Here is the next installment in Allison and Gabe’s story! If you’re just now joining us, you might want to start at the beginning.

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“I locked my keys in the car.” Allison said.

Mr. Black Shirt looked at her suspiciously.

“I didn’t do it on purpose!”

A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “I won’t deny the thought crossed my mind–women have done worse–but I believe you.”

He paused. “Do you have AAA or anything like that?”

“Here?”

A chuckle accompanied a brief smile. “I suppose not.”

He turned and began inspecting the windows of the car… looking for a way to break in, no doubt.

The rain picked up, and Allison stepped into the shelter of the castle walls and pulled her hood over her head.

“What’s your name?” she asked, as he tried to pull the rubber away from one of the little back windows.

“Jason,” he tossed over his shoulder.

“You’re American, too. Aren’t you?”

He nodded.

“Then why don’t you want to help me?”

He glanced her direction. “I thought that was what I’m doing right now.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not with the car. With finding out what happened to Gabe!”

He came back around the car and stood in front of her. “I never said I didn’t want to help.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s rather obvious.”

He crossed his arms and studied her for yet another ridiculously long moment.

“So why?” she persisted.

“Why aren’t you asking the police for help?” he asked, but he said it as though he already knew the answer.

“They could care less about old news,” she answered.

He smiled. “Perhaps. But more importantly, the trail is cold. Any clue that exists should have been found six years ago. Right?”

She reluctantly agreed.

“So what makes you think it would be any different for us?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I figured Mrs. Murchieson had a reason for sending me here.”

He nodded. “And so she did. She sent you to Murray. He keeps a–”

“Murray?”

“Iain, Alec, and Tristan’s father is Murray MacCoinneah. The laird, as Mrs. Murchieson likes to call him.”

“Oh.”

“He owns the castle and the lands around it, and he keeps a detailed journal of everything that happens around the place. If he knows anything that could help you, it will be in that journal. That is why you must wait to talk to him.”

“Oh,” she repeated. Then she thought of something. “Then why did… Tristan, I think his name was… seem to think you all could help me?”

A dry smile crossed Jason’s face. “Tristan would bend over backwards for a pretty woman,” he said mildly. “Even when bending over backwards would do neither him–nor the pretty woman–any good.”

She felt a blush start to creep up her neck, and she pulled Mrs. Murchieson’s rain coat higher.

“And even when the pretty woman already loves another man,” he finished carefully.

She forgot about the rain coat and looked up. Jason was studying her again. Gently this time.

“You love this Gabe, don’t you?” he asked as softly as the rain allowed.

A lump rose in her throat, and she tried to force it down. “I said he was my boyfriend.”

“I heard you. But that doesn’t always mean anything.”

She studied her muddy tennis shoes and the even muddier toes of Jason’s work boots. Except they probably wouldn’t be muddy too long, at the rate the rain was running down over them.

“Well?”

She looked up. “Why do you want to know?”

“I want to know why you’re looking for him.”

She supposed he had a point. How did they know she wasn’t dragging them into who-knows-what?

She took a deep breath. “Yes. I love him.”

“Even after six years?”

She raised her chin. “Gabe is–” she hesitated. How could she possible describe him? There was no one else like him. “He’s just Gabe!” she finished.

A gentle smile crossed Jason’s face. “Gabriel? Your angel and your hero?”

Yes. That was exactly it. “We grew up together, and he was always there for me. Always,” she repeated.

His smile warmed even more. “In that case, I hope Murray’s journal has information that can help us.”

He turned and led her back around the castle, in through the gates, through the muddy courtyard, and back toward the stables… only to stop at almost exactly the same point his son has stopped her. At least this spot was under the wide eaves of the roof.

“Wait here,” he said, and he disappeared around the corner.

Wait? Again?

She snorted and crept around the corner, but not around the bush. Instead, she squeezed between it and the building. The branches moved easily enough… even if they did throw water in her face… and a gap in the leaves was conveniently placed, as long as she stood on her toes.

She reached for a branch to steady herself and stretched as high as she could.

Her jaw dropped open.

There were Iain and Tristan, evidently just as comfortable in the rain as Jason was. And they still had their swords.

But they were using them. Fighting as though they wouldn’t mind cutting each other’s heads off, to be precise. Their muscles strained under their shirts as the huge swords swung through the air, meeting again and again and filling the air with the now-unmistakable sounds of a sword fight.

She fell off her toes, found a better branch to hold onto, and went back up on tip toe, just as Iain blocked a particularly vicious swing.

“Nice try, little brother,” he said. “Perhaps in another four years you’ll manage to disarm me.”

Tristan wrenched his sword back and grinned. “You’d like to think so. I’ll best you and Jason both before the year is out!” He wiped the water from his face and started swinging again.

Iain didn’t reply, but he met Tristan’s next several swings with dizzying speed. And then, quite suddenly, Tristan’s sword landed in the mud.

Only then did Iain reply. “I doubt it,” he said calmly. “What do you think, Jason?”

Allison adjusted her branches so she could see Jason where he stood, arms crossed over his chest again. He shrugged. “You, perhaps. He certainly won’t best me.”

Iain snorted. “I have absolutely no intention of letting my sword land in the dirt anytime soo–”

His voice broke off as Tristan suddenly dropped, swung a leg out, and swept Iain’s feet out from under him.

“Your sword’s in the dirt now,” Tristan pointed out with a smug smile.

Jason burst out laughing, and Iain heaved his muddy self to his feet. “What I meant,” he said, “is that you’ll not manage it with your sword. Tae kwan do doesn’t count. Besides–”

“Give it a rest, you two,” Jason interrupted. “Tristan, do you know when Matthew’s going to get here?”

“Sometime this afternoon.”

“Has he taught you any of his lockpicking skills?

Tristan shook his head briefly. “Not yet. Why?”

“Allison’s locked her keys in her car.”

“Good!” Tristan said with a grin. “She’ll need someone to look after her. I’ll see to it.”

He started forward, and Allison dashed back around the corner.

…

Jump to Installment #5!

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Okay, everyone! What kind of a host do you think Tristan should be? How much time should pass before Matthew shows up to get into Allison’s car for her? What would you like to see happen in the meantime?