“Sinclair can handle himself,” Michael said. “And he’s in uniform. Clive wouldn’t dare touch him. He’s not that stupid.”
Apparently he was. The plan to get Isabel out of the pub changed when Clive shoved Sinclair.
Knocked him clear off his feet. The back of Sinclair’s head struck the edge of the table as he fell to the floor.
“Stay in the booth, Isabel.”
Michael moved fast. One second he was sitting beside her, and the next he was nose to nose with Clive Harcus. Clive would have to go through him to get to her or Sinclair.
Both fists raised to strike, Clive lunged, but he was no match for Michael’s speed and agility. He blocked Clive’s left arm with one hand and slammed his fist into Clive’s face with the other. Clive howled as he went flying back and down, landing on his backside. Blood spurted from his nose, and Isabel was certain Michael had broken it. She found herself hoping he had.
Isabel heard Freya cry out.
Clive’s sidekick, Graeme, got up from the table where he’d been sitting with Freya and headed toward Michael. Seeing him coming, Michael shook his head and said, “You’ll want to go sit down.”
There was something in his voice that got through to Graeme because he hightailed it back to Freya.
Both Sinclair and Clive staggered to their feet. Sinclair rubbed the back of his head and, when he saw the blood on his hand, muttered something Isabel couldn’t hear.
“Put him in a chair,” he told Michael.
Clive wiped his nose with the back of his hand, smearing blood all over his face. “I don’t have to sit down,” he muttered. “And I’m going to sue you, you bastard. You broke my nose.”
“Sit down,” Sinclair snapped.
Clive acted as though he was going to cooperate. He turned to pull the chair close, then spun around with clinched fist and tried to punch Michael again.
“You’re a slow learner,” Michael remarked as he twisted Clive’s arm back and shoved him into the chair.
Clive squinted up at Michael. “I’m not going to forget what you just did, Buchanan. I’d watch my back if I were you.”
Michael didn’t seem surprised that Clive knew who he was.
By now, Sinclair was standing next to Michael, staring at Clive. “You put your hands on an officer of the law.”
Clive shrugged. “I just gave you a little nudge to get you out of my way. Are you going to arrest me for that?” he scoffed.
“Yes, I am,” Sinclair answered.
Clive grabbed a couple of napkins from the table and wiped his face. Then he tossed them back on the table. He leaned around Michael to look at Isabel. His face was turning red with fury again.
While he stared at her, he slowly tore up the eviction letter. “I’m not going to let you steal what belongs to me,” he bellowed. “If I have to, I’ll . . . ,” he began, then suddenly stopped.
“If you have to, you’ll what?” Michael demanded, pressing in on him.
Clive shook his head, refusing to answer.
“Miss MacKenna signed the papers and is now the sole owner of Glen MacKenna. If you have a problem with that, take it to the courts. In the meantime, leave her alone.”
Two police officers rushed into the pub. One of them pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Sinclair took them aside and gave them instructions while Michael stood over Clive. Twice he tried to get up, and twice Michael shoved him back into the chair.
Annie handed Sinclair a wet cloth, and he used it to wipe the blood seeping from the cut on the back of his head. She took the long way around Clive to get to the kitchen and grab a carry-out plastic bag Michael had asked her for.
Powerless to intervene, Freya had remained in her chair, looking frightened and distressed by what was happening to her son. When the officers began to put handcuffs on him, she jumped to her feet. “He didn’t do anything wrong. Please don’t arrest him,” she begged. She pointed at Michael.
“That man assaulted him.”
Her pleas were ignored.
It took both officers to get Clive’s hands behind his back and snap the cuffs on.
“You won’t be able to keep me locked up for long. I’ll be out by tomorrow night,” Clive boasted.
As he was being dragged out of the pub, he pulled away from the officers long enough to say good-bye to his mother. He told her to get him a solicitor and be damned quick about it.
“Who should I call, Clive? Tell me who to call,” she pleaded.
The door closed before Clive could respond. Graeme answered her. “I’ll find someone better than MacCarthy. Don’t you worry.” He paused to glare at Isabel and added in a shout, “You aren’t going to get away with this atrocity. I’m going to make sure you can’t cause trouble.”
Shoving his chair back, Graeme stood and said to Freya, “The car is several roads over. I’ll go get it and pull up to the door. Stay here until I come back inside for you.”
With the pub quiet now, Annie returned and gave Michael the bag. He opened it and used it to scoop up the bloody napkin Clive had used and tossed on the table. He sealed the bag and handed it to Sinclair.
Isabel’s attention went to Clive’s mother. Freya held a lacy handkerchief up to her eyes, dabbing the tears away. Isabel couldn’t imagine the distress she would feel watching someone she loved being handcuffed and taken away. She had an insane urge to go over to the woman and apologize, which didn’t make a lick of sense, she knew. She wasn’t going to do it, but she knew being Clive’s mother had to be hell for her. Approaching Freya would probably upset her even more. Besides, Michael would probably tackle her if she took one step in the woman’s direction.
She slid out of the booth with the intention of going to Michael, who was in a quiet discussion with Sinclair, but then she saw Freya stand and make her way over to her. They met a few feet from each other, with a round table between them. Isabel pulled out a chair and sat. Freya nodded to her and sat down across from her.
Neither one said a word for a minute while they studied each other. Freya was a surprise to Isabel. She wasn’t at all what she had pictured. Her erect posture gave her an almost regal bearing.
Isabel couldn’t tell how old she was. Her dark hair was pulled back. The only hints of her true age were the few silver strands in her hair and the fine lines around her eyes. She was slender and dressed in a black sweater and slacks. Her simple attire was not matched by her accessories, though.
The woman obviously had a fancy for jewelry. Large silver teardrops hung from her ears; several strands of beads circled her neck, and at least a half-dozen bangles surrounded her wrists. When she folded her manicured hands on the table, the bracelets made a clanking sound.
Freya spoke first. “Life hasn’t been fair to my son. He is trying to get better control, but he has lapses, especially when someone has wronged him. He has his father’s temper.” Then, as though stating the obvious, she said, “Compton MacKenna was Clive’s father. I was in love with him, you know.”