Chapter Fourteen
Sophie…
Saturday arrives all too soon.
It’s not that I don’t love dressing up, I just never had the funds to go all out. Even if I did own a spectacular evening gown, it would hardly be appropriate for my usual mode of socializing, which varied between a random drunken college party or an inexpensive club night.
I did go to the MacTavish Foundation Gala last year. They presented me with an award for “Distinguished Performance in Education” and boy, I’ll bet they’d like to take that trophy back now. That time, I’d borrowed one of Maisie’s vast array of dresses.
The masterpiece hanging up in my closet is far grander than anything I’ve ever worn, a vintage Yves Saint Laurent that the MacTavish personal shopper, Collette, had insisted looked perfect for my “classic Grace Kelly look.” I vaguely remember that Grace Kelly was a famous actress turned queen of Monaco, so it was a very nice compliment.
The gown is off-shoulder champagne colored silk, fitted snugly against my curves with a slit on the side high enough that I had to practice sitting down in it to make sure I didn’t flash anyone.
At the moment, I’m contorting like a snake shedding it’s skin - though in reverse - since I’m trying to get the zipper up on the dress. I manage to pull the tight silk up and over my hips, but the zipper has no intentions of cooperating and I’d rather set myself on fire than ask Ian for help.
“Ye look beautiful.”
Letting out an awkward little squawk, I whirl to see Michael leaning against the bathroom door.
The stealthy bastard moves so silently that I didn’t even hear him come in.
He’s wearing a gorgeously fitted tuxedo that stretches smoothly over his broad shoulders, hair smoothed back, except for a couple of strands falling over his forehead.
It’s the kind of look models and celebrities pay stupid amounts of money to achieve, but for Michael, it’s effortless and perfect.
“Um, you look nice, too.” I say awkwardly. This bathroom is huge, twice the size of mine at home, but with him there, it’s crowded, like he’s taking up all the oxygen.
“Turn around.”
“What?”
“Turn around,” he moves his finger in a circle. “I’ll zip ye up.”
I don’t want to.
He’s too close. If he touches me, my skin’s going to go up in flames. Reluctantly, I turn my back to him and watch in the mirror as he steps closer. Even in my heels, he’s a head taller than I am. His lashes make a thick fan on his cheekbones as he focuses on getting me zipped up.
His breath brushes against my cheek, mint and scotch, and the heat of his body soothes that chilled strip of skin between the opened sides of my dress.
“It’s- the dress is too tight,” I babble, “I should have picked something else, but the stylist-”
“It’s perfect,” he murmurs, his knuckle slowly dragging along my bare skin as he pulls the zipper up, deft fingers fastening the little hook and eye at the top.
His hands slowly trail down my sides, smoothing the fabric and settling around my hips.
His dark gaze meets mine in the mirror, a slight smile on his lips.
“The dress is an inspired choice, wife.”
Wife.
Something sweeps under my skin, something warm. How the sound of the word feels.
“It could use a wee bit of something,” he says thoughtfully.
I look down at the swell of my cleavage against the bodice. “I don’t think anything else can fit.” The sentence comes out sounding dirty, not like how I meant it and I flush when he gives a low chuckle.
A black velvet case appears in front of me and he opens it. Inside, there’s a glittering diamond necklace that ends in a v-shape that fits the line of the dress. “I can’t wear that,” I say, trying to edge away from him. “That’s too expensive. What if I lost it? I’m sure it’s not-”
“It’s necessary,” Michael interrupts. “I knew it would look beautiful against your skin, so smooth and pale…” His voice drops and I swear I can feel it run along my spine like a caress. The cool metal slides across my collarbones as he fastens it around my neck. “There’s earrings as well.”
He’s kinder tonight, a slight smile playing along his lips and the brittle chill in his eyes is gone. “Thank you,” I say, touching the necklace lightly, “It’s gorgeous.” The diamonds have a faint amber hue that flawlessly matches the color of the dress.
He turns me, looking me up and down. “There’s one more thing needed.
” Pulling a small box from his pocket, he flips it open to show a wedding ring nestled in blue silk.
The diamond is enormous, too big for me to feel comfortable wearing it and here I thought the necklace was going to be my biggest source of anxiety tonight.
The diamond is an emerald-cut, surrounded by sapphires on a silver band.
Taking my hand, Michael pulls his loose signet ring off my finger and slides on the wedding band.
It’s beautiful, glittering under the light, and a perfect fit.
“Aye, that’s a ring befitting a MacTavish wife.” He kisses my knuckles but the warmth doesn’t touch me any more.
Of course. For a MacTavish wife. It’s all about image, and nothing to do with me. Not really.
He seems to sense my deflated spirit because he pulls back, searching my eyes. “If ye dinnae like the ring, we can get another. Would ye prefer to pick it?”
My mouth tightens. “No, one is as good as another, I guess.”
That gets a chilly reception, based on his expression but I don’t care. We’ve only been married a week and I’m already tired of getting my hopes up.
His fingers tighten on mine for a moment, they’re rough and calloused. Not like a cultured billionaire who handles his clan’s business.
More like someone who works with his hands, who enjoys getting dirty. There’s a network of fine white scars across his knuckles, a testament to how many men he’s bloodied and beaten.
He’s close enough that I can feel his warm breath on my cheek, he smells like pine and the scotch he’d been drinking. This is the part that always made me weak in the knees; his scent, the warmth from him that in the few times I’d been close enough would curl over my skin like soothing fingers.
I have time to let out one shuddering little sigh before he steps back.
“We should go.”
The Foundation Gala is held at the MacTavish estate - not Cormac and Mala’s mansion where I grew up - but the estate. The ancestral seat of the clan where the Lady Elspeth terrorizes the surrounding countryside as her amused husband, Cormac Sr. enjoys the spectacle of it all.
I’ve met Michael’s grandparents many times before, and they’ve always been kind to me.
But not as his wife.
I’m not naive enough to think that they don’t know every single detail of what happened with our hasty nuptials.
Cormac Sr. may have retired from his role as the Chieftain, but that doesn’t mean he’s not aware of the inner workings of the organization.
The Lady Elspeth? She simply knows everything.
There is not a soul on this planet who is willing to dispute that.
The long, stately drive heading to the mansion is lit up with a hundred lanterns, no searing LED blue light, but a soft, golden glow that highlights the trees and immaculately shaped hedges.
The mansion is a massive stone Georgian-style building, though there’s a couple of wings flanking the main house added on by a Gothic-style-loving MacTavish, complete with towers and peaked windows.
The entire place is lit up against the encroaching twilight and thousands of tiny lights string through the garden like a multitude of fireflies.
As Kyle pulls around the circular drive and halts in front of the door, Michael squeezes my hand.
“Dinnae be nervous, aye? You’ve met most of these people before.
Though kindly stay aware from Baron Kensington and his sweaty, grasping hands.
I dinnae want to be forced to stab a peer of the realm at dinner. ”
He gets me to laugh, which I suspect is the goal, and I nod. “Absolutely. No Baron Sweaty Hands.”
Michael’s grandparents are already greeting guests at the door, and not for the first time, I look at the tiny woman dressed in Dior and wonder how she managed to produce all her monstrously tall offspring.
She’s built like a fairy princess, tiny, delicate lines and Cormac Sr. towers over her, looking powerful in his MacTavish kilt.
He’s got a dirk strapped to his leg, as is custom, but I suspect it’s far too sharp to be merely ornamental.
It occurs to me then that Michael isn’t wearing his kilt. I’ve seen him in it before on dressy occasions, and he can wear the hell out of the MacTavish tartan.
“Are ye looking at my grandfather’s legs, ye shameless Jezebel?” Michael murmurs, and I choke back a shocked little giggle as they approach us.
“Seanair, Seanmhair,” he nods respectfully. “The gala is as magnificent as always.”
“Of course, dear.” The Lady Elspeth allows him to lightly kiss her cheek.
“We’ll be planning a proper wedding for the two of you next.
Fortunate that you chose to be married in summer.
” She nods at us approvingly, as if that has been the plan all along instead of the hasty, improved nightmare in her son’s office.
She touches her powdered cheek to mine. “We’ll have to meet for lunch soon to start planning, do let me know when your mother would be available to join us.”
“Thank you, Mrs. MacTavish, that’s so kind of you,” I stammer.
She holds my left hand up to the light. “The ring looks lovely, a perfect fit.” There’s a little, mysterious smile before she moves on to the next guest.
Cormac Sr. gives me a warm smile and a gentle squeeze of my hand. “Welcome to the family, dear.”
Michael leads me away as I’m blinking back a sudden rush of unseemly tears. He takes a glass of champagne off the tray from a passing waiter, handing it to me, I gulp it down in the most unseemly possible way. His brow rises, but he hands me another glass.