Chapter Fourteen #2
“Sip this one, lass. I realize I must prepare ye for the infamous MacTavish Wedding Do-Over. As ye know, The Lady Elspeth has long given up on her descendants getting ‘properly’ married the first time around, so she’s weaponized weddings here at the estate to make sure they receive the grand ceremony she finds befitting of the MacTavish Clan. ”
“I was at Lucas and Catriona’s ceremony,” I say. “It was quite an impressive affair.”
“Ah, that’s right,” he says, deftly maneuvering me around an older couple admiring one of the enormous ancestor paintings lining the long hall. A couple dozen dead MacTavishes all gaze disapprovingly down at us as we make our way toward the ballroom.
Because of course there’s a ballroom.
“The Lady Elspeth still wants to have a wedding for us?” He looks down at me, puzzled.
“A’course.”
“Well,” I flounder, “I mean, the- our- that night in the Chieftain's study wasn’t your average MacTavish wedding vows.”
He seems to understand, and his arm slides around my waist, pulling me closer.
“Ye have no idea, my bride. My Uncle Lachlan married Aunt Aria at gunpoint. At midnight. In our parish chapel. The stories just get worse. My cousin Logan? He got Arabella scuppered and dug up an official in Denmark to marry them at midnight before she sobered up.”
“No!” My laughter is unwinding some of the thorny ball of anxiety that’s dug itself into my heart since that night when I’d reluctantly said “I do” to the man who is currently regaling me with yet another MacTavish-related wedding disaster.
So, of course, this soft little moment can’t continue.
“Darling, there you are!”
Fucking Celia Montrose, British socialite and Michael’s spurned ex, is blocking the entry to the ballroom with a well-bred smile and eyes glittering with fury.
It’s all fun and games until the psycho ex shows up, Jordan says, not being helpful in the slightest.
Michael…
Sophie stiffens, I can feel the tense line of her body as I put my arm around her waist.
“Celia.” I look at her dispassionately, then at her date.
Darren O’Donnell, that’s how she got into the Gala.
I knew she wasn’t on the guest list, I’d specifically made it clear that no invitation would be issued to her.
Darren, unfortunately, is one of our more enthusiastic donors.
He’s blessed with all the judgement of a feckless puppy and a sizable inheritance.
If Celia gave him a smile, he’d follow her anywhere.
“Hello, Michael!” Darren gives me a vigorous handshake.
He’s lanky with a thinning hairline and a broad smile.
Tonight, he’s chosen to favor us with a violently-colored plaid tie and jacket.
“And this must be the surprise bride! A surprise and a pleasure, lass.” He chuckles heartily at his own feeble joke as he gently shakes Sophie’s hand.
“As ye are aware, all MacTavish weddings are sudden and a bit of a surprise,” I say smoothly, retrieving my wife’s hand from his. “It’s a clan tradition.”
Celia’s watching all this with a brittle sort of fury. It’s amusing, because she’d rather be eaten by a shark than participate in the hasty ceremony that has become the MacTavish tradition. No, she’d need two years of planning and all the lavish grandiosity that my money could buy.
“A pleasure to meet you, Darren,” Sophie says sweetly. My brow rises as she ignores Celia. Sophie is traditionally, painfully, polite. “You look resplendent tonight. That tartan… it’s medieval, right? The sixteenth century?”
Darren’s face lights up and if he had a tail, his arse would be wiggling right now. “Aye! Late sixteenth century, to be exact. It was the evolution of the Falkirk original from the…”
Celia takes advantage of his medieval tartan history lesson to step closer. She’s loaded down with her family jewels tonight, even the Montrose tiara. Clearly, trying to remind me of her vastly “superior” lineage to Sophie’s. “I’d hoped you had come to your senses by now, darling.”
“I’m thinking I came to my senses,” I say, the words sharp and bright like broken glass, “the night I married my wife.” Her mouth convulses into a snarl at the words, “my wife” before her expression smooths out again.
“This is ridiculous, Michael.” She looks over at Sophie, who’s nodding and smiling as Darren launches into a long explanation of the historic importance of formal tartan wear.
“How can you give up what we have for her? Is she pregnant? Surely that can be handled without feeling obligated to marry her.”
“I wanted to marry her,” I say sharply. “I dinnae want to marry ye, Celia. You’re pretending an intimacy that dinnae exist. And it will be the last time ye do. I’m losing my patience.”
Sophie looks beautiful, the gleam from the golden light of the ballroom’s chandeliers is highlighting her dress and the glow it gives her skin.
Her long hair down tonight in curls that brush her shoulder blades.
Celia - who is apparently blissfully free from any sense of self-preservation - spots Sophie’s left hand and her snarl almost breaks free again. “That ring-”
“Isn’t it lovely?” My mother steps next to us, linking her arm with Sophie’s. “It was the Lady Elspeth’s personal gift from Queen Elizabeth in 1980.”
“It was?” Celia croaks.
“Really?” Sophie looks up at me, startled.
“Indeed,” my grandmother purrs, moving to stand on Sophie’s other side. “Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth summered at Balmoral Castle that year. We worked together on a charity project. She was a lovely woman.”
Sophie’s staring at the ring and Celia is surveying the sudden show of support from the MacTavish women.
My mother is intimidating enough, but add in my grandmother and any sane person would be heading for the other side of Edinburgh right now.
Even Darren, with his pleasant obliviousness, is anxiously smoothing the front of his vest and stepping back.
“It was very lovely to discuss historic textiles with ye, Sophie,” he says. “I’d like to get a look at those suits of armor ye have in the main hall…” He offers his arm to Celia, who’s locked in a tense standoff with three generations of MacTavish women.
“Celia, dear?” The Lady Elspeth says. “Move along.”
This galvanizes Celia, stepping backward and nearly tripping on the train of her gown before hastily regaining her balance. “Lovely to see you all,” she grits between her teeth before striding away, Darren anxiously trailing after her.
“A tiara, can you imagine?” My grandmother purses her lips, a sign of deep disapproval.
“I know,” Mum agrees, gently squeezing Sophie’s arm. “This is a black tie event!”
“One only dons a tiara for one’s wedding or a white tie event,” grandmother intones.
“The tie color matters?” Sophie asks.
“Of course,” Mum says. “White tie is the pinnacle of formal events you see, such as a state dinner, royal gala, or an extremely formal ball.”
“Aye,” The Lady Elspeth adds, “I attended the Vienna Opera Ball with your grandfather, such a lovely event. I wore the MacTavish tiara there.”
“We have a tiara?” Mum asks.
“I didn’t know it could get much grander than this,” Sophie admits. Mum and grandmother smile at her and I can see they’re clearly Team Sophie in this scenario.
“How do ye know so much about sixteenth century tartan?” I lean down to murmur in her ear.
She chuckles, a little breathlessly. “Daisy, my old roommate at university, she’s a fashion major.
I read through one of her papers for her.
She’s a wonderful designer but grammar is not her strength.
” Frowning a little she watches Darren lope after Celia as she heads for the door, she offers, “He seems very nice, too nice for… well. I shouldn’t be rude. ”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Mum says. “Celia is terrible.”
Sophie lets out a shocked little giggle.
“I’m sorry Martha couldn’t make it tonight,” Mum says, looking genuinely disappointed.
“I got her a dress,” Sophie nods. “But… she didn’t feel well enough to attend.
” Her chin goes up and I suspect that her mother is perfectly fine, physically, at any rate.
Looking at my grandmother, Sophie’s expression clouds a bit.
“Ma’am, this ring… it’s priceless, just the history alone. It doesn’t feel right to-”
The Lady Elspeth rarely smiles. A genteel tilt to one corner of her mouth, perhaps.
When she’s pleased, she’ll show an expression of approval that, for her, is equivalent to a full-on grin.
She bestows this look upon Sophie. “I think the ring looks rather lovely right where it is, dear. Enjoy your night.”
She could not have been kinder to Sophie. I’m sending flowers to Grandmother every week for the next year.
The ballroom stretches from one end of this massive wing of the house to the other, but it’s already filled with expensively dressed guests, and most of them are looking in this direction.
“May I have this dance?” I kiss Sophie’s left hand.
“It’s been a while since those ballroom dance lessons I took with Maisie,” she warns me. “And I was told by our instructor that I was, and I quote, ‘singularly uncoordinated.’ But if you’re willing to risk it…”
“You would not be the first woman to stomp on my feet,” I say, sliding my hand around the curve of her waist, leading her into a simple box step. “Catriona and I were forced to take our dance lessons together.”
A lance of pain bolts up my left thigh and I ignore it. Sophie’s hand is warm in mine, and my fingers spread across her lower back, enjoying the soft swell of her arse. The dancers around us blur as I spin her into another turn.
“Your grandmother gave you Queen Elizabeth’s ring for me?” Sophie’s shaking her head in disbelief.
I step past another couple close by, dancing with too much champagne and too little grace. “Ye dinnae think I’d make ye wear my signet ring forever, did ye?”
“I have carefully had no expectations whatsoever,” she says, looking me in the eye. “Even for your family, this is different.”
I pull her against me, enjoying her wee gasp. “Ye are an important member of this clan, you’ll be treated with respect.” She smiles up at me, her eyes luminous, a silver shade. “I am obligated to make sure you are kept safe, and-”
She’s rigid in my arms. “Obligated?”
“Aye,” I frown. “Because-”
Her soft fingers are against my lips, stopping the words. “Please don’t say any more words like obligation. Please, maybe we don’t need to talk at all.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve all been so nice. Mala stepping in the way she did and handling Celia like a boss. Your grandmother letting me wear this ring…” My thigh slides between her legs, cutting off her little speech and making her suck in a breath.
“And we shouldn’t talk because?”
My wife’s hand slides to the back of my neck as she leans closer. I can smell her sweet scent again, like something delicious. Something I crave.
“Because this is a wonderful night. You’ve done something lovely for me and I want to enjoy it,” she says.
“If you get started with words like obligation and responsibility, requirements of a MacTavish wife-” she lowers her voice to a manly growl, “it’s going to suck.
It’s going to distance us. Let’s…” Her breath hitches.
“Let’s pretend we’re normal, happy newlyweds. Just for tonight. Please?”
“There’s never been a normal MacTavish, my bride,” I bend down to whisper in her ear.
“As close to normal as possible, then.”
Running my thumb across her wedding ring, I nod. “Ye know what normal newlyweds do?”
Her brows draw together. “Uh, what specifically?”
“They kiss,” I murmur, the tip of my tongue darting out to trace the soft shell of her ear. “Passionately.” My hand cups her cheek, my thumb finding her chin and pushing it up. The moment my mouth is on hers, the music disappears, the noise of the crowd, the press of bodies around us.
This was the kiss I should have given Sophie that night in my father’s study. The night I married her.
My lips press against hers, my tongue sliding along the seam of her lips and slipping in to twine with hers. Taking her little gasp into my mouth and growling just slightly as I pull away, nipping her bottom lip lightly.
“Nothing normal about that kiss.” I stroke my thumb along her jawline. “Nothing average. That was perfection. If I dinnae take ye home right now, I’m stripping that fancy dress off ye in the middle of this ballroom and having ye right here.”
Sophie sways, licking her lips.
“Come along, wife. Time to go.”
***
Seanair, Seanmhair - Scots Gaelic for grandfather and grandmother.