Captive Bride (Twisted Mafia Kings #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

C allum

“You can’t just steal a bride, Callum.”

“Who says?”

Freya places a hand on her hip, pinning the material of her black dress against her slim waist, and studies my face. “Practically every young girl on the island was falling over themselves for you. Could you not choose one of them to marry? You’d think you’d be able to do one normal thing in your life?—”

I interrupt. “All but one.”

“All but one normal thing?” Her eyes twinkle at me. “When have you ever done anything normal, Cal?”

I shake my head, correcting her. “No. Not that.”

We stand side by side in the doorway of this magnificent Great Hall, which we’ve renovated, its floors and ceilings refurbished.

“What do you mean?” She eyes me. “All but one—what?”

“All but one girl,” I say, repeating her earlier words. “Were falling over themselves for me.”

“And that’s the girl you have to have,” she says.

I nod. “Aye.”

She has green eyes like mine, which now shine back at me with frustration. She flips her waist-length white-blonde hair over her right shoulder. “Of course.”

“Of course,” I parrot her words.

“And, of course,” Freya sighs, “you’d stop at nothing till ye have her.”

I nod. “Aye.”

“So you. So abnormal. So Callum Burnes.” Holding in an eye roll so hard her face almost pinches in pain, she gives me one last look of hers.

“Not so normal yourself,” I sniff. “You’re one of only three women who’ve left our island for a career in the city in the past five years. You should be barefoot and pregnant, chasing your bairns on the sandy shores and frying haddock for yer husband.”

“I shudder at the thought.”

I laugh as she gives a dramatic shake of her shoulders.

“Anything I can do to change your mind?” She brushes past me, entering the room that is our collective pride and joy. Trying to hide a smile, she teases, “Take you out to O’Malley’s Tuesday night for their speed dating event?”

I grunt. “No self-respecting man would be caught dead at O’Malley’s. They water down their whisky.”

In the center of a red-and-blue Persian carpet stands a massive oak trestle table held together by sturdy drawbore joints. She spent weeks hunting down the perfect one, finally finding this one in an antique store in a small Swedish village. The shop was called Farmors Vind —grandma’s attic in Swedish—where Freya also splurged on her collection of wee stone busts of Viking soldiers wearing helmets. She’s scattered the rock creatures through our front gardens.

The gleaming tabletop is covered with thick books filled with wallpaper and fabric samples, ready for Freya to make her final choices for wall coverings, curtains, and upholstery.

Freya's high heels echo through our stone-floored and -walled hall as she moves toward the sample books, the sound grating on my nerves. Her uniform as a solicitor is couture and stilettos. I can't understand why she insists on wearing those torture devices when she's already tall enough without them.

But she’s brilliant at design, so I keep me mouth shut right now, gritting my teeth at the sound.

My gaze rises to the magnificent ceilings of our Great Hall. Installed months ago, I’m still in awe of the intricate wooden beams carefully crafted and imported from Norway. I stood in this very room, watching as the barge delivered each beam to the docks by the shore.

My attention shifts to the iron sconces lining the walls. Their torches are ready to be lit with the push of a button, a clever invention Freya insisted upon installing for our annual All Hallows’ Eve party. When ignited, they cast a warm glow of reds and oranges against the clean, white plaster walls.

Still, she should have gone without heels today; she knows I have big things on my mind.

And I know she’s wanting to talk me out of those things.

Well, one extraordinary thing in particular.

Leaning over the table, she flips open the first book, studying its pages. Most women take ages to make up their minds. Not our Freya. She’s decisive like me.

She runs her fingers over the smooth paper. Tapping a gilded slip of wallpaper, she says, “I like the gold.”

“Gold it is,” I say.

She moves further down the long table, stroking swatches of thick fabric. Lazily, she flips a book page, settling on a deep red pattern. “Let’s go with the damask for the curtains.”

“I’ll have them ordered today.”

She eyes me with curiosity. “What if I set you up on a blind date with one of my gorgeous, single co-workers? Anika from Russia? Ellie Mae from America?”

“Lawyers don’t do it for me. I don’t need one more woman in my life to argue with. You’re plenty. And I dinnae need speed dating. Rotating chats with a string of city women who think the world revolves around their iPhone.”

“Aww… am I that bad?” she teases, straightening her black blazer's lapels. “I’ve turned you off all strong, independent wo men, have I?”

“All but you, Freya,” I say. “And you can keep your suggestions to yourself. I’m a man who knows my own mind.”

“Meaning?” She casually flips through the last book of upholstery fabric swatches.

“I know what I want.”

“As do I.” She taps a black lacquered fingernail against a lush brown leather. “This. For the dining table chairs.” Giving the leather one final stroke, she glances back up at me, our eyes locking. “We Burnes are nothing if not decisive.”

“And stubborn,” I say.

“Aye. That they are.”

Crossing her arms over her slim frame, she leans her ass against the edge of the table. Tossing that glorious mane over her shoulder, she narrows her gaze, her voice dropping. She’s no longer in a teasing mood.

“Sure I can’t sway you?” she asks, already knowing the answer. “Can’t tempt you away from your plan?”

“‘Tis a sound plan,” I say.

“The one where you pluck a dainty little flower from the hills of the tiny island we once called home?”

“I still call it home,” I say, eyeing my favorite part of the room.

Heavy oak frames the bay of windows overlooking the sea, its depths looking more navy than teal today. I stare over the waters that connect this city to our quiet island.

“A man can have more than one home. ”

“This is the only home I want. And if I do say so myself, we’ve done a damn fine job bringing life back into this magnificent estate.” She returns to the entrance of the room where I stand, eyeing one of the ornate wood doors. “These are going to need another coat of shellac.”

“Aye,” I agree, eyeing the dull, bare patches of wood that didn’t absorb the lacquer.

“Let’s ask them to use a different varnish, too. Something a bit darker. The doors should contrast with the walls.”

She’s right. Still, I remind her. “They’ll have to sand them back down to remove what’s there now.”

“Aye.” She nods. “But we want it done right.”

I agree. “Done.”

She shakes her head and returns to the discussion we were having before the doors. “Glasgow is my home. Ever since the first day I came here to the School of Law, I knew I could never return to that quiet island life.”

“You know what you want. A beautiful, fast-paced life in the city, free from any man who may want to control you,” I say.

She agrees. “Aye.”

“And I know what I want as well.” I set my jaw. “I want to take down the Hoax.”

“As you should!” she agrees. “How dare they try to turn one of our own against us, to traffic our girls? I get sick just thinking about Clive Smith and how he tried to help those bastards expand their turf to our wee island. I feel better just knowing you and yer men are here in Glasgow keeping an eye on that lot. ”

“We’re here now. You’ve got nothing to worry about.” My blood boils, remembering last year when a man from our island tried to help the Hoax of Glasgow expand their diabolical business to our shores. “We’ve not only got eyes and ears on them, we’re setting a plan in place to disable them.”

“Good,” she says.

“Taking down the Hoax isn’t all I want out of life, sister.” I feel that grin Freya calls cocky sliding across my face. “I’ll have my wife as well.”

“And you’ll stop at nothing till ye have her.” Freya gives another dramatic sigh. She could have been an actress if she hadn’t had such a sharp mind for the laws of our land. A flick of her hair and she says, “My little brother and the most stubborn man I’ve ever met.”

“Says the most stubborn woman in the world. My big sister Freya. Though only by fifteen months?—”

“And you won’t let me forget it, will you? We do make a pair, don’t we, brother?”

“Aye! That we do,” I agree. “You’re the Burnes brains. And I’m the Burnes brawn.”

She hooks her arm in mine, leading me down the hall. “Come. I’ve just had the shelves installed in your cigar room. I want to be sure they’re to your liking.”

“If you chose them, ye know I will,” I say.

“Your taste is simple. If the Norsemen loved it, you love it.”

We enter the cigar room. She’s not only had shelves put up, she’s decorated them with beautiful wooden sculptures of Norse gods and goddesses. Odin, Thor, Loki, and her namesake, Freyja, the goddess responsible for love, fertility, battle, and death.

So far, I’ve only been capable of succeeding in the latter two. Let’s hope my plan will help me master all four things.

“Aye. I love it,” I say, my fingers brushing over a carving.

Toward the end of the eighth century, Scandinavian Vikings arrived in Scotland. They violently attacked the islands and coastline, looting precious metals and objects, taking what they wanted, and then returning home to tell their tales.

Some with stolen virgins for their brides.

They returned and, falling in love with our wee island's beauty and soil fertility, the Vikings settled there. I like to think they also fell for the beauty and fertility of the virgins who roamed the island’s grassy hills.

“Their blood is still in my veins and yours.” I give a grunt worthy of my ancestors. “It’s the Viking blood that has me plotting.”

“Aye. ‘Tis.” She looks up at me, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Despite your taste in Nordic apparel and furniture, you know we no longer live in Viking times, correct?”

“Meaning?” I ask.

She smiles. “Pillaging and plundering and stealing virgins is outdated.”

“I’m well aware,” I say.

“Good thing you live by your own morally gray code. Otherwise, you might have to take issue with yourself.”

“Like our Viking ancestors, I know what I want and will get it. By any means necessary.” I give her a grin. “And yer the one who will make it legal.”

“Stealing an innocent virgin for your captive and making her your bride?” Her straight white teeth flash with a grin. “What are big sisters for?”