Chapter Seven
Earlier, in Sophie’s cottage…
“Ye want to what?” Da stared at me in shock.
“I want to marry Sophie,” I repeated patiently. “There is precedent in our family.”
His brow furrowed. “Aye, Coric, your Seanair’s cousin.”
I was certain that he’d know. Da has a photographic memory and can recite any family lore stretching generations back.
“That dinnae explain the why of it, son.”
Absently stacking the papers scattered across the kitchen table, I noticed that most of them are notes, scribbled in a messy handwriting. “We should add these into the pile of documents for Georges and Xenia to review.”
Da leaned against the doorway, arms folded. He deserved an explanation.
I wish I had an adequate one to give him.
“It will depend on what Martha tells us, but we both know that someone dinnae work for our family for over a decade to suddenly turn rogue. There’s a reason she did this.
If it’s forgivable - hell, even understandable - I can keep them from being sent to Siberia or down to Johannesburg by marrying Sophie. ”
“Ten years…” Da shakes his head angrily. “Of all the people I’d suspect for leaking information, it never would have been them.” His jaw tightens. “It makes me even angrier, somehow.”
He watched me, green eyes keen and I knew he saw more than I was willing to say. “I was under the impression ye intended to propose to Celia Montrose?”
I’d thought about it, not with any real enthusiasm. I was going to need heirs and a wife when I became Chieftain. There was no one I’d been interested in for years.
Ye fecking liar.
Celia was appropriate. She wasn’t bad in bed. Good connections with her obscenely wealthy family that would be useful on the legitimate side of our business. I still would have ended things with her at the club if Xenia hadn’t messaged me first.
And the moment I’d said those words, though, that I intended to marry Sophie… something moved in my gut, unfurling. Something light, like relief.
Like anticipation.
“Are ye disappointed, Da?”
“God, no,” he said instantly. “I canna stand Celia’s father, and your mum thinks Celia is a cold fish.”
Laughing, “Is that really the phrase Mum used?”
He gave me a slight grin. “More along the lines of ‘chilly, stuck-up cow.’”
“Aye, that sounds like Mum,” I agreed. “Do I have your blessing, then?”
“If there’s a true reason, that Martha acted under some kind of threat and she’s not just greedy for money, ye have it,” he nodded. “Can ye accept this, though, if Sophie is involved?”
Damn it. Da watched me again with that sharp, assessing gaze that had always stripped me bare when I was just a bairn. He was right to question me.
Because the truth of it? Even if Sophie was the one who was responsible, I’d still want her. It may be a chink in my carefully crafted suit of armor, but I know the thought of her being sent away is intolerable.
Currently…
Given the situation, I dinnae expect enthusiasm from Sophie with this pronouncement. Relief, maybe. Possibly gratitude. But abject horror?
Very flattering.
It dinnae matter. She’ll marry me and be grateful I spared her mother’s life. From the moment I stepped into the cottage and saw her, her wide silver gaze finding mine, desperate and teary-eyed, I knew I couldn’t let her be punished.
Not by death or banishment, at any rate.
“What?” Ethan is first to speak, forgetting to catch his knife and nearly stabbing himself in the thigh.
“There’s precedent,” I say evenly. “Coric MacTavish, first cousin to Seanair, to grandfather. He married the girl at the butcher shop who’d been carrying messages for the Campbell Mafia. She wasn’t banished and he took care of her family.”
“That was… what? Fifty, sixty years ago?” Uncle Cameron says doubtfully. He exchanges glances with Da and shrugs. “Well, the precedent is valid.”
“W- wait,” Sophie sputters, “you just-”
Rising, I stroll over to her. “Would ye prefer the alternative, lass? There are multiple places all over the globe where we can send ye: your mother to Johannesburg, perhaps. We could put ye on a farm in Poland. Ye would never be free again.” I feel the slightest twinge of guilt as the blood drains from her face and Martha lets out a gasp.
It clearly dinnae occur to them that we could separate them.
“Why would you want this?” Sophie whispers. “You think we’re traitors.”
Tilting my head, I study her thoughtfully.
The truth is, I dinnae fully know why I want this.
I’m twelve years older than her and I’m no fecking cradle robber.
But it’s been impossible to ignore that Sophie’s all grown up.
I can still remember her beautiful, flushed face when I gave her the bouquet of flowers at her graduation.
My usual skill of standing back and analyzing every situation before acting has deserted me here.
“Make a choice, lass. We dinnae have all night.”
“There’s no other way?” she asks weakly. Despite the seriousness of the moment, I hear a smothered snort from Ethan, the bastard.
“Wait. Sophie- she-” Martha interrupts, “She’s innocent here, she didn’t do anything wrong! Please don’t make her pay for my mistake.”
Ethan’s snort is more of a chuckle this time.
There’s a good dozen women here in Edinburgh - socialites, models, and the like - who’ve made their desire to be Mrs. Michael MacTavish clearly known, and I’ve successfully evaded them all. So why am I standing here in front of a lass who’s considering whether banishment is better than marrying me?
“Do ye want me to cancel Father Hamilton?” Da asks solicitously.
My lips thin and Sophie gulps. “If I marry you, what happens to my mom?”
“She’ll stay here, in the cottage, of course,” I say. “She won’t have any duties. She canna be trusted.”
“You’re talking about my mother,” she says, pleadingly.
“Look,” Martha steps between us. “Punish me. Banish me. Do…” she sucks in a shaky breath. “Do what you have to do. But the only reason I did this was to protect Sophie. She hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“One of the reasons I’m doing this is to protect Sophie as well,” I tell her. “Do ye think even someone as unhinged and greedy as Taylor is going come after your daughter, once she’s married to me? This puts ye under MacTavish protection as well.”
I see the moment I have them. Martha’s shoulders slump, and Sophie’s arm tightens around her.
“You promise, you swear to me that you’ll keep her safe?” Martha asks, her voice hoarse from crying.
I dinnae owe this woman anything. She betrayed our clan. But her eyes are the same metallic sliver-grey as her daughter’s and they’re looking at me with such desperation.
“Upon the MacTavish name, I swear it.”
“Thank you,” she sobs. “That’s all that matters.”
Turning my attention back to Sophie, I see she’s looking around the room, as if suddenly aware again that there are other people here, all watching this little drama play out. She flushes red and presses her full lips into a thin line.
“Do ye accept this decision?” I ask sharply. Over her shoulder, I see Mum frown at me. She may not like my tone, but she’s not the one marrying a traitor.
It’s clear that Sophie wants to say something else, the way she’s struggling to form a response. “Yes,” she finally manages, squeezing her mother tighter.
“Good.” I check my watch. “Father Hamilton should be here any minute.”
“Wh- what?” Sophie wheezes. “You mean, tonight?”
There’s a discreet rap on the door. “I mean, right now,” I say.
“Enter,” Da calls, and Miss Kevin opens the door and ushers in a somewhat disheveled Father Hamilton. He’s the priest who oversees our family parish. While he’s not been required to perform as many unseemly marriages as his predecessor had, he’s unsurprised to be called out at midnight.
“Good evening,” he says, straightening his collar and smoothing his dark hair. “A pleasure to see ye all, even at this late hour.”
“Wait,” Martha stammers, “let me take Sophie back to the cottage so she can put on a nice dress.”
Looking at Sophie’s pink sweater and leggings, I shake my head. “What she’s wearing is fine.” I’m still in my suit, having come straight from the MacTavish International office building when Da called me with the news of their betrayal.
Father Hamilton raises a brow, even as he’s opening his book. “If the two of ye will stand before me, then?”
Sophie’s still holding on to her mother, staring at me with a mix of shock, horror, and what looks like revulsion.
Again, not a response I usually get from women.
When the rest of the family rises to stand around us, her mother whispers in her ear and gives her a gentle push.
Shakily making her way to me, she stares at Father Hamilton, who’s watching her, clearly concerned.
“I am not Father Barclay,” he says firmly. Her brow furrows, she dinnae understand, but I do.
“This is not a forced union,” I lie. Not physically, at any rate.
His gaze turns to her. “Is this true, my child?”
There’s a moment when I’m not sure she’ll answer him, then she forces a smile and nods. “Yes, Father. But…”
I see Mum and Da tense slightly.
“Aye?” Father Hamilton asks.
“I’m… not Catholic,” Sophie says.
With a deep sigh, he says, “This dinnae surprise me, but ye are just fine. Marrying the two of ye here is legal in the eyes of the state and the eyes of God. Shall we begin?”
She nods like a marionette whose strings are being pulled.
“My dear friends, ye have come together so that the Lord may seal and strengthen your love in the presence of the Church’s minister, and this community…”
The familiar words wash over me. I’ve heard them multiple times before, standing next to my cousins, watching them marry their wives. Hearing the words now, binding me to this woman adds a weight I dinnae expect.
“Do ye, Michael, take Sophie to be your wife. Do ye promise to be true to her in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love her and honor her all the days of your life?”
“I do.” My voice is strong and composed.
“And do ye, Sophie, take Michael to be your husband. Do ye promise to be true to him in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love him and honor him all the days of your life?”
She wets her lips, and my cock chooses the most inappropriate time to take notice, her pink tongue stroking over her lips, the sheen of moisture-
For feck’s sake, ye arsehole, pull it together!
“I… do.”
Father Hamilton eyes her with concern for an uncomfortably long moment before saying, “Bless in Christ the consent you have declared before the Church, so that what God joins together, no one may put asunder.” He closes his Bible, “Ye may now kiss the bride.”
As I lean toward her, she instinctively steps back, and I pause.
Slowly, deliberately, I hold her upper arm as she sways, bending my head.
She smells sweet, like vanilla and sugar.
Like pure things, but she is most likely not pure at all.
I give her a cool press of my lips on her cheek and step back.
The streetlights flash over Sophie’s face, creating a flickering effect like an old movie. She hasn’t said a word since leaving the mansion.
She’s staring down at her left hand, at my ill-fitting signet ring that I’d pulled off my finger to push onto hers.
“What about my things?”
I look up from my phone, I’ve been going through all the disastrous reports from the shipment loss.
“Your mother will pack them for ye and Ian will bring them to my place.” I remember the one time Sophie was at my house, that night when Maisie was too drunk for me to take them home.
Sophie kept apologizing for everything. For Maisie.
For me having to come rescue them. How her composure broke when she thought she’d lose her scholarship.
I know she’s always gotten top marks. She graduated with a First in her Pre-Law degree, always performing perfectly, as if a single mistake could destroy everything she’s worked for.
It’s a cruel irony that her mother was the one to end ten years of trust and clanship.
***
Seanair - Scottish Gaelic for grandfather.