Chapter Twenty-One
In which the fire is lit.
Wallace…
My bride stays quiet and thoughtful all the way home. I know Aunt Mala would never violate my privacy and talk about things she shouldn’t, but she clearly gave Scarlett a lot to think about.
I’ve always loved this moment, rounding the curve in the road and then, there’s my place. Big, stone, and unyielding. Standing like a fortress against the mountain. Glancing over, I see the smile on Scarlett’s face.
“This house is so beautiful. The way it sort of rises up to greet you with the stream running by.” She gives me a mischievous glance. “It’s really the perfect combination for you, isn’t it?”
“How so, lass?” I like hearing her talk, hearing her speculations.
“Well…” she drags it out. “Stone, with a strong slate roof. Our house in Boston has a roof like that. Harder to burn. Not impossible, but its strength is impressive. Surrounded by the forest, an incalculable amount of fuel, just waiting for the snap of your fingers.” She sounds almost dreamy, staring at the pine trees surrounding the house.
“Then, your remedy. That big stream, full to the banks. You’re surrounded by an endless array of temptation, aren't you?”
I dinnae intend to speak, but it comes out. “And the stone and slate are the counterbalance.”
Scarlett turns halfway in her seat to look at me. “That’s why you love it here so much.”
I pull up to the front door and turn off the car. It’s silent, aside from the soft ‘pings’ from the engine. “Do ye have me all figured out, then?”
She really gives the most unladylike snorts, yet they’re so damn charming, coming from her.
“Yes, husband. You’re such an open book.”
“That’s the first time ye called me that,” I say, unreasonably pleased.
“What?”
“Husband.”
The sky is black velvet with a trillion stars scattered across it as we’re ready to sit down to dinner.
“Ye know, it’s unseasonably warm,” I tilt my head to the deck. “Do ye want to eat outside?”
Scarlett picks up her plate and Murder Mittens’ bowl.
“I’d love to. Tell the truth, though.” She gestures around the deck, spanning the length of the house, with spectacular views of the valley on one side and the river on the other.
There are giant pots of flowers and candles clustered in dripping bundles.
“This is a lovely table setup here on your fancy terrace, but why do I think you spend most of your outdoor time around that fire pit?”
The wood is stacked perfectly in the pit, ready for a quick snap of my fingers to roar up into a bonfire, casting shadows over the trees.
“Not tonight,” I say. “Let’s settle for something less flashy. I’ll light some candles, aye?”
The glow illuminates my wife’s face as she asks me questions, easy things, holding back from anything too personal.
“Favorite color?” she asks.
“Red, the color of the sunset after it fades from orange.”
“That’s almost cheating because that’s two colors. First kiss?”
“Ach, Mariella Porter. I was twelve, she was fourteen and the daughter of one of my father’s legitimate clients. I was told to take her for a walk around our gardens while our parents talked business.”
Scarlett grins. “And?”
“She showed me what a tongue kiss was behind our pool house.” I ruffle my hair. “It dinnae help my moves for the next few lasses when I shoved my tongue right into their mouths before our lips touched.”
She bursts into laughter and startles the wee beast, who glares at us both before stalking back into the house. “Yeah, that’s some weak game right there.”
“Have we had enough highlights from my most awkward teenage moments, then?”
“Yes. Can I ask one more question?” She leans her elbows on the table pushing her plate away.
Here it is, I think.
“Aye, wife. One last question.”
“Tell me about fire. What does it give you? How does it drive you?” Her blue eyes are so clear in the candlelight, almost translucent. There’s no judgement there.
There’s interest. Curiosity.
Drumming my fingers on the table, I think about how to explain it. I never could, not to anyone else.
Rising, I head over to the toolshed and pull out a squeeze bottle filled with clear liquid.
I hold it up. “Isopropyl alcohol, 70%.” Setting it on the table, I lean in. “Fire is like sex.”
Her brow furrows. “Go on.”
I spray a curling, looping stream of the liquid over the slate top of the table and pull out my lighter.
“Fire and sex can be the same, the slow build…” The little stream of flame flares briefly, following the pattern I’ve drawn.
“The curl of energy, the heat between two people fierce enough to burn.” I spray a circle of alcohol on my forearm and hold it to the last of the dying flame.
It leaps up onto my skin, giving a final twirl and gasp before it winks out.
Scarlett draws in a shuddering breath, her lips are open, cheeks pink. “Your arm! Why-” She runs her fingers over my skin. The blaze dinnae last long enough to redden it. “I thought you’d burned yourself!”
“The isopropyl alcohol is a wee accelerant, good for a brief flare and gone again, like sex when there’s nothing but an itch to scratch.
” My fingers slide across the table, stroking lightly up her arm, I smile at the flare of goosebumps rising on her skin.
“But a true blaze burns bright, burns hard and dinnae stop until everything is consumed inside it.” Her gulp is audible.
“Have ye ever had sex like that, wife?”
She licks her lips, glossy and wet. “No,” she says a little hoarsely. “I can’t… imagine what it would be like.”
Rising, I lean over, cupping her face. “Let me show ye, then.”
This kiss is greedy, fast burning, teeth and tongues clashing, our mouths fused. Feck, I am desperate for this woman. I break the kiss, ignoring her whine of protest long enough to pick her up, my hands on her squeezable arse as she wraps her legs around me.
Bed. Too far.
Couch, then.