Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle (6 page)

“Ooooo…” She remained awkwardly on her elbow, aware she needed to shift to relax the muscles, knowing she didn’t dare or it’d seize up completely.

Concerned, Dudley padded over and crawled onto her lap to lick her chin. She tried to push him away, but groaned as the slight movement brought pain. Gritting her teeth, she finally pushed to her feet and shuffled down the hall to the bathroom. Shaking out two muscle relaxers, she washed them down with water.

She glanced at the clock. A little after four. She’d checked on Mershan several times during the night. He seemed tired, though he’d assured her it was from needing sleep and not anything to deal with the head injury.

Going over, she stood by the bed watching her patient. Blessed with a hot metabolism, he’d kicked off the heavy duvet and now slept peacefully. Maybe she’d trade a blanket for the duvet since he wasn’t freezing like her.

Innocence touched his countenance, making him appear years younger than his age. She smiled at the long sooty eyelashes. Women would kill to have lashes like that. Her hand softly brushed a black curl off his forehead, then she placed her palm against his brow.

“Just checking his temperature,” she murmured to the cat and her gremlins.

She hated to wake him, his slumber seemed so restful. Glancing back to the corner, she nearly moaned. She’d be sick if she slept on the floor. She’d end up with a cold, a sore throat and a stiff back. Michael was spot on when he’d called the bed a bloody parade ground. Four people could sleep in comfort. Carefully she pulled the quilt over his legs.

Aside from all the physical response he provoked within her, her mind whispered that this man was unique. Special. She didn’t entirely trust his reasons for coming to Falgannon, yet she held no fear of him. Silly, but she knew this man would never harm her. His threat to her world came in a more dangerous fashion—her wanting him.

She sneezed as another chill wracked her body.

“That does it!” Fetching the king-size pillows, she placed them down in the middle of the bed to form a wall between them. This way, she could keep an eye on him, come awake in an instant if needed. She could catch a nap, not a head cold. If he awoke, she’d jump out of bed and pretend she’d just come to check on him.

Dudley walked down the pillows and started flexing his claws. His purr rumbled as he turned a circle and finally settled down. It’s a soothing noise, she thought as she closed her eyes. And as the warmth of the duvet seeped through her cold muscles, she imagined purrs came from her.

*

The gray light of dawn filtered around the cracks of the draperies, and Desmond woke up for the umpteenth time. His head was still sore.

What a comedy of errors, yet it had worked to his favor. He reflected on his night in B.A.‘s pink bower. She’d been so comical when he dropped his slacks. A gentle soul, she’d been kind taking care of him. How she’d materialized with aspirins and icy lemonade. The ice felt soothing, but he’d needed it on a pain much lower. That had been enough to keep him awake half the night. He smiled, recalling B.A.‘s comical muttering to herself and the cat.

Yawning, he noticed two long pillows ran the length of the bed, that silly cat propped up on one. Dudley sat, rumbling a small earthquake. Desmond had no idea cats purred so loudly, but then he’d never had room in his life for a pet.

“Are you the gatekeeper?” he asked.

On the other side of the pillows, in the huge bed was a sleeping B.A. Surprise flooded him, then shifted to an odd surge of anger. Did she jump in bed with strangers so easily?

“I could be Jack the Ripper’s great-great grandson.”

He patted the rumbling kitty and stared at B.A. slumbering on the other side of her feather bastion. Unbound hair spilled about her in a pool of gold, provoking his body to lurch with a jolt of lust—the kind a man can scarcely control.

Desire goaded him to reach over those pillows, yank her under him and take her in a hundred ways, the driving impulse nearly more than he could curb. A roguish smile spread across his mouth as the notion of pushing a few buttons, testing how far she’d let him go, flittered across his brain. He’d liked her reactions to him and was eager to see her blush again.

On the other hand, he fancied being Ms. Montgomerie’s guest for the foreseeable future. He figured acting the perfect houseguest would undermine her opposition to his plans. That didn’t include sliding over her and using his mouth in delicious ways to wake her up.

He settled for lifting a lock of her dark blond hair and rubbing it against his mouth. There’d be other opportunities.

Chapter 4

One head rose above the wall. Then a second, followed by an, “Ouch! Ouch!”

Michael and Callum glared at Willie.

“As a writer,
Willa
Macgregor,” Michael chided, “you ken stealth dunna include someone bleating like a bloody sheep.”

Willie’s head popped up next to the Mackenzie cousins, peering over the stone fence that encompassed the official residence of the Lady of the Isle. “Tell The Cat Dudley. ‘Tis enough the wee monster of Falgannon gives you his opinion when you’re wearing breeks, another to get that vampire bite when you’re in a kilt.”

Michael snorted.“‘Tis daft, a man crawling around with the wind tickling his family jewels whilst spying like James Bond. Ever see Bond in a kilt?”

Robbie joined the group, then scratched his red head in thought. Dudley jumped up on the fence and pussyfooted back and forth, eager to play this new game. Since Dudley’s idea of play differed vastly from the men’s, they took a moment to assess what the creature was doing.

“In
On Her Majesty’s Secret Service,
Bond donned a kilt—,” Robbie began.

The others chimed, “Dinna count.”

“That’s Lazenby,” Callum refreshed Robbie’s memory. “The official stance of the “Morn, B.A.” Club is Big Tam broke the mold.”

“Aye, that Irish laddie sucked eggs,” Willie commented.

Michael added, “Better than the new Craig chap.”

Murmurs of ayes were uttered with the shaking of heads.

“Last good Bond film was
Diamonds Are Forever,
filmed in Las Vegas.” Willie informed them, “Vegas would be grand for a honeymoon. I research my books at the same time.”

Michael scowled. “Ever occur,
Willa,
to set your books in present day Scotland? Then no pesky anachronisms.”

“Anachronisms? Is that something to do with spiders?” Robbie shuddered. “I have a deep revulsion for anything small and with more than four legs.”

Callum nudged Michael with his elbow. “What I want to ken is, can they actually do it on a galloping horse—or is that your fertile imagination,
Lady Willa?
”

The cat came purring by, and the men leaned back to let him make another pass.

Robbie queried, “How come they frag people in movies and we cannot frag The Cat.”

“B.A. ruled no fragging Kitty after we got our DVDs of
Full Metal Jacket
and the fragging issue arose.” Michael reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a silver packet, rattling it to draw attention. “Hey, demon from hell, want crunchies? See, Dudley, time for us men to stick together. The Viking Prince has black hair and green eyes. Got to be Irish blood in there somewhere; the lilt is in his voice. Dunna think we’ll get a better chance to break The Curse. You need to do your part.”

Kitty scarfed down the treats, then meowed.

“Quick, give him more”—Willie nudged Michael—“before he starts caterwauling, or worse, bites me again.”

“See anything?” Robbie passed the ancient binoculars to Callum.

The cat suddenly dashed along the walk, up the stairs and into the kitchen through the cocked-open door.

B.A. vetted the tray to see if anything was missing. The Panther Desmond had expressed wanting a meal before the chaos erupted last night, but when she’d asked during the night, he hadn’t wanted food. His eyes spoke that he hungered for something else.

She put her hands to her cheeks as images of his beautiful body flooded her memory.

Stop acting like a love-struck teenager, BarbaraAnne,
Angel B.A. carped from her right shoulder.

Placing silverware by the plate, B.A. addressed the tiny gremlin of her conscience,” ‘tis just breakfast.”

Angel B.A. scoffed,
On Belleck china, with Waterford crystal and a mint-green Irish linen napkin?

Aye, she’s lying to herself.
Devil B.A. giggled from the perch on her left shoulder.

That gave B.A. pause, not recalling the Angel and Devil B.A.s agreeing on anything before. “Note to self: Whilst you’ve a guest, refrain from talking to teeny beings on your shoulders.”

B.A. grimaced at the track of her mind. As a child, she’d seen an old
Looney Toons
episode where an angel and devil version of the character kept popping in and whispered chidings. Being imaginative, she’d begun talking to her angel and devil selves and never grew out of it.

Rocking to Tone Loc’s “Wild Thang,” she dismissed that she’d spent thirty-seven minutes fussing over the tray. Her mouth pursed. It looked like something a lover would carry in on a morning-after.

She glanced to the middle of the room, watching Dudley. His nose was high in the air and his metronome tail swished in contentment, a Harley Davidson purr almost matching the beat of the song.

“Yeah, Wild Thang—that’s
you,
Dudley.”

Nibbling at her lower lip, B.A. debated if she should forget the whole thing lest the warlock infer she was interested in him. Nonsense. She shrugged. She couldn’t care less what The Panther Desmond thought. She would take him breakfast.

Impulsively, she scooped up her pruning shears and darted out the back door.

Michael adjusted the field glasses, then checked if he had the right end. “That wall of mirrored tiles she installed on the closet doors is reflecting the sun.” As he lowered them, he spotted B.A. come out the back door and scurry up the walkway to Castle Falgannon’s garden.

“Dive! Dive! Dive! B.A. alert!” he warned.

All heads vanished behind the rock wall.

Kitty jumped up on the fence and stared over at them as if wondering what new game they’d thought up to entertain him.

“Shoo, Dudley,” Michael pleaded. “Go see what B.A. wants.”

The glorious morn embraced B.A. with a warm island breeze, a day so perfect, so rare. There’d be few more like it as winter approached. She inhaled the heady mix of sea spray and peaty earth. Something Yanks in LA. could never understand. It was damn near intoxicating.

She looked across her island at its breathtaking splendor. Though the view from the castle farther up the hill beyond Rose Cottage was better, this vantage still inspired awe. When growing up, she went to school in the States part of each year. Upon her return, the sheer grandeur never failed to give her pause.

The intense colors of Falgannon left her speechless. Never the same two days in a row, she loved how one could be dark, moody and foreboding, the next sunshine-filled and exhilarating. The low horizons afforded a view over miles of vibrant greens of the rolling countryside to the white sand beaches and tropical colored water.

B.A. had left the back door open to enjoy the music. Also, to keep an ear out if her patient called—though he’d need to bellow over the Tone Loc. Dancing along the walkway, B.A. gyrated through the rose garden leading up the knoll toward the castle.

Pondering which blooms to cut, she inhaled their heady perfume. The music moved her, so she indulged.

“If you can swish your tail, Kitty, so can I.” No Robert Palmer girl, she put force behind the sensual rocking. Her long hair swirled as she let the music possess her body. “I wish I had some of those stripper tassels, Dudley, so I could make them go in circles in opposite directions…”

Gorgeous lavender tea roses drew her. Pulling one to her nose, she inhaled the citrus scent. As she bent to snip it, Dudley gifted her with one of his vampire bites to her ankle.

“Sir Dudley the Terrible, you’re not a feline, but a midget alien in a cat suit. Tommy Lee Jones and Will Smith are looking for you,” she teased.

The cat’s chubby body cantered up the walkway to the plants profuse with red blossoms. He circled the bush of My Lady’s Passion and meowed.

“You think? Men are mad for red. Little red wagons, red cars and sexy red dresses. These blooms are a vivid scarlet—no trace of pinks or purples to muddy the color. The black lacings on the edges remind me of sexy underwear. Okay, Dudley knows best.”

Cutting three, she wrapped her silk robe about her and danced back to the thatched house, Dudley on her heels. As she started up the steps, she glanced up at the bedroom window. The corner of her mouth tugged into a smile, and she was glad to see The Panther Desmond wasn’t awake to witness her bump-and-grind.

“Grand thing about living out here, Dudley. There’s none save you to witness my foolishness.”

“You see that?” Robbie whistled, fanning himself.

“I’ve eyeballs in my head.” Michael was stunned. “Our B.A. danced about in her bedclothes in the garden.”

Callum nodded. “It’s been a long time since our lass was so gay.”

“Dunna say gay,” Robbie grumped. “Makes me think of Oonanne and Morag.”

“Happy, then.” Callum stared at the house. “Well, I go for it. ‘Tis this Desmond bloke for our B.A. Agreed?”

“Aye,” the others chorused enthusiastically.

“A bonnie duo they’ll make. The sooner the better,” Robbie stated.

“Let’s hoof it back to The Hanged Man and report. Map out battle plans. Despite B.A. sashaying, she’ll not fancy falling in love as fast as we need. She’s a Montgomerie, after all.”

Dudley hopped back up on the fence, then yowled as if to say,
What did you decide?

“I still think the cat needs fragging,” Robbie grumbled.

Michael followed the others crawling away from B.A.‘s garden, frowning again at his bird’s-eye view of what a Scotsman wore under his kilt. “Lady Willa, wear breeks next time we go a-spying. Please!”

Chapter 5

Stepping back from the window, Desmond feared B.A. had caught him looking. His body was rock-hard from watching Ms. BarbaraAnne Montgomerie dance her heart out with the raw sexuality of a stripper and the grace of a ballerina. The pagan rhythm of her movements provoked a hungry heat to ravage his body, to twist his guts into knots. Placing a hand on his groin, he tested how aroused he was.

Desmond sought to recall the last time he’d wanted a woman this desperately—the point where civilized man faded and the primitive took control. No memory jumped to mind.

Too much of his life had been spent struggling to survive. While other kids had worried about bikes or what they’d get for birthdays, his sole focus had been putting grinding poverty behind him. In his twenties, he’d worked eighteen hours a day to ensure his younger brothers received the finest education.

Thus, women had never been a high priority. Oh, there were affairs, numerous affairs, but the women knew going in there was no future with him. It had been for sex, nothing else.

He wanted something more from B.A. Montgomerie. What that
something
was, eluded him. Just
more
. To be defined at a date later.

Conflicting emotions warred within him, spelling trouble. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Control that was usually second nature wasn’t surfacing.

Images of that gorgeous body swaying as she lost herself to the music, the way her hair brushed the bottom of her derriere, flashed through his mind. When was the last time he’d seen hair that long? Hands itching, he yearned to fist them in the heavy mass, to see her bent over him lost in passion, it cascading around them.

“Quick way to rein in, Mershan,” he scoffed.

His desire—too pale a word for the demon growling within him—might play havoc with his plans. He attacked goals in life with the single-minded focus of laying siege to a medieval fortress. No surrender, no quarter given. Plans had beauty in their precision, similar to the blueprints he drew for skyscrapers. The prospect B.A. could cause problems irritated him.

Strangely ungrounded, Desmond fought the urge to reach for his cell phone to call his brothers, to check how they were. It grated that he couldn’t have the touchstone of instant contact with the twins, not from this backward island. This had been too long in plotting to let small details such as long blond hair interfere.

Hearing her soft burr speak to the cat jerked him back to the present. Desmond barely dove into the bed before the half-opened door pushed wide.

Carrying the tray, B.A. hummed along with Haddaway’s “What Is Love,” repressing the urge to jerk her head to the side like The Roxbury Boys. Pausing at the door, she sucked in a breath to control the pounding of her heart.
From dancing like a madwoman,
she told herself.

Who are you kidding? The man upsets your magnetic field,
Devil B.A. carped.

The tray rattled as she placed it on the nightstand. She set aside the salt and pepper shakers, along with the pitcher of grapefruit juice, giving him room to eat. “Mr. Mershan?”

He pushed up, revealing that to-die-for chest, setting Devil B.A. to chanting
Tongue bath!

Hashing a sexy grin, he asked, “Rather formal, considering we slept together.”

“It’s the
only
bed. They left me the cat as chaperone.” B.A. assured herself those bedroom eyes and high-wattage smile did nothing to her knees.

Maybe because you ‘re looking at his bare chest,
Angel B.A. rebuked.

Man flesh!
Devil B.A. rubbed her hands in glee.

“Some chaperone.” Mershan’s black brow arched, mocking.

“Watch—sic him, Kitty!” The cat twined between her legs, peeking out from underneath the hem of her gown, a halo above his head. “Bugger, works with the males on the isle.”

“Dudley has discriminating taste.”

Maybe felines stick together,
she wanted to retort. Instead, she asked, “How do you feel?”

“Better. Want to look into my eyes?” When he saw she wasn’t rising to his bait, he nodded to the tray. “For me?”

“A bit of breakfast.” B.A. wanted to kick herself for going to the fuss. She smoothed the duvet across his lap so she could place the tray over it. Or tried. She encountered a definite lump. Blushing, B.A. jumped back as if scalded. Dudley hopped up on the bed, letting her scold him to cover embarrassment. “Shoo, you big mooch.”

“Do you always treat your cat so? He’s a live teddy bear.”

“Grizzly would be more apt. And The Cat Dudley is
not
my cat,” she corrected again.

“I forgot. Maybe you need to check my eyes—my condition might be worsening.” He assayed the Irish linen, china and the crystal vase holding three bright red roses, so exquisite they seemed artificial. His brow arched a silent comment on the elegant setup as he lifted the vase to his nose. “Beautiful roses. I love red. First time a woman’s given me flowers. I’m touched you went to so much trouble. Thank you, B.A.”

She glanced at the cat, who looked like,
See told you? The
red roses were out of place in the pale pink room, a vivid and startling contrast as incongruous and sensual as Desmond Mershan, himself.

“Not much for scent, but the clarity of the red sets the bloom apart.”

Rubbing the petals against his lips, the warlock’s eyes flashed with blatantly sexuality. “They remind me of red satin underwear with black lace. And they smell… not perfumy. Earthy. Pagan.”

B.A. almost swallowed her tongue. The expression on his beautiful face nearly provoked her to crawl up on that bed, knock the tray aside and have her wicked way with him. She wanted to see his expression as she lowered her mouth to his, felt his hands rough upon her breasts.

Yeah, bloody shame she was in this stupid virginal cotton gown and not a red satin bustier with black lace. Never had she felt such a grinding, elemental need for a man.

Her intense emotions were amplified by the meeting of their minds, both thinking the rose petals reminded them of sexy underwear. What would it be like to make love to such a rakish man so attuned not just to your body, but your mind as well?

Setting the vase on the tray, he lifted the cover over the eggs sunny-side up and then gestured with the knife to the nightstand.“May I have the salt and pepper?”

Before she realized, she’d handed him the salt. Her fingers flexed in a spasm around the shaker as his hand closed over hers. Och, the bloody warlock—he’d tricked her! Now she’d done it! Maeve would come back to haunt her for being so foolish.

His brows lifted. “Some quaint Falgannon custom?”

“Never mind.” She released the shaker. “Too late.”

“Perhaps I need to look in
your
eyes. You seem… distracted.” When he saw she wouldn’t explain about the salt, he gestured to the edge of the bed for her to sit. Taking a sip of the juice, he nodded to the books on the dresser. “You read a lot?”

She dragged the chair to the bedside, knowing she dared not get on that bed. “Not much to do on the isle in winter. Whole island’s movie mad. We play music. Read a lot.”

He paused, the piece of toast halfway to his mouth. “Why do you do it?”

“Read?”

“No, bury yourself on this island. A woman like you should be in London… Paris… Rome.”

Umbrage twisted her mouth. “I dunna
bury
myself. London’s fine, I enjoy a trip there. Paris is nice a time or two. If I lived in a big city, I’d choose New Orleans.”

He nodded. “A town with an attitude. Shame Katrina did a number on it.”

“She’ll be back. Food’s marvelous, the people warm and friendly. But I couldn’t live anywhere except Falgannon. When I’m away, I miss the isle.”

“But it’s so far away from everything, I’d think you’d be dead bored.”

She enjoyed watching Desmond eat. Movements of his hands were deft, precise—like magicians make. He had elegant, long, well-manicured fingers. They were hands she once again envisioned upon her body.

Stop drooling over the man like a ninny,
Angel B.A. fussed.

“There’s something”—B.A. reached for her exact feelings—“magical about Falgannon. It’s in my blood, my soul.”

He paused from feeding Dudley bacon, those pale eyes incisive, assessing. It was a dose of ice water hitting her, reminded her that Desmond Mershan was an Outlander, a man passing through. He’d be gone in a month if she permitted his work on the isle, back to the bright lights of those cities he admired. She’d be left with her books, Dudley and the screwball islanders.

She’d be safe.

She’d be… lonely.

“I don’t think anyplace provides those feelings,” he said coolly.

She countered, “A Scot’s roots run deep. If I left the island, a part of me would be dreaming of soft nights, of listening to rain on the roof or of walking on white sands at gloaming.”

Desmond drank the juice and watched her with those guarded predator’s eyes, causing B.A. to wonder what he really thought of her.

“Are we all here?”

Most dawns, The Hanged Man was the domain of what was lovingly called the “Morn, B.A.” Club—the elders who came to enjoy tea and bannocks while discussing world events or gossip about Davey and his never-ending battle with his washer-machine. The club acquired its name from B.A. stopping off first thing every day to pick up one of Tarn the Baker’s pastries to take with her to the store. Naturally, the duffers always wished her a “Morn, B.A.”

That B.A. hadn’t made her usual stop, and the store remained unopened, was on all their minds. Several topics buzzed about the room. Why had the Vikings come to Falgannon? Had the three Yank lasses arrived, and what did they look like? However, the overriding concern was that the Viking prince had spent the night in B.A.‘s bed.

Seeing the ancients—Angus and Callum—at their surveillance post by the picture window, in case B.A. or the Vikings showed up, Michael the Fiddle called for order. “Attention, please! Time to shut your gubs!”

“I will, if you will,” Brian the Horseman called, causing everyone to laugh.

“Seriousness, please. Matters need sorting out, then furniture has to be hauled to Rose Cottage before B.A. boots the Viking out.” Michael tapped on the table with the end of a knife.

“Our gubs are shut. On with it,” Tam the Baker barked. “Some of us work.”

“He’s waiting ‘til someone gives him a gavel,” Alasdair the Barber smirked.

Michael flashed them a prune face. “First thing I’d bang on would be that pointed noggin of yours, Alasdair, but it’d dent the gavel.”

“Och,
on
with it,” someone fussed from the far side of the room.

“We assessed the situation at Rose Cottage,” Michael began.

Phelan the Lobster demanded, “What did you suss, man?”

“Plenty. B.A. was outside in her nightie dancing and singing.”

“Our
B.A.?” Gasps of disbelief rippled through the room.

Michael glanced to Callum on his left and nudged him for verification. Callum snapped awake to comply.“Quite frisky, too, I’d say.”

Willie tacked on, “Mershan has black hair and green eyes.”

“The Viking has green eyes?” At the bar, Davie the Weaver exclaimed in shock, dropping his scone into his tea.

“Green as a cat’s,” Robbie confirmed, “and Eire’s lilt is in his voice. Not heavy, but it’s there.”

Michael watched the murmuring grow as the pertinent facts circled the room, reaching everyone—even the ancients. Almost deaf, they generally missed half of what was said since both were too bloody cheap to turn on their hearing aids.

He picked up the thread. “Her Web site shall fetch lasses to the isle. Only, with The Curse wreaking havoc, it’s futile unless B.A. marries the proper man. The Viking prince and she gave off enough sparks last night to power Hamish’s lighthouse.”

Angus confirmed from the window seat, “Aye, the chap’s taken with our lass. That kiss he gave her… warmed my old heart to see them.”

“The Viking prince for our lass then?” Michael raised his hand in a vote, soon followed by every man in the room. “What, Angus? Not going to cast a no vote as you usually do to be contrary?”

“And bollocks up the thing? Bite your tongue, laddie, I’m a-planning to marry, too. Heard that Anna-Nicole Smith is available again. Have two-thousand pounds tucked up in my sock. I’m sure she’ll be interested.”

Michael joined the whole room in laughter. “Motion carried… unanimously. Mark that down in the minutes. Doubt we’ll see it again.”

Glasses and cups clinked together, sealing the conspiracy.

A revving engine in neutral, Desmond considered what his next move should be. He eased back in the bed as B.A. removed the tray, watched her, unblinking.

He’d miscalculated, underestimating the obstacle of Ms. BarbaraAnne Montgomerie. He disliked flaws popping up in his meticulous plans. B.A. wasn’t what he anticipated.

At Sean Montgomerie’s funeral in the spring, he’d seen her from a distance, sitting at the front of the church with her sisters. Desmond gave the old man credit—good genes ran throughout the clan. Never had he seen seven such beautiful women. Only, an indefinable air about BarbaraAnne drew his attention. Her chin tilted against grief, she’d sat in the pew all prim and proper, that mass of long blond hair in a French-braid, secured with a black velvet bow. Though her sisters were equally stunning, he’d been unable to take his eyes from B.A.

Once she’d turned and looked directly at him, making eye contact. The world held its breath as they stared at each other. Quite odd, disturbing—never in his whole life had he felt that connected to anyone. Then she’d turned away, leaving him cold, with nothing but the festering resentment that forever devoured his soul.

It summoned images of another funeral. The pain of a seven-year-old flooded his mind, the flashback so vivid he nearly screamed,
Father!
For an instant, he’d blinked and then glanced at his brothers, sitting on either side, to see if he’d actually done so. His brother’s hand had stayed him from jumping up and interrupting the testimonials to the great Sean Montgomerie—how respected, how loved the man had been. No one spoke for three little boys left fatherless because of the Montgomerie’s greed.