Chapter Ten
In which Wallace’s home life seems almost… normal.
Scarlett…
I have no idea what to expect regarding Wallace’s home. Upon our limited acquaintance, it could be anything from a medieval dungeon to a missile silo. It’s hard to picture the home life of a professional arsonist. All the tall pines lining his drive just look like potential fuel to me.
“This is your place?” I gasp.
He’s turned a sharp bend around a group of pine trees and we’re driving up to a huge stone house with a slate roof, the forest rising up behind it and a deep stream flowing past in front.
“Aye.” He’s got my door open before I can unbuckle my seatbelt. “Let’s get ye settled.”
The clearing the house is situated on has a rock bridge over the stream and is lined with a startling number of flowers in huge pots. An arbor shields a comfortable-looking grouping of outdoor furniture circling an enormous fire pit.
Of course.
“I’m counting one, two, three, four, oh, wait- six chimneys on your roof,” I say as he leads me to the door. “You either don’t have central heating, or the fire kink continues at home?”
“The latter, lass. Though I dinnae overindulge.” He turns to unlock the door and I barely hear him murmur, “Just enough to take the edge off.”
That is in no way reassuring.
The first thing I see when he ushers me into the house is a two-story great room, dominated by a fireplace of colossal size. “You could roast an ox in that,” I say. “Or two ox’s. Oxen, I mean. Oxen. Plus, maybe an antelope and a moose thrown in.”
“You’re quite the carnivore, aye?” Wallace walks over to a tidy grouping of bags and boxes sitting on a round table in the entryway. “Good, my cousin Sloan stopped by.”
I’m still staring at the fireplace. It’s surrounded by stacked river rocks, with two story windows bracketing it, looking out over the river. There’s wood piled in it, beautifully stacked, just waiting for Daddy to come home.
Sure enough, he leaves the piles of shopping bags to stride over to the fireplace.
“It’s chilly in here.” He snaps his fingers and I see a tiny spark fly into the stacked wood and it goes up in a rush of red and yellow flame. “Come over and warm your hands, lass.”
There are so many questions I want to ask right now. Like, “When did you become a pyro?” or, “Have you ever set a person on fire?” or, “What happens when you run out of firewood?”
Since I’m not sure I want to know the answers, I clear my throat. “Um, what’s in the bags?”
“Ah, they’re for ye.” He scoops the entire load up in his arms, carrying them over to the big sectional grouped around the fireplace.
I pick up the first bag, black and white striped with fancy lettering. There are two sweaters inside, softer than Murder Mitten’s fur, one blue, one black. Holding one up to my chest, I shake my head. They’re a perfect fit.
“How did your cousin manage to put together all of this in the time it took us to fly over?” I ask. Murder Mittens is nosing through the pile of pink tissue paper from another bag.
Wallace stretches his arms over the back of the couch, resting one ankle on the other knee.
He may be casually dressed in jeans and a dark gray sweater, but he looks like a Scottish High Laird, come home from a boar hunt or crushing peasants or whatever High Lairds did.
“I gave Sloan your dimensions and my credit card number. The woman can do some serious damage when she’s motivated.
You should have enough to get ye started, but let me know what’s missing and we’ll make a list.”
I see jeans, blouses and dresses, boots, and half a dozen pairs of shoes - also my size - nightwear and workout gear. And lingerie. Silky bits of cloth, scraps of lace, embarrassingly sexy and I’m thinking this Sloan is not on my side.
“Ah, and girl shite,” he says, opening another box full of cosmetics, shampoo and conditioner, a flat iron and a blow dryer and some other things I’m not sure I recognize. “I dinnae know what ye like.”
“So, you had her get the entire store?”
He cocks his head, concerned. “Would ye rather have picked them out yourself? I can take ye shopping tomorrow.”
“It’s not that.” Sitting down, a little overwhelmed, I pluck the kitty out of one of the bags where she’s getting entangled in a silk robe. “It’s been a while since… I don’t know. Since I’ve had anything new. It’s a lot to get used to.”
My chin goes up. “I’ll pay you back, though. Every penny, my trust gets released to me when I turn twenty-three. It’s the only thing my Wicked Stepmother couldn’t get her hands on.”
“It’s no hardship, Luaith Bheag.” Before I can ask him what that means, his phone rings. “Excuse me.” He walks over to one of the windows, speaking softly. Hanging up with a resigned expression, he says, “I know you’ve got to be tired, lass. But the Chieftain wants to meet ye.”
“Who’s the Chieftain?”
“My Uncle Cormac, head of Clan MacTavish and CEO of MacTavish International.”
“Is Chieftain just a fancier word for the Don of your mafia?”
A ghost of a smile plays along his lips. “Well, we are a wallie lot.”
“Is there a Scots language dictionary I can pick up somewhere?” I ask.
Wallace laughs, and the effect is mesmerizing. His even white teeth, the gleam in his amber eyes, and it looks like each muscle in his body is slowly unclenching, making me realize just how on guard he is, all the time.
“Let me feed ye and ye can change into something a wee bit more comfortable than my joggers,” he says. His smile turns into something more sly and alarmingly sexy. “Though I must say, I do prefer seeing ye in my attire.”
Seizing a handful of clothes at random, I back away. “None of that, mister! Where can I change?”
“I dinnae intend on any of that, lass,” he says, that insolent grin still in place. “I’m always happy to change my plans, though.”
By the time I’ve changed into a perfectly fitted pair of jeans and - thank you, God! - clean underwear, Wallace has lunch ready. He raises a brow when he sees I’m still wearing Morgan’s sweater.
“Dinnae ye like the jumpers?”
Crossing my arms, I shrug. “This sweater is nice. It’s comforting.”
It’s also all I have left of home, but I don’t say that.
He’s set plates for us on the long wooden farm table in the kitchen. There’s a big tureen of what looks like mashed potatoes covered in cheese and a platter of lamb chops.
“This smells amazing,” I say gratefully, inhaling the rich scent. The little fancy bites on the jet didn’t exactly fill me up. “What’s the potato dish?”
“Colcannon,” he says, dishing up an alarmingly large amount for me. “Mashed potatoes, cabbage, onions, and cheese. I could eat this every day.”
After one bite, I groan in appreciation. “I can see why.”
Looking up, I see he’s watching me, lounging back in his chair, one thick finger running along his lower lip. “What?” I wipe my mouth with my napkin, “Something on my face?”
That smile is back, making him even more devastatingly handsome.
Like he needed any help, I think resentfully.
“Nothing.” He picks up his fork. “Try the lamb chops.”
The sun’s beginning to set, sending rays of red and orange over the forest as we finally head into Edinburgh.
Murder Mittens was unsettlingly fine with staying behind, lounging on the window seat in Wallace’s kitchen.
She’s always with me, but now, she barely looked up from grooming her paw to acknowledge my departure.
“Tell me the truth,” I ask, watching the road wind through the trees. “Are you going to get in trouble for bringing home a souvenir from your job? Especially when it’s a member of the Banner Mafia?”
“My uncle wouldn’t hold an innocent responsible for the sins of their syndicate,” he says. “You’re as much of a victim of that feckwit stepfamily as our men were.”
I wince. “I’m sorry about you losing them.”
Wallace gently squeezes my hand. “Again, not your fault, lass.”
Smiling nervously, I hope that he’s right, because getting called for an audience with the head of the MacTavish Mafia doesn’t feel like a good thing. More like a “shooting you in the head and making an example of you," thing.
Wallie - Scottish slang for fancy or pretentious.
Feckwit – Scottish slang for idiot.
Chuffed - Scottish slang for excited.