Chapter Twenty-Nine
In which Ethan lives up to the MacTavish men's tradition, which is less romantic than one might like and far more irritating.
Ethan…
Two days later…
I’m knotting my tie in the mirror and smiling at the little song Sloan is singing - off-key - and sounding very happy about it. She refused my offer to join her in the tub, which disappointed me, but at least I know she’s contained and safe.
Not safe enough.
My next step will put me back to square one with her, but I have no choice. Pretending there is another option is a waste of time I can’t afford.
“There’s a dress laid out for ya on the bed,” I call into the bathroom. “Let me know if I can help ya get dressed.”
Her laugh is raucous. “The last time you ‘helped’ me get dressed we were naked for the next three hours.”
“I dinna recall ya complaining at the time, lass.”
There’s much splashing, meaning the floor will likely be soaked. For a girl who loves taking a tub so much, Sloan has apparently never been acquainted with a bath mat.
“That’s nice,” she says, sauntering into the bedroom wrapped in a tiny towel and making my dick thicken. “Blame the victim.”
This time, I do laugh. “Would that be before or after ya were riding me like the prize steed at the Grand National Horse Race?”
“I… was not myself,” she says haughtily, “you mesmerized me with your massive dick and seductive eyes.”
“I’m glad I shaved before this conversation,” I say dryly, “or I woulda’ cut my own throat laughing.”
“Don’t rule it out,” she snaps back.
God, I love this woman’s sass.
“Where are we going?”
Sloan’s doing her touristy thing, darting between windows so she can catch all of downtown Edinburgh. When the SUV turns onto a quiet, shaded lane, she watches the apartment buildings and shops disappear to make way for iron gates guarding enormous houses.
A church on the corner soars up over the rest of the lavish homes, the Gothic architecture making it look brooding and stern. A “feck ya, I’m here to stay,” kind of vibe.
The courtyard is in the center of three buildings, a parish school, a community center, and the chapel. I used to be in awe of the place, with all the ancient stained-glass windows and the sense of peace that came from being there. But now my hands are stained with blood, enough to seep into my DNA and make me a monster. If there is a God, the only reason he hasn’t sent down a bolt of lightning to incinerate me for stepping foot in here is that he has a dark sense of humor.
A short, round priest is kneeling at the altar, lighting candles, his lips murmuring in a silent prayer.
“Father Hamilton?”
He looks up, a big smile wreathing his face. It’s a welcome change from the last priest who tended this parish. Father Barclay’s final years were filled with a deep and abiding dislike of the MacTavish Clan.
I canna blame him, to be fair.
But we haven’t offended Father Hamilton to the point of no return - yet - so he’s happy to greet us.
“My son, it’s been far too long.” He shakes my hand as if I’m a regular parishioner and not the monster that we both know I am.
“It’s a pleasure to see ya again, Father. I’d like to introduce ya to Sloan Masters.”
She’s looking a little out of her depth, she must have been raised in one of those wealthy Protestant churches where a family shows up for Christmas and Easter and then makes up for their absence for the rest of the year with a big check.
“Hello Father,” she nods and smiles, “your chapel here… it’s just beautiful.”
“Ah, have you seen the two windows on the east wall that signify the Archangel Michael’s battle against Satan? It’s been noted in many historical journals.”
“I’ll take ya over,” Patrick quickly volunteers.
She gives me a funny look but follows after Patrick.
“My son,” Father Hamilton says heavily, “she does not look like a bride excited for her marriage.”
He’s gotta stop calling me “my son.” He’s only about ten years older than me, the arse. “She is not yet aware, Father.” I let myself enjoy his appalled expression for a moment before drawing him further away from Sloan.
“I’m sure your predecessor told ya many a story about the MacTavishes-”
“Aye,” he nods placidly. “If it weren’t a sin in the eyes of the Lord, I would say that Father Barclay hated you. Aside from your grandmother, the Lady Elspeth, of course.”
“A’course,” I agree. My grandmother is a terrifying force of nature and old age has not slowed her down. At all.
“I know of his agreements to wed your uncles to a succession of unwilling women-”
“Those all turned out grand in the end,” I remind him.
“-but I canna continue this practice, my son.”
He’s really gotta stop saying ‘My son.’ It’ll look bad if I deck a man of the cloth. “I understand your reservations, Father. May I explain?”
“Of course.” He sweeps out a hand, inviting me to sit next to him in a pew in the far corner.
“Ya know of my family’s business.”
“As little as possible,” he says, his cherubic face smiling gently.
“Understandable,” I agree. “In this case, Sloan came under my protection when her stepfather put out a kill order on her.”
He pales. “I beg your pardon?”
“He wanted her found and dragged back to him. His exact order was, ‘If ya canna extract her, kill her.’ Ya can see why I’m unwilling to leave her on her own.”
“Certainly.” He shakes his head, looking genuinely sad. “Her own family.”
“Her stepfather also deals in the business. I am not the only one he sent after her. Their intentions are much worse than ya can imagine.”
Pulling out his handkerchief, an old-fashioned linen one, he mops his face. “What are you asking for, my son.”
Again with the son thing…
Controlling my temper, I continue. “She was injured in our escape, and just barely recovering from pneumonia, she’s too frail to protect herself. I need a more permanent solution to make it clear to the rest of the world that she is under my protection.”
“I will not force this poor child to marry you!”
“Keep it down, Father. Please!” Sloan glances over as his voice rises, but I send her a reassuring smile and she returns to examining the window. “If I dinna marry her, she’s still seen as fair game. Once she’s a MacTavish wife, no one will touch her without incurring the wrath of my entire clan. And there is no one in our world suicidal enough to try.”
“Well- well then talk to her!” he says, “Help her understand and the Lord will do the rest.”
“I dinna have time for her understanding nor the Lord’s positive influence.” He looks shocked at my brazen blasphemy. “I must protect her now.”
“Ya are asking me to commit an offense against the sanctity of marriage to prevent a greater tragedy?” he says sharply.
“Aye,” I say simply. It’s the truth, and I can see the conflict is killing him.
“She’s not even Catholic, is she?”
“Most likely not,” I admit.
Running his hands over his face, he rises from the pew. “I am not like Father Barclay. I will not demand a large payment for the parish.”
“I see.”
“However, I am going to fetch my Bible and my vestments. Should a large donation for our newest soup kitchen on Great Junction Street find its way into the church’s fundraising account, it would not be unwelcome.”
Gettin’ blackmailed to keep the parish’s various soup kitchens running isn’t the worst thing I’ve had to pull out my wallet for, so I open my phone and make the transfer from my account to the church’s.
“Darlin’.”
Turning with a smile, she gestures at the window. The Archangel Michael is on the back of a magnificent white horse, a golden sword in hand, and swinging at an enormous green snake. “Isn’t this amazing? Look at the detailing, the thickness of the stained-glass changes to create different-”
“I need to tell ya something. I want ya to wait till I’m done to speak. Aye?” Patrick is making a quick and silent exit.
Her pretty brows draw together. “No conversation that starts that way is ever good.”
To be honest, the thought of how I’d propose to a girl had never entered my head, the concepts of a wife or children were fuzzy at best. But now the words surged out of me.
“We’re gettin’ married. Here. Today. It’s the only way I can guarantee your protection.”