his hand
regularly dressed by Dr. Oudney: he had been wounded by the
accidental bursting of a gun; he invariably pitched his tent close to
that of the Doctor, whom he always regarded with the utmost
respect.
Dec. 15.—We started at seven o’clock. The road was the same
we had travelled on a former visit to Old Birnee. We were no longer
annoyed with the noise and confusion in pitching the tents, or with
the clamours of obstreperous camel drivers; which we had formerly
experienced when under the guidance of Boo Khaloom. The weather
too was clear, cool, and pleasant. A little after mid-day we halted at
the wells of Budjoo; distance, north-west by north, seventeen miles.
Dec. 16.—We met several kafilas from Gubsharee and the
surrounding country, going to Kouka. Their heavy goods were
carried on bullocks; the smaller packages, weighing from twenty to
thirty pounds, were borne on men’s heads. The bearers poise their
burdens with much dexterity and ease to themselves, by cords
hanging from the sides of the packages, which are carried
lengthwise on the head; by this simple contrivance they avoid the
fatiguing posture of keeping the arm raised. We halted about three
o’clock in the afternoon.
We still pursued the Old Birnee road: we saw several of the large
red and white antelopes, called by the Arabs mohur. We encamped
on the margin of one of the lakes, formed by the overflowing of the
Yow; the river was only about a quarter of a mile distant from us, to
the north. It had now fallen fully six feet, and its current might be
about three miles an hour.
Dec. 18.—We travelled along the banks of a chain of small lakes
formed by the Yow, once, perhaps, its original channel. I observed,
by the roadside, the tracks of various wild animals,—among others
of the hippopotamus and lion. We passed one of the country fairs,
held on a small hill, near the ruins of a large town which had been
destroyed by the Felatahs. We halted at Damasak, near an
encampment of the sheikh’s cowherds; who, on hearing that we
were in the kafila, brought us an abundant supply of milk.
Dec. 19.—As the low grounds from Damasak to Mugabee, about
ten miles distant, were inundated, we were obliged to make a long
circuit by an upper road, frequently wading across hollows filled with
water. At noon we had to halt on the banks of one of those
temporary rivers which are formed during the wet season: it still
contained a considerable body of water, which was running at the
rate of about two miles an hour. We met here several kafilas of
loaded bullocks, on their way from Gubsharee and Soudan. The
people were busily floating their goods over the river on rafts, made
of bundles of reeds; but there being too few in number to transport
our baggage, it was necessary to make new rafts for ourselves. We
therefore pitched our tents; and one man was sent by each of the
Arab merchants to cut long reeds, which are readily made into rafts,
by lashing bundles of them across two long poles.
I proceeded two or three miles up the banks of the river, which
last summer did not contain a drop of water. The lower road certainly
exhibited the appearance of being overflowed during the rains; but
nobody, from merely seeing it in that state, could suppose that for
nearly one half of the year it is a broad sheet of water, or that the
upper road itself is traversed, for the same period, by several large
streams falling into the Yow. The ferry-dues, paid to the people who
swim over with the rafts, are a rotal for every camel load of goods:
the rotal is now merely nominal, and represents a pound of copper,
eight or ten of which are equivalent to a Spanish dollar. The bullocks,
horses, and camels, are made to swim over, together with the negro
slaves.
Dec. 20.—Hitherto the atmosphere had been clear and serene,
but to-day it became hazy, and was particularly cold about day-
break. Hadje Ali, the invalid alluded to, having a very large raft, we
ferried over our baggage upon it without the smallest accident, by
means of a rope fastened to each end. It was far otherwise with the
Arabs a little lower down the river; there was nothing but hubbub and
bustle among them: many, through ignorance or obstinacy, had their
goods much damaged. The greatest difficulty was with the camels
and female slaves; the women screamed and squalled with great
vehemence; several of the men seemed almost in as great a panic
as the ladies, especially those of Fezzan, none of whom could swim;
and some of them jumped off the raft into the water three or four
times, before they could muster courage to cross. The camels
occasioned a great deal of trouble, one man having to swim before
with the halter in his teeth, while another kept beating the animal
behind with a stick, which every now and then attempted to turn
back, or bobbed its head under water. Before all had crossed, it was
too late to continue our journey that day; we therefore encamped on
the west bank for the night.
Dec. 21.—We still travelled along the upper grounds, on account
of the extent of the inundation. Yet the earth itself was so dry, that we
were put in some slight danger by a kafila, near Old Birnee,
carelessly setting the grass on fire in the course of the night: the fire
advanced rapidly, like a sea of flame, and must have put us all to
flight had we not had the good fortune to obtain shelter within the
ruined walls of the city, which checked a little the progress of the
conflagration. We did not halt, however, but continued our route to a
town called Bera, on the banks of a beautiful lake, likewise formed
by the overflowing of the Yow. Immediately there was quite a fair in
our camp, the townswomen coming with gussule or Guinea corn,
bean straw, cashew nuts, and milk; which they offered in exchange
for glass beads and gubga, or native cloth. The beads in greatest
request are pretty large, of a chocolate colour, with a small spiral
white ring round the middle, and are called by the natives
conteembalee, or Muckni; the latter appellation is derived from a
sultan of Fezzan of that name, who was originally a merchant, and
first brought these beads into fashion. A single bead exchanged for a
quart of Guinea corn. The gubga is narrow cotton cloth, of native
manufacture, about a palm in width; forty fathoms of which are
usually valued at a dollar. The value of commodities in barter seems
to be maintained with a certain stability, somewhat like the money
rate of exchange in Europe, by fixing a local standard price for those
articles in greatest demand, in lieu of the fictitious par of exchange,
which, with us, powerfully influences and indirectly regulates all
money transactions.
Dec. 22.—We crossed over a neck of land formed by a bend of
the river to a town called Dugamoo, where we halted. The banks of
the river are every where studded with towns and villages.
Dec. 23.—The morning was cold. Dr. Oudney had been very
unwell during the night, and felt himself extremely weak. At eight
o’clock we left Dugamoo, and, following a winding path, nearly due
west, we reached Deltago, having passed a number of towns and
villages, one of which, called Kukabonee, was of considerable size,
and contained perhaps 5000 or 6000 inhabitants. The country to the
west of Old Birnee rises in gentle undulations of hill and dale. There
are very few trees, except on the banks of the Yow. The soil is chiefly
a red clay. The inhabitants raise great quantities of Guinea corn, and
beans something like calavances. We had a very plentiful market.
The people here preferred coral, and the beads called
conteembalee, in exchange for grain, &c. to native cloth. Gunpowder
was much sought after as a medicine. To-day we gave a sheep as a
boozafer or gift, by way of footing, which all pay who travel this way
for the first time; a practice akin to our usage on doubling capes, or
crossing the tropics and line. Cotton seed bruised is very much used
for feeding sheep, bullocks, asses, and camels. These animals soon
become extremely fond of it: it is an excellent food for fattening them.
In the evening gussule was sent for our horses and camels, as had
been done in the other towns: we passed as soon as the people
learned we were the friends of the sheikh.
Dec. 24.—Dr. Oudney felt himself much better. We halted to-day,
on account of one of the merchants’ camels falling lame; the owner
was obliged to send to Dugamor to buy another. The kafila kept a
grand boozafer day, and all merchant new-comers paid a dollar
apiece, or gave its value in goods.—Time is to these people of no
importance: whatever accidental occurrence takes place to detain
them, they bear the delay with perfect indifference.
Dec. 25.—The weather clear and cool. We left Deltago, and,
winding along the banks of the river, or occasionally cutting off a
bend by a cross path, we reached Bedeekarfee. There is more wood
here than we had yet seen, and the soil is still a strong red clay.
Villages and towns are numerous; the inhabitants principally belong
to the Alluanee tribe of Shouah Arabs. The town of Bedeekarfee is
large and populous. The governor, commonly called in this and other
African towns Sultan, although holding a subordinate command, had
seen us when we were on the expedition to Munga with the sheikh of
Bornou. On our arrival he came out to meet us, and gave us a very
cordial reception. He was an elderly man, much afflicted with a
urinary disorder, for which he consulted Dr. Oudney. His dwelling,
large, extremely clean, and constructed after the manner of the
country, consisted of a spacious quadrangular enclosure,
surrounded with mats fixed to high poles, within which were several
small round huts, also of matting, with thatched conical roofs, each
surmounted by an ostrich egg. In outward appearance, these huts
somewhat resemble our bee-hives. Their walls are frequently made
of clay. The ostrich egg is a distinctive mark of the occupant being a
man of rank. The floor inside is covered with sand; and the only
furniture is a bench to supply the place of a bedstead, and a few
mats for squatting upon, besides some carved or coloured gourds
and wide-mouthed earthen jars, piled above one another, and
intended to combine ornament with utility. There is but one opening
or door-way, which is round at the top, and closed by a wicket. The
door always faces to the west, on account of the prevailing rains
coming from the opposite quarter. The grand entrance of the
enclosure is often a hut erected at the western side of the square,
with an open thoroughfare, where a black slave officiates as porter.
Each separate hut is called a coozee.
The Arab women of this place are really beautiful; they wear their
hair differently from their countrywomen elsewhere: the fashion of it
is such, that at a distance it might be mistaken for a helmet,—a large
braid on the crown having some semblance to a crest, and the side
tresses being neatly plaited and frizzled out at the ends. There are
also many women of Bornou among them, who imitate the same
style.
 Guinea fowls abound in this part of the country: I went out after
we halted, and shot five of them, besides a wild duck and a quail.
Mohamoud El Wordee, one of two Fezzanee merchants, to whom
we were particularly recommended by the sheikh of Bornou, and
who had always appeared to me to be a man of strong natural
sense, was thrown into a sad fright by losing a charm or amulet off
his horse’s neck, with a number of which almost all are equipped.
This charm is nothing more than a short sentence from the Koran.
Had he lost an only child he could scarcely have been more afflicted.
I gave him a scrap of paper to make another, which Hadje promised
to write out for him.
Dec. 26.—This morning after sunrise, Fahrenheit’s thermometer
stood at 49°. The merchants were busily employed firing off their
guns and putting them in order for the Bedites, an ancient race of
native Bornouese, who have not embraced Islamism, and who
occupy an adjoining territory, chiefly protected by its natural
fastnesses. They are held both in dread and abhorrence by all the
faithful. Every thing being ready at eleven o’clock, we broke up our
encampment. Our kafila was now of an immense size. We had been
joined at Bedeekarfee by 500 people at least, who were waiting
there for an Arab kafila to pass through the Bedee country; for all
Arabs are esteemed by the natives here extremely formidable, as
well from the possession of fire arms, as from their national
intrepidity. Their muskets, however, in comparison of those of
Europe, are of the meanest quality; and so uncertain in their fire, that
they are hardly worth more than their weight as old iron. The
courage, too, of most of these Arabs is very questionable. When
successful they are overbearing and cruel in the extreme, and in bad
fortune are in like degree servile and abject.
The natives of Haussa carry their merchandise on the head, and
go armed with bows and arrows. Those of Bornou convey their
goods chiefly on asses and bullocks, and are armed with spears.
The Haussa merchants deal in tobacco, Goora nuts, Koghelor or
crude antimony, cotton cloth in the web, or made into dresses called
tobes and turkadees, and tanned goat skins. Goora nuts are the
produce of Ashantee and other parts near the west, and are chewed
by all people of consequence, on account of their agreeable bitter
taste, not unlike that of strong coffee, and the supposed virtue of
curing impotency. They are even in great esteem as far as Fezzan
and Tripoli, where they bring the exorbitant price of two dollars a
score. Crude antimony in powder is applied by both sexes to the
eye-lashes, to render them dark and glossy. Native cloth, or gubga,
as before mentioned, is extremely narrow, seldom more than four
inches in width. The tobe is a large shirt with loose hanging sleeves
like a waggoner’s frock, generally of a dark blue colour, and is an
indispensable part of male attire throughout central Africa. The
turkadees are articles of female dress, commonly of blue cotton
cloth, about three yards and a half long and one broad. Sometimes
they are made of alternate stripes of blue and white (of the breadth
of African cloth), or are all white, according to fancy. Women of better
circumstances commonly wear two turkadees, one round the waist,
and another thrown over the shoulders. These articles are bartered
in Bornou for trona or natron, common salt and beads; which,
together with coarse tobes, are also carried by Bornouese
adventurers to Haussa. Our road lay over an elevated clayey plain,
with low trees, most of them mimosas. We passed the ruins of
several towns, and such of our travelling companions as were best
acquainted with the country informed us it was well peopled before
the Felatah invasion. At sunset we halted, being already in the
Bedee country.
Dec. 27.—The temperature this morning was remarkably low, and
the water in our shallow vessels was crusted with thin flakes of ice.
The water skins themselves were frozen as hard as a board[65].
These water skins, by the way, are goat skins, well tanned and
seasoned, stripped from the carcass over the animal’s head. They
are extremely convenient on a tedious journey over arid wastes and
deserts. The horses and camels stood shivering with cold, and
appeared to suffer much more than ourselves. The wind during the
night was, as usual, from the north, and north-north-west. Dr.
Oudney was extremely ill, having become much worse from catching
a severe cold. We now travelled south-south-west, over a country of
much the same kind of soil as that above described. As we
approached the low grounds it was better wooded, and the trees
were of greater size and variety. Of these, the most remarkable were
the kuka and the goorjee.
The kuka is of immense size, erect and majestic; sometimes
measuring from twenty to twenty-five feet in circumference. The
trunk and branches taper off to a point, and are incrusted with a soft,
glossy, copper-coloured rind, not unlike a gummy exudation. The
porous spongy trunk is straight, but the branches are twisted and
tortuous. The leaves are small, somewhat like the young ash, but
more pulpy, and growing in clusters from the extremities of the lesser
twigs. The tree is in full leaf and blossom during the rainy months of
June, July, and August. The flowers are white, large, and pendulous,
somewhat resembling the white garden lily. The fruit hangs by a long
stalk, and is of an oval shape, generally larger than a cocoa nut, with
a hard shell full of a powdery matter, intermixed with reddish strings
and tamarind-like seeds. In its unripe state it is of a beautiful velvety
dark green colour, and becomes brown as it approaches maturity.
The tree, whether bare of its leaves, in flower, or in full bearing, has
a singularly grotesque naked appearance; and, with its fruit dangling
from the boughs like silken purses, might, in the imagination of some
Eastern story-teller, well embellish an enchanted garden of the
Genius of the Lamp. The leaves are carefully gathered by the
natives, dried in the sun, and used for many culinary purposes.
Boiled in water they form a kind of clammy jelly, giving a gelatinous
consistence to the sauces and gravies in most common use. I have
also eaten them boiled with dried meat, according to the custom of
the country, but did not much relish such fare. Both leaves and fruit
are considered, to a certain degree, medicinal. The leaves, mixed
with trona and gussub, are given to horses and camels, both for the
purpose of fattening these animals, and as a cooling aperient: they
are administered to the former in balls, and to the latter as a drench.
The white mealy part of the fruit is very pleasant to the taste, and
forms, with water, an agreeable acidulous beverage; which the
natives, whose libidinous propensities incline them to such remarks,
allege to possess the virtue of relieving impotency.
 The goorjee tree much resembles a stunted oak, with a beautiful
dark red flower, when in full blow rather like a tulip. The natives make
use of the flower to assist in giving a red tinge to the mouth and
teeth, as well as in seasoning their food. These two trees are
generally found on a strong clayey soil, and are peculiar to Haussa
and the western parts of Bornou.
At noon, we came in sight of a lake called Tumbum, apparently
formed by some river in the rainy season. All the country to the
southward and westward, as far as the eye could reach, was a
dismal swamp. Just as we arrived within a short distance of the lake,
—at the very spot in which of all others the Arabs said we were most
likely to encounter the Bedites,—two men made their appearance.
They were dressed in the Bornouese costume; a loose tobe and
drawers, with a tight cap, all of blue cotton cloth. Each carried on his
shoulder a bundle of light spears, headed with iron. I was a little way
in front of our party, and first met them; they saluted me very civilly,
and I passed on without further notice, when the other horsemen
meeting them, and putting some questions, which the strangers did
not answer to their satisfaction, immediately seized, stripped, and
bound them. Considering it a matter in which I had no authority to
interfere, I merely requested that their drawers might be returned to
them, remarking, it was better not to treat them ill, as they might
prove to be honest men. “Oh! d——n their fathers,” (the strongest
imprecation in Africa), replied the captors, “they are thieves; what
would they be doing here if they were honest men?” I still urged the
propriety of taking them to Bedeguna, at least, to afford them a
chance of being recognised by the townspeople, before treating
them as robbers. I now rode off to water my horse; when I returned, I
found the magnanimous El Wordee guarding the two unfortunate
wretches, one of whom was a Shouah Arab, and the other a Negro.
The latter, while I was absent, had received a dreadful cut under the
left ear from a Bornouese, who pretended that the Negro had
attempted to escape; an attempt little likely in his desperate situation.
Notwithstanding the wound, they were leading the poor fellow by a
rope fastened round his neck. He was covered with blood, and Dr.
Oudney assured me, if the wound had been a little lower down it
must have caused instant death. I could not refrain from beating the
merciless Bornouese; and I obliged him to use his own tobe in
binding up the wound, at the same time threatening to lodge the
contents of my gun in his head, if he repeated his cruelty. The
occasion prompted me to impress on the minds of the Arabs
generally how unworthy it was of brave men to behave with cruelty to
their prisoners, and to suggest, that it would be far better to sell
them, or even to put them to death, than wantonly to inflict such
barbarities. The Arabs threw the blame on the Bornouese, and
although evidently exulting in secret over their captives, they were
fairly shamed into good behaviour, and promised to liberate the men
if innocent, or, if guilty, to surrender them to justice at Bedeguna.
Our road skirted the border of the great swamp, and we arrived at
Bedeguna at sunset. The galadema, literally “gate-keeper,” or
governor, was a Felatah, and a particular friend of Mohamoud El
Wordee, by whom we were introduced to him. He was tall and
slender, with a high arched nose, broad forehead, and large eyes;
and, indeed, altogether as fine a looking black man as I had ever
seen. His behaviour, too, was at once kind and dignified. Besides his
native language, he spoke with fluency Arabic, and the tongues of
Bornou and Haussa. He asked us a great many questions about
England, of which he had heard; and said his master, the Sultan of
the Felatahs, would be glad to see us. He applied to Dr. Oudney for
medicines, on account of a urinary obstruction, a disease very
prevalent in this country. We made him a present of a small paper
snuff-box full of cloves; he sent us, in return, a plentiful supply of
milk.
The territory of Bedeguna, or little Bede, formerly belonged to
Bornou. The inhabitants are Bornouese, and speak their native
language. The territory includes many towns and villages, and
produces much gussub, Indian corn, wheat, and cotton. Herds of
cattle are also numerous. The principal implement of agriculture is a
hoe made of native iron, of their own manufacture. They reap with a
crooked knife, and merely cut off the ears of corn, which they store in
round thatched huts of clay, or matting, raised on wooden blocks
from the ground. The grain is cleaned from the husk by hand
rubbing, and ground into flour between two stones. We saw no
plough to the southward of Sockna, a town between Tripoli and
Fezzan. I inquired of the governor about the source of the swollen
river we crossed on a raft between Gateramaran and old Birnee,
which again presented itself close to our present encampment. He
told me it rose in the country of Yacoba, among rocky hills, and,
running to the eastward of old Birnee, soon afterwards entered the
Yow. On questioning him further about Yacoba, the name of the
country, he said it was the sultan’s name; for the people were
infidels, and had no name for their own country. The river, he added,
was distinguished by the appellation of the Little River, and in these
parts did not dry up throughout the whole year.
The country to the south-east and south-west appears to be an
entire swamp, overflowed of course in the rainy season. Felatahs are
in features, and in the manner of wearing the turban, very like the
inhabitants of Tetuan in Morocco. They are here much esteemed by
the people whom they rule for the impartial administration of justice,
and were uniformly kind and civil to us. Our two prisoners happened
to be well known, having only left the town that morning. They were
accordingly liberated, but their clothes were not restored.
We were not a little indebted to the Arab merchants for the good
name they gave us. They almost looked upon us as of their own
nation; and although Kafirs, we, as Englishmen, were allowed to
rank at least next to themselves. I really believe they would have
risked their lives in our defence. Travelling in a kafila was much more
pleasant than any mode we had hitherto tried; all being ready to
oblige one another, and all vying in attention to us. The lake
Zumbrum is about twelve miles south-south-west from Bedeguna.
Dec. 28.—At sunrise to-day the thermometer was at 45°. Our new
friend, the governor, accompanied us two or three miles out of town.
At parting he prayed God to bless us; and, laying his hand on his
forehead, said he hoped we should ever continue friends. The road
at first followed the borders of the marsh, by the side of the Little
River, which suddenly breaks off to the southward, at a town called
Goobeer. There we filled our goat skins with water. We continued our
course, and shortly came to a strong red clay soil, densely covered
with grass so long that it actually overtopped our heads, although on
horseback. At sunset we halted in the woods for the night. The
horses and beasts of burden were last watered, when we filled our
water skins. Dr. Oudney was attacked with ague, but luckily the
evening proved very mild. For two or three nights past he has had a
fire in his tent, which seemed to abate the violence of his cough. This
evening, addressing me with resigned composure, he said, “I feel it
is all over with me. I once hoped to conduct the mission to a
successful termination, but that hope has vanished. Whenever my
death takes place, I wish my papers to be put into the hands of Mr.
Barrow, or Professor Jameson, provided the request meets with Earl
Bathurst’s approbation.” As this was a painful subject, I did not
encourage its renewal, and, according to this solemn injunction of
my lamented friend, I have delivered all his papers to Mr. Barrow.
Dec. 29.—After toiling two hours through a thickly wooded
country, we came in view of a large plain, with numerous towns and
villages. We found the towns by no means so neat as in Bornou, the
coozees, or huts, being much smaller, and often in bad repair. The
people raise great quantities of grain, principally gussub. We saw
five ostriches, which made off from us with great speed. Dr. Oudney
was a great deal better. In the afternoon we arrived at Sansan. Our
horsemen skirmished a little in front of the caravan before entering
the town, and then galloped up in pairs to the governor’s door, firing
off their muskets. This is the common compliment paid by kafilas in
such cases. The governor was absent on an expedition, headed by
the governor of Katagum, against the Bedites, who are in the
immediate neighbourhood. As before observed, the Bedites have
never received the doctrines of Mahomet; and, although speaking
the language of Bornou, and acknowledging a kind of nominal
sovereignty of the Bornouese sultan, they are every where regarded
as a race of outlaws, whom it is incumbent on every good
Mussulman, Bornouese, or Felatah, to enslave or murder. This race
is said to have no religion; but their common practice of first holding
up to heaven the carcass of any animal, killed for food, belies their
being atheists—a reproach attributed to them solely by their
enemies. On the contrary, it harmonizes with those universal feelings
of reverence and awe for a Supreme Being, which have ever existed
among all nations, and in all ages. The favourite food of this
persecuted tribe is said to be dogs, which they fatten for the
purpose. Their country is of small extent, defended by impenetrable
morasses and forests, by which alone they preserve a precarious
and dangerous independence.
At Sansan we were waited upon by the principal native
inhabitants, and the resident Arabs. Among the Arabs there was a
cousin of the sheikh of Bornou, Hadje El Min El Hanem. The reports
of our travelling companions, the merchants, contributed very much
to exalt our character wherever we went.
Dec. 30.—At noon I found the latitude of our encampment to be
12° 20′ 48″ north by meridian alt. of lower limb of sun. Sansan in
Arabic signifies “the gathering,” where the scattered parties of an
army assemble previous to an expedition. The town had its name
from a late sultan of Bornou, making it the rendezvous of his army
when he went to conquer Haussa. The place where he pitched his
tent is still held in great veneration, and the buildings around it were
first erected by his army. The neighbouring district also abounds in
towns and villages, which, together with Bedeguna and Sansan, are
under the governor of Katagum, who is himself subordinate to the
governor of Kano. Sansan is formed of three distinct towns, called
Sansan Birnee, Sidi Boori, and Sansan Bana. The principal one, in
which the governor resides, is Sansan Birnee, or Sansan Gora,
signifying “the walled,” from a low clay wall in ruins, surrounded by a
dry ditch almost filled up. The mosque is without a roof, and the huts
and houses of the inhabitants are old and dilapidated. Sidi Boori,
another of the three towns, having a signification so indecent that I
must forbear to translate it, is about half a mile west of Sansan
Birnee, and inhabited by Shauah Arabs. The third town, called
Sansan Bana, or, “of the banners,” where the sultan’s tent stood, is
about a mile distant from Sansan Birnee, and is inhabited by
Bornouese, who are here in great numbers, and were first brought
by force from Old Birnee, and other towns of Bornou. At present they
are quite reconciled to the change, and now remain from choice.
The sister of the sultan of Bornou, having been made captive by
the Felatahs, was living here with her husband in great obscurity,
although her brother, the sultan, is surrounded by all the barbaric