Chapter Fourteen Mercy #2
“As you so aptly put it when you turned twenty-one, you’re Mercy fucking Kincaid. You can do anything.” Then he gave me a tiny wink.
My chest swelled, coming dangerously close to cracking wide open.
His mother, Caroline, exited the first vehicle—tall and almost painfully elegant, her auburn hair swept back in a sleek chignon.
She wore ivory cashmere top to bottom, a camel-colored leather clutch in her hand and matching heels on her feet.
Rose was next, with hair the same color as her mother’s, in a deep-blue cashmere sweater and tweed wide-leg pants.
“Okay, so you’re all models. Good to know.”
Grant let loose a restrained sigh but didn’t seem inclined to argue.
Rose broke out in a wide smile, striding toward me with her arms open. She had bright-blue eyes and a tiny gap between her front teeth that was probably the most adorable thing I’d ever seen. “Bloody hell, look at you.”
Then I was crushed into her embrace, my hand ripped from Grant’s because, holy shit, she was strong. I let out a helpless laugh and patted her back. “Hi, Rose.”
“God, I missed you. And you don’t even remember me, how fucking tragic is that?” Somehow she gripped me even more tightly. “Did he tell you I’m your favorite? Because I am and I won’t hear of anything different.”
“Gently, sister,” came Grant’s dry voice from beside me. “I just got her back. I’d like to keep her in one piece for the time being.”
My eyes cut to his, and he was watching with a faint smile hovering at the corner of his mouth. Rose released me with a warm laugh, gripping my shoulders and holding me at arm’s length so she could study my face.
“Yeah, she’s in there, all right,” she said quietly. “I still see that fire in your eyes.” She turned to her brother. “Get over here, you speccy git.”
“I missed you, too, sister,” he drawled.
Rose hugged him. “You’re wearing those to drive her mad, aren’t you?”
Over her shoulder, Grant’s eyes found mine, amusement making the silvery color lighter. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you fucking do.”
“Rose, do remember your manners.”
“Sorry, Mum. You can have a turn now.”
Caroline Hastings waited patiently behind her daughter, a warm smile playing around her lips. “Hello, dear,” she said. “How are you feeling?”
She held out a hand, and I was strangely relieved at the formality of the greeting. I clasped it and let out a strong exhale. “A little overwhelmed. But fine, physically.”
“My son was a wreck before you woke.” Before I could clock my body’s response to that—sharp and intense—she kept speaking. “We’re very glad that you’re here with us.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Grant tuck his hands into his pockets and rock slightly on his heels, chin tucked to his chest.
“I’m sorry I don’t remember meeting you. My brain hasn’t been cooperating in the way I’d like.”
She assessed me quickly, a glance from top to bottom that lingered on my face much in the way her daughter’s had. Then she nodded. “It’ll come.”
Caroline moved toward her son and greeted him with an air-kiss on either side of his face, then held his hands in hers. “Are you ready for her?”
Grant cleared his throat. “Tea and sandwiches are waiting inside. We have a local place that does a lovely high tea, and they prepared everything exactly as requested.”
“Using the tea set she gave you?”
“Naturally.”
She nodded. “Excellent. That should suffice.” Caroline gave me a conspiratorial smile. “It’s darling, isn’t it? She loves him terribly to give it up.”
I knew this. “Meissen, correct?” I said. “From the early 1900s.”
Her eyes lit up. “Exactly. Quite a prize for the collector.”
Grant and I shared a quick look when she turned her attention to the house. “I am so thrilled to finally be here. I only wish your father could’ve joined us.”
“He’s busy.” His tone was loaded, his eyes blank.
She patted his arm. “Someday, my dear.”
“The house is adorable,” Rose gushed. “I can’t wait for Granny to see it.”
Caroline’s eyebrows lifted briefly. “Rose . . .” she said in a warning tone.
His sister’s face was the picture of innocence. “What?”
Caroline turned to speak with the driver, instructing him quietly about the bags, when the second driver emerged and opened the back door of the other car.
My stomach was in danger of lurching up my throat.
Grant set his hand on my lower back and leaned down to speak in my ear. I tried to hide my shiver and failed.
“You remember Margaret Thatcher?”
My brow furrowed. “The former prime minister? Yes.”
“Legend has it that if my grandmother had been born already, the nickname Iron Lady would’ve been reserved for her. Good ol’ Margaret would’ve had to figure something else out.”
“You’re helping so much, thank you.”
Rose overheard and laughed in delight. “Stop teasing her. You’ll be fine, Mercy. She’s not that scary.”
Except she was.
She really, really was.
Not because she was tall or imposing. If anything, Lady Elizabeth Hastings looked like she could fit right into my pocket. But the way her eyes, the same cold gray as her grandson’s, were trained on me, I was ready to melt into the sidewalk.
She wore a slate-blue set—Chanel, maybe.
Perfectly coiffed white hair and sedate heels on her feet.
A giant sapphire brooch on her lapel caught the light, as did the rock weighing down her finger.
Her features were severe, too sharp for her petite frame, and my skin seemed to shrink around my bones simply because her study of me was so intense.
Grant’s hand on my back was the only thing keeping me in place.
I wanted to fucking bolt.
Grant greeted her first with a deferential nod. “Grandmother. Welcome to our home.”
She hummed, her gaze flitting briefly to the house and property, then back to me with a slight tilt to her head. “If I’m to believe what I’ve been told, you don’t remember meeting me.”
“No, ma’am.”
She looked so unmoved by this that I panicked and did the only thing I could think of.
I curtsied.
Fucking curtsied.
Grant glanced up to the sky. Rose cleared her throat, trying to hide a laugh. And his mother gave me a sympathetic smile that made me want to die.
His grandmother simply narrowed her eyes. “And you’re wearing denim. How very American.”
“I told her to be comfortable in our own home, Grandmother,” Grant said, a steely edge to his voice. “And I like her denims.”
“Of course you do.”
I bit down on the tip of my tongue so hard I tasted blood.
He gestured toward the house. “Would you like to come in for some tea and sandwiches?”
“Not yet. I’d like to check into my suite and get freshened up.”
“Of course,” he said smoothly. “We do have a room ready for you here, should you change your mind.”
“I prefer a suite with turndown service and a five-star chef. You know that quite well.” She gave me another narrow-eyed, considering look. “I’ll return in a couple of hours. Fresh hot water for the tea. If you use that blasted microwave, I’ll know.”
Then she turned and marched back to the car with her chin in the air.
I let out a gust of air. Caroline touched my back. “She’s not all bad, I promise.” The skeptical look I gave her made her laugh lightly. “She was the same with me at first too.”
“That’s not very comforting, Mother,” Rose said, then hooked her arm through mine. “Come on, sis, give me the full tour, then show me where I can take a bloody nap while the queen is gone.”
“Oh, Rose,” Caroline sighed. “Don’t call her that.”
“Never to her face,” she said gravely.
Grant cleared his throat. “May I have a moment with my wife?”
They nodded, following the driver into the house, and as soon as we were alone, the tension bled from my body. “That was so much worse than I thought.”
His hands coasted up and down my upper arms. “You did well.” Then his eyes gleamed. “Other than the curtsy.”
“Kill me now.”
“I shan’t.” He touched my jaw with his thumb. “Chin up. The worst part is over. Just don’t let her bully you about.”
I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with him more than anything. “Okay. But I’m microwaving her water just because she said not to.”
“From you, Kincaid, I would expect nothing less.”