Chapter Twenty-Three
In which we Meet the Parents.
Scarlett…
The sun is sending the first, hesitant rays of pink and red through the pines surrounding the house when Wallace falls into bed with me, pulling me close, nestling my ass against his thighs. He’s asleep almost instantly, his soft breath warm on my shoulder.
I’m exhausted. Scrubbing the entire house on Beacon Hill, making dinner, and then going to clean the offices was less of a workout than this, though getting thoroughly ravished by my husband is certainly more satisfying.
I can’t sleep, though. This is the first time I’ve been in the master bedroom, and it feels like Wallace.
There’s a deck past the French doors overlooking the stream and the valley and I idly wonder if I can balance on the wood railing long enough for a round with him without toppling over the edge. I have a feeling he’s going to give it a shot.
The bedroom’s walls are a dark gray and a comfortable blue sectional in one corner facing a big screen TV and a bookcase stuffed with first editions and battered paperbacks.
The enormous bed, though, is centered right in front of the fireplace that takes up half of one of the walls.
The fire he’d built when we crawled into bed is small by his standards, the wood burnt down now to glowing embers.
Wallace kept his shirt on the entire time we had sex.
Even when the remains of my dress were shredded off me, his shirt stayed intact. I was so turned on by his gorgeous chest and all those tattoos that it didn’t hit me until I tried to slide my palms over the skin on his back. He’d gracefully repositioned me, moving my hands in the process.
When he’d carried my drunken self to bed back at the hotel, I’d felt raised skin on his shoulder, under the neck of his sweater.
So what if he’s scarred? He’s Mafia. To be in this life means a body covered in scars from bullets, knives, fists, broken glass, tire irons…
whatever’s available. Even my father hid scars from stab wounds and injuries under his expensive suits.
Is it something worse than just a few war wounds? No one understands that better than me. Eyeing his black t-shirt, I’m tempted to explore a bit while he’s asleep.
How would you feel if he did that to you?
Shut up, conscience.
I would feel violated. He’ll keep his secrets until he’s ready to show me, just like I’ll keep mine. The Moon tile Morgan drew for me comes to mind. Secrets meant to be shared…
My eyes finally close, my cheek against the arm he wrapped around me.
“It’s time.”
My hand holding a piece of toast, dripping with jam, pauses halfway to my mouth. “For what?” Wallace looks grim, like we’re about to undertake something disturbing and possibly deadly, like fondling vipers or mud-wrestling with a wild boar.
“We need to call my parents.” I’d feel better about it if his jaw didn’t look so tight.
“Mala told me about your mom, she sounds wonderful,” I offer, and he smiles, relaxing slightly.
“She is. My father’s stern-sounding, but it’s just his rigid upbringing as a proper English Gentleman and ruthless killer.”
“That sounds exhausting,” I admit, “trying to keep up the image all the time, even at home?”
“I’m not sure if he knows how to turn it off,” he says. “He’s always been a good father, and the love he has for my mother is intense and, occasionally, emotionally scarring to Isobel and me when we’d catch them making out like teenagers.”
A chuckle escapes me, picturing his horrified expression. “That sounds nice, that they still love each other that much.”
We’re sitting at the farm table, the fireplace warming the kitchen, fighting back the gray skies outside and making the space so cozy. Despite my worry about ever sitting down again without flinching, after a hot shower and some wonderfully soft cashmere leggings, I could walk normally.
Sort of.
At least I thought so until I stand up, taking our dishes to the sink. There’s a slight chuckle from Wallace and I spin around, eyeing him suspiciously.
“What?”
He’s wearing his mischievous smile, which only makes him hotter. “Ye have the gait of a lass well-tended to in bed.”
I blush so hard that it feels like my face is on fire. “Well…” I’m striving for a haughty tone. “We never actually did it in bed.”
His laughter follows me up the stairs as I head for the closet, wondering what outfit is appropriate for a Zoom call with your in-laws. The painfully awkward conversation of, “Hey, folks! How are you? Your son made me marry him not seventy-two hours ago!”
Somewhere between the third and fourth time Wallace had at me last night, he’d grabbed a pile of my clothes off the hangers in the guest bedroom and brought them into the dressing room connected to the master.
I joined in and we moved everything he’d ordered for me into his domain.
He even laid out a fluffy blanket for Murder Mittens on the window seat so she can look out over her forest empire.
Now, staring at the tidy row of dresses, blouses and skirts, my mind is blank. All of Wallace’s clothing is on the other side of the dressing room, surrounded by expensive walnut paneling and dressers to hold his ties and watches.
That area almost looks untouched, but the bureau holding his jeans, t-shirts and sweaters has fingerprints smeared on the shiny wood, coins, and various unidentifiable things he’s pulled from his pockets at night scattered across the dresser top.
It’s clear my husband is not by nature a suit guy. The only one he’s worn was for our photo shoot and I could feel his relief when he stripped out of it. That’s fine, since I can’t imagine him any hotter than he is in a pair of jeans that hugs his ass.
Now, though, he heads over to the suit section, pulling out a crisp white shirt and a dark blue suit.
“So we’re dressing up?” I say lightly. When he looks at me, I’m startled by the bleak expression in his amber eyes.
“We’re dressing up,” he says, walking over and pulling the hangers aside, picking out a Gucci dress, the color of the ocean on a sunny day. “This one, you’ll look a vision in it.”
Suddenly desperate to see a smile from him again, I attempt to seductively strip down to my undies.
“You’re killing me, wife,” he groans, big, rough hands on my hips. “Get that dress on before I change my mind.”
Kissing him, I grip his shaft, already half hard.
There’s the filthy grin I’m looking for.
Wallace takes me into his study, settling us on a battered leather couch in front of a large monitor.
This room’s a bit more cluttered, weapons hung on the wall, an antique pistol, two swords crossed.
He has pictures of him and his cousins on the shelves, a few of his family.
There’s a web camera on his desk that he aims at the couch.
“What?” He’s straightening his jacket and catches me smirking at him.
"You're not going to light a fire?” I ask, nodding to the dark fireplace. “Look at all that fancy wood, arranged so nicely and just waiting for-”
One snap of his fingers and there’s a fire blazing merrily.
“Okay, you have to tell me how you’re doing that because you’re either a wizard - which I’m fine with - or you’ve perfected some sleight of hand,” I say in admiration.
“Ye think ye deserve my secret?” he purrs, lips hovering over mine.
“Uh-huh…” Smooth, Scarlett. I can’t think when he’s hovering over me like this.
He opens his palm and there’s a little cluster of short, stubby wooden matches.
“The match heads are a cluster of potassium chlorate, sulfur, and glue. If ye use the side of a matchbox, the black stripe that ignites the flame is red phosphorus and powdered glass.” I gingerly touch one of the wooden sticks, the match head is bigger than normal, with a different hue.
“Making them this way puts everything I need for the flame together including red phosphorus, and I use the rough edge of my fingernail to create the friction and light it.”
“Creating fear and awe in friends and enemies alike,” I say appreciatively. “That’s so cool.”
His phone rings and my hand darts up to squeeze the Triquetra necklace Morgan gave me. Be brave. Don’t say anything extra weird.
When Wallace picks up, he pushes a button and a window opens on the monitor in front of us, showing three people sitting together.
“There you are!” This must be Isobel, she’s blonde, like her brother and wearing a giant grin that tells me Wallace is in for so much crap. “The woman who charmed my cold and heartless brother into holy matrimony.”
Brilliantly, the first thing out of my mouth is, “Oh, it was a Registrar. No priest included.”
His mother hides a grin with a genteel cough. “Forgive my daughter’s manners. Scarlett, it’s lovely to meet ye. I’m Sorcha, Wallace’s mother, and this handsome chap is his father, Alastair.” She has a wonderfully warm smile and flaming red hair.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I’m sitting up straight, trying to appear like a Well-Bred Young Lady of Means and Good Manners. I don’t think his dad is buying it.
They’re sitting in a drawing room or something equally British, with lots of wood paneling and expensive looking vases that are probably from the Ming Dynasty.
“This does come as a bit of a surprise,” Alastair says. He has a chilly gaze and a stern jaw. He’s dressed impeccably in a three-piece suit and yes, he’s intimidating as hell. The square jaw and amber eyes are his contribution to Wallace’s spectacular gene pool.
“Given our family’s history, it really shouldn’t,” Wallace says, reducing the sting of his words with a slight chuckle.
“Hmm…” Sorcha taps a slender finger to her chin. “Yes, I do remember a very precipitous marriage ceremony with your father as well.”
Alastair’s jaw gets tighter. “It was necessary for your protection, darling. As we have discussed many times.”
“I know,” she says serenely. “But I never tire of teasing ye about it.” They exchange a smile and Wallace is right, their love for each other is palpable.