Chapter Twelve
Michael…
I sit in my office and watch Sophie on my monitor. She puts the cake on the dresser in her room before slumping down on the window seat, drawing her knees up and resting her face on them. Every room in my house has security surveillance, aside from the master bedroom.
Even from the limited camera angle, I see the pretty sheen of tears in her eyes, turned silver by her weeping. Watching those tears spill down her cheeks stirs an irrational anger in me at the one who caused them.
“Ian?”
“Yes, boss?”
“Come to the study, please.”
He’s there in a moment, stern in his dark suit, one of my best men. And a right arsehole.
“The comment about my wife poisoning the baked goods…”
He stiffens, folding his hands in front of him. “I was trying to oversee any potential threat, sir.”
“And where would she have managed to procure this poison?” I ask. My tone is mild, but he senses the fury underneath it. “Has she hidden a chemist’s lab, perhaps, in her closet? Stolen highly toxic ingredients from the kitchen?”
“No, sir. I’ve been with her every moment.” There’s a fine mist of sweat on his forehead. Ian came to us from the British Special Forces, I’ve rarely seen his scarred face deviate from determined stoicism.
“So, the intent behind accusing her of poisoning a plate of cookies is, what? Humiliation? Helping her learn her place?” My tone is still deceptively mild, but a bead of sweat runs down the side of Ian’s stubbled cheek.
“There have been so many security breaches in the past few months, sir.” His shoulders are back and his speech takes on a military cadence. “It is difficult for me to anticipate all the potential avenues of harm. I can see my concern here was misplaced.”
Rubbing my forehead, I take a breath, controlling my temper. “You’re right to be cautious. But I expect ye to show my wife the same respect you would any other MacTavish.”
My wife.
That sounds far more natural than I want to admit.
“Ye can leave for the day,” I say. “I’ll not need ye until tomorrow. Good night.”
“Thank you, Mr. MacTavish, to ye as well.” Ian swiftly absents himself from the house, no doubt happy to be away from my cookie-slinging wife and my angry disapproval.
Heading into the kitchen to take custody of the plate of salted caramel swirls, I find it wedged into the corner by the big stand mixer. That thing is Davina’s pride and joy, and I see Sophie was careful to scrupulously clean it after the full on baking assault this afternoon.
There’s a piece of paper wedged under the platter. Pulling it out, I find it’s covered in grease stains and crumpled, and in Sophie’s handwriting. Ah, one of her famous lists. When I read the fourth entry, I burst out laughing.
4. If that doesn’t work, hit Michael on the back of the head with Davina’s cast iron frying pan.
It’s good to know she’s not completely cowed. I fold the note carefully, slipping it into my pocket.
I let her hide in her bedroom until dinner.
Tapping on her door, I say, “Sophie, come downstairs. We’ll eat and talk.”
When she reluctantly opens the door, I frown, seeing her swollen, red eyes. “You didn’t lock me in?” she asks.
“No.” She seems surprised by this. I ordered her to be locked in her room at night, but did Ian keep her under lock and key for the last two days? Of course, I have been distracted by the fecking disaster I’ve been handling, so perhaps I wasn’t clear with him.
“Ye have free reign of the house, aside from my bedroom and my office.” I put up my hand. “Upon one condition. Ye must bring the cake down with ye.”
She snickers, but heads back into her room for the coconut cake, still showing a long streak through the frosting where I’d drawn my finger along it.
“Wow, did you cook?” Sophie pauses at the door to the dining room. The table is beautifully set with candles and flowers, and covered in dishes; langoustine and mussels steaming in a white wine sauce, Akune Gold wagyu, delicate greens in vinaigrette.
I chuckle. “Hardly. Davina stopped by. She also wanted me to thank ye for leaving the kitchen so spotless.” I pull out her chair and she hesitantly seats herself.
We eat silently, sitting on opposite sides of the table, framed in the golden light of the overhead pendant.
Watching her carefully pry out plump mussels from their shells is uncomfortably erotic, and when her tongue darts out to catch a drop of butter, I’m surprised my stonner isn’t lifting up my corner of the table.
“I appreciate you letting me talk to my mother,” she finally says, tucking a rebellious curl behind her ear. I follow the movement. Her fingers are long and elegant and I flash back to when she was younger.
“Do ye still play the flute?” Why am I trying to put her at ease with conversation?
Her brows draw together. “You remember that?”
“I remember the music,” I say.
She’d sit in the open window of her bedroom, her back a graceful line against the frame as the silver flute reflected the light against her skin. The breeze would lift her long hair as it carried her music across the estate.
“I believe Maisie mentioned that ye liked how the sound of the music bounced off the stone wall in the courtyard.”
She beams, the first true smile I’ve seen from her in a while. “It’s true. The acoustics there made it so much easier to check for mistakes. The sound was so clear.”
I dinnae tell her that I used to sit out on the balcony of my suite in the main house on the rare occasions when I stayed over, listening to her play. How the delicate notes from her flute rose and danced over me like a butterfly hovering over a flower.
“Do ye still play?”
“Not as much as I did,” she says. “School’s taken up most of my time. I miss it, though.”
“That’s a shame. I’m sure ye can find a space with the right acoustics for ye here in the courtyard.” I’m visualizing her future here, and it’s mildly shocking to realize that after I made the decision that night, I’d never thought further than the need to make sure she was here, that she was mine.
Even from here, I can smell her scent; the tart bite of anise, the warmth of cinnamon and a mellow tone of vanilla. She smells good enough to eat.
Her silver eyes glint in the candlelight as she watches me, pink lips parted as if she’s surprised that I’m making future plans for her as well, something that dinnae involve imprisonment.
“This was amazing,” she says, breaking the silence. Rising, she picks up her plate and mine. “I’ll tidy up.”
“My mother did teach us all to clean up after ourselves. Not that it ever took with Jack.” There’s a poorly concealed snicker from her. I pick up a couple of the platters, following her into the kitchen. “Davina dinnae make dessert, how fortunate that we have a huge selection available, aye?”
“I knew it,” she pretends to be shocked. “That gourmet dinner was just an elaborate ruse to get your hands on my cake.”
Realizing her double entendre, Sophie turns a bright pink. “I mean… I’ll just put some of the cookies out, too,” she clears her throat. “You can’t make an educated decision about my mad baking skills without trying everything.”
An hour later, I’m still arguing that her coconut cake is a masterpiece.
“How can you say that when the caramel pecan cluster has the perfect balance of crunch and sweet?” Sophie argues, waving her half-eaten cookie.
Chuckling, I take a sip of wine as I eye my signet ring slipping loosely around her finger. “You’ll need a proper wedding band.”
She looks down, moving it back and forth with her thumb. “It’s not important.”
“You are a MacTavish wife,” I counter, feeling the seriousness of the words.
Her experience has been so different. Each bride brought into the family with my cousin's hasty marriages was immediately embraced by the others. Three of the MacTavish brides are our neighbors here, and I know they’re not sure if they can reach out to Sophie.
“When we go to the estate tomorrow,” I begin, “I’ll have a jeweler bring over a selection-”
“Mr. MacTavish,” Ian steps hastily into the room. “Apologies for the interruption, but ye have a visitor, Miss Montrose is here.”
“Who opened the gates for her?” I snap.
“Her being a frequent visitor… they must have assumed she had a pass,” he says apologetically.
When I look back at Sophie, her expression is set, and cold. “I’ll head upstairs, out of your way.” She swiftly leaves the kitchen, which is wise. I suspect Celia is not going to take the news well and I dinnae want Sophie around to witness the ugliness.
Celia breezes into the room just as my bride disappears upstairs, hurrying over to embrace me in a cloud of expensive perfume. I lift my chin as she tries to kiss me, her lips landing on my jaw.
Pulling back, she frowns for a moment before rearranging her expression into something more well-bred. “I’ve missed you, darling.” She’s wearing a coat, too warm for the summer night and as she’s unbuttoning it, she purrs, “I was so excited to see you again-”
I see a flash of her nipples before pulling her coat back together. “Let’s talk in my study.”
“What in the bloody hell are you saying to me?” Celia whispers/screams.
“I’m saying that I canna see ye again,” I repeat patiently. “That I am married. It was sudden. I know this comes as a shock and for that, I’m sorry.”
Her manicured fingers tighten on the couch arm, scoring the leather. “I cannot be hearing this correctly!” she shouts, then hastily lowers her voice.
She canna let the help hear her, I think, it would be unseemly.
“You’re married? We’re supposed to be getting married! I’ve been waiting for you to propose for weeks!”
Raising a brow, I watch her devolve from a pampered, but well-bred princess to someone I wouldn’t allow around sharp objects.
“I’ve not given ye any reason to assume a proposal was on the way, Celia,” I say coldly. “We have not been exclusive.”
That was another reason I knew this could never work. It never occurred to me to care if she was seeing other people.
Celia’s normally pale cheeks are brick red with rage, her eyes are bulging and I know it’s time to deescalate this before she has a stroke.
“In the MacTavish Clan, sudden marriages are the norm, and I fear I am not immune,” I say, trying to let her down gently. “But when we wed, it is for life. I wish ye well, but I won’t be seeing ye again.”
“Not seeing me again, you bloody, selfish son of a bitch? How dare you treat me this way! I’m a Montrose, my father can bankrupt your pathetic family!”
I’ve seen her father’s financial records and clearly, she has not. While he does have connections that could have been useful, Martin has squandered most of his family’s fortune.
“We’re done here.” I rise from my chair. “You’re angry, and while I understand, it dinnae mean I’ll tolerate it. It’s time for ye to leave.”
Celia nearly leaps over the coffee table separating us, clinging desperately, arms and legs wrapped around me.
“Don’t say that, Michael! We’re- we’re in love.
Everyone’s been waiting for us to announce our engagement.
Please don’t be cruel, why are you doing this to me?
” Tears pour down her cheeks, manufactured, but nicely done.
Her eyes aren’t wounded, they are sharp with fury.
Peeling her loose, I hold her shoulders, keeping her back. “That was never going to happen. It’s time for ye to leave.”
My arms are long, which is fortunate, because Celia kicks out at me, fingernails flailing, trying to get to my face. “Where is the bitch! If you’re married, who is she?”
I consider not telling her, but it won’t be a secret much longer. “Sophie Barnes…” I smile slightly, “Sophie MacTavish, she’s a close friend of our family.”
The words stun her, enough that her arms drop and she sways, staring up at me. “You tied your family name to a servant? You’ll be a laughingstock; the great future MacTavish Chieftain married to a maid!”
My hands slide from her shoulders, fastening around her skinny upper arms like manacles. “Sophie is an extremely intelligent woman with a very bright future. My parents - my entire family, really - are very happy about my choice.”
This is mostly true.
I lift her, feet dangling as I walk briskly to the front door where an uncomfortable Ian is waiting. “Please escort Miss Montrose to her car. Find out who allowed her through the gate and fire them. Make it clear that she is denied access to any of our properties.”
This seems to cut through her rage, and Celia reaches for me, frantic. “Michael, I didn’t mean it, I was in shock! Please, we need to talk about this-”
“There’s nothing left to talk about,” I cut her off. “Goodbye.”
I shut the door, leaving the unfortunate Ian to drag Celia to her car in the politest possible way. Celia’s spoiled and selfish, but she just showed a level of unhinged viciousness I’d not expected.
Putting my hand in my pocket, I can feel the crumpled edge of Sophie’s note.
There’s a shadow at the top of the stairs, I see the silhouette of my wife’s curves before she shuts her door and the hall goes dark again.