Chapter Fifteen
In which Scarlett is handling this pretty well.
Wallace…
“I feel like I’m handling this pretty well.”
My lass looks a wee bit like she got hit on the back of her head with a cricket bat. That happened to me once during college, I remember the expression; the wide eyes, skin pale.
Leading her out of the meeting room, I take her up a set of stone stairs to the Inner Sanctum Suite at the Witchery. She stops at the suite’s door, boasting an enormous gold door knocker with a snarling lion’s head. She eyes it suspiciously.
“If we knock on this, I’m pretty sure we’ll transform into Jacob Marley, come to haunt Ebenezer Scrooge.”
That surprises a laugh out of me. I realize Scarlett’s made me laugh more in two days than I have for… I’m not sure.
“You’ve entered the Witchery,” I intone in a dark voice. “Time has no meaning here.”
“You’d make an excellent Ghost Tour guide,” she says dryly, “though I’m sure they’d have to let you go after the first five or six unexplained fires.”
“I create fire for a job, not for kicks.”
Well, now, at any rate, I think.
The Inner Sanctum is my favorite suite at the Witchery. Dark, blood red walls interspersed with those covered with fine wool in a good Scottish tartan. The main room has elaborate iron scrollwork and an excellent fireplace, a good deep one that can hold a lot of wood.
Scarlett looks at me meaningfully.
“Have a look at the bedroom, then,” I grin.
The butler left an ice bucket with two bottles of champagne. I pull one out and examine it. I’m not sure which direction this night will take.
“Hey, just so you can sleep easy,” she calls from the bedroom, “there’s another huge fireplace in here.”
“Aye, I’m aware," I call back, taking off my jacket.
“Oh, you’ve been here before?” She’s standing in the doorway, her brows drawn together.
Ach. She thinks this is my fuck palace.
“Alone,” I clarify. “I’ve been here alone, a couple of times when I was too tired to drive home.”
“Well, that’s good.” She’s looking anywhere but at me.
Popping the cork on the champagne, I wince internally as she jumps half a foot before leaning against the couch, attempting to look composed.
“I’m drinking this one with ye because I’m a gentleman,” I say, handing her a crystal flute. “Then ye can finish off the bottle and I’m going back to scotch.”
Her hand shakes slightly as she takes it, her fingertips brushing mine.
“I can’t- I can’t do this,” she says, gulping down the champagne like it’s spring water.
“Which part, lass?” I know which part. Stripping down. Baring herself to me. Giving up too much in one day.
“This…” she swings her hand out to indicate the entire room, what’s left in her champagne glass spraying out onto the rug.
“Oh, crap. That’s going to stain, I-”
“Nae worries, you’re not cleaning the rug and it’s not going to stain.
” I take her hands as they wave frantically, like she’s conducting an invisible orchestra.
“You’re not back home in Beacon Hill, cleaning up after your shite-stain of a stepfamily.
You’re a MacTavish and a Taylor and you’re nobody’s servant. ”
“It’s been two days, Wallace.” She’s looking everywhere but at me. “I don’t know you, not really although it seems like you and the Chieftain know all about me.”
“He dinnae know about that wee birthmark on your left hipbone.”
“What? How do you know about my birthmark?” She tries to pull away.
“My joggers were slipping down your slim hips on the jet. A pretty mark in the shape of a sickle moon.” My mouth’s getting dry. I can smell her- tart like grapefruit, sweet like vanilla, a little bite of something spicy. Fecking delicious. “Such a bonnie thing, ye are.”
She tries to scoff and laugh, what comes out is more like a snort.
If possible, my bride looks even more anxious.
“I can’t.” Pulling away, she runs her hands through her thick, glorious hair.
The dark color glows in the low light of the lamps, the silver and blonde bits shimmer as her fingers work through her curls, as if she’s self-soothing.
Murder Mittens isn’t here. She needs something to pet.
Suddenly, the desire for the thing that she pets to be me hits like a punch to the face. Her soft skin against mine, fingers running through my hair and stroking the back of my neck.
I’d lose control, though, the need to take her would be too much. I’d wrap all that hair around my fist, pulling her head back sharply as I bite her neck, feeling the moan vibrate up the thin skin of her throat…
Stepping back, I take a breath, feeling that goddamn flame slyly coil up and down my spine, flickering eagerly, like a snake’s tongue. She’s watching me, her bay blue eyes wide.
Taking a deep breath, I push the blaze back. She’s not ready for me. She wasn’t ready for any of this.
Picking up her hand, I kiss her wedding ring. “I know, Luaith Bheag, Little Cinder.”
“Murder Mittens is home alone.”
Of course, she’d be worried about the damned beast.
“My cousin Sloan already checked in on her to make sure she had enough food,” I say. “She says MM bit her when she tried to pet the wee fiend.”
“Oh, crap. Please tell her I’m sorry. Murder Mittens isn’t very friendly.”
“I’m aware,” I say sourly. I can still feel her vicious claws digging into my chest.
“Maybe I can send Sloan some flowers, or…” Scarlett’s face drops. “What am I thinking? I don’t have any money.” She drops onto the sofa, burying her face in her hands.
Lifting her, I sit down and put her on my lap. “What’s mine is yours, wife.” She relaxes slightly against me and I run my fingers through her hair. It is as silky as I thought, long burgundy curls wrapping around my fingers.
“I don’t want to spend your money.” Her voice is muffled against my chest.
“It’s yours too. Dinnae ye worry.”
Putting my finger under her chin, I lift her head, making her look at me. Having her on my lap is a mistake, a mistake that I’m sure she can feel growing hard against her hip.
“You’re a MacTavish-Taylor now. Ye canna spend a fraction of our wealth, no matter how many cars ye buy.
Buy a helicopter. Find an island and I’ll get it for ye.
I dinnae care.” Shifting her gently, I get her perfect, round arse away from my stonner.
“When ye turn twenty-three, we’ll get your trust returned to ye.
By then, I suspect there won’t be any Wicked Stepfamily left to protest it. ”
“I’ll pay you back,” she whispers.
With a groan, I stand, lifting her with me and carrying her into the bedroom.
She lets out a startled little “meep!” wrapping her arms around my neck.
Her fingers slide under the collar of my shirt and I know she can feel it.
The bumpy, raised skin of my scars. She dinnae pull her hand away as I expect, her fingertips cautiously, gently stroke over them.
Putting her down quickly, I hold her arm as she sways. “Take a bath, relax.” I step back, heading for the door. “I’ve got some work to do; I’ll have dinner sent up. Be a good girl and dinnae leave the suite.”
“Wallace, wait.” I turn to see her standing by the lavishly draped four poster bed. “You don’t have to leave, I…”
“Ye need food and sleep,” I manage to keep my tone calm when all I want to do is stalk back over there, bury my fingers in her hair, and kiss her.
Bite her.
Mark her skin.
“We’ll talk in the morning.”
I called in a favor from my cousins Kai and Logan and when they let me know they were in the lobby, I left, jamming my hands in my pockets and walking down the Royal Mile, sideswiping drunk tourists and ignoring the blaring of horns as I cut across the street.
While I’m usually the MacTavish who thinks things through, the one who makes careful decisions, this was not always the case. A (very) few poor life choices come to mind:
Leaving the Ares Academy at nineteen to become a firefighter in the Pacific Northwest without mentioning it to my parents. That came back to bite me in the arse.
Then, there was not knowing that Patsy Conner-Jones and Melinda Ridgeby were friends and both unaware I was sleeping with the other.
This ended when Patsy and Melinda picked the same night to be “spontaneous,” and then ran into each other at my front door, both naked under their coats as a “surprise” for me.
It was an uncomfortable reunion for us all.
Especially since I already had a girl half-undressed in my bedroom.
I might regret agreeing to torching the vintage Porsche 914 belonging to my cousin Kenna’s boyfriend after he announced his engagement.
To someone else. He and Kenna ended up getting back together on the very night I’d turned his high-performance sports car into a hulk of blackened steel and melted rubber. Bad timing, that.
But my unforgivable? That will forever be immolating the Banner office building with Scarlett still inside.
Stonner - Scottish slang for an erection