Chapter 76 Mallory Plantation—Elliott
Mallory Plantation—Elliott
Life found its balance slowly, as it always did.
Weeks softened into months, and even the aftershocks of Elliott’s revelations—and Remy’s cancer—lost their urgency. Now, beneath the forgiving sky of the Fourth of July, they came together again—changed, still carrying their scars, but whole enough to celebrate having made it here.
The last streaks of crimson bled along the horizon as Elliott crossed the lawn toward the covered entertainment pavilion sprawling behind Charlotte’s mansion.
He grabbed a bottle of The Macallan from the bar and claimed a table near the double-sided fireplace—Meredith’s command post. From there, he could see the entire pavilion: the stage to his left, the kitchen to his right, the main entrance straight ahead.
Wherever trouble surfaced, he’d spot it first. A habit of command he’d never quite shed.
He poured a splash into his glass, the scent of sherry oak rising to meet him, and took a slow sip. The flavor opened on his tongue—rich, bold, familiar. He inhaled, letting the alcohol smooth the edges of his nerves.
For a rare minute, he let himself enjoy it—the hum of conversation, the soft air against his collar, the swirl of fans overhead.
But the peace never stayed long.
His thoughts circled relentlessly, the way ceiling fans twisted above him. They always found their way back to Erik.
The ache that came with the name was dull and circular. Would his friend return? Could he? And if he did, what would that mean for everyone he loved? They’d bury the man twice if he walked in here now—the rage and the grief alone would break the air.
Elliott rubbed at his temple, hating how easily that old knot of guilt and longing could take him down. Not tonight. Tonight belongs to them.
Laughter snapped him back. Clay and Archibald approached with matching grins, shoulders brushing as they carried glasses from the bar. Elliott’s chest loosened at the sight. He lifted his glass in greeting.
“I’ve got the whisky,” he said.
Clay dropped into a chair. “Why are you hiding over here by yourself?”
Elliott tipped the neck of the bottle toward their tumblers.
“I’m lingering in borrowed peace.” He poured three fingers each, lifted his glass, and said, “It’s a rare gift, the three of us sharing a night without disaster biting at our heels.
Life may twist us, but it always circles back to family.
To the love that nearly breaks us but never lets go. Slàinte mhath.”
“Slàinte mhath,” they answered, glasses meeting in the burnished light of dusk.
Elliott studied them both for a moment before asking, “I saw ye laughing when ye came in. That sounded like trouble. What are ye plotting now?”
“Not trouble,” Archibald said. “A new story to write.”
Elliott tilted his head, waiting.
“I want to travel again,” Archibald continued, eyes alive in a way they hadn’t been in months. “Clay, too, if he’s ready. There’s so much history I want to experience.”
The idea made Elliott’s shoulders tense.
He took another sip before trusting his voice.
“Ye want yer brooch to travel, then?” He took a long drink and considered what that would mean if Archibald didn’t return from an adventure.
“Ye’ve done it for years. I can’t say no.
Ye’ve always returned, but there might come a time when ye run into trouble ye can’t fix.
I’ll send a team back to rescue ye once. After that, ye’re on yer own.”
Archibald’s smile softened. “Fair. A toast, then.” He lifted his glass. “To finding answers in the past that keep us alive in the future.”
Elliott clinked glasses with him, their reflections dancing across the liquid surface. God help us all. He turned to Clay, whose posture relaxed into quiet pride. “What are ye up to, lad?”
“I’m staying here for now. Things are great with Marcelle, and Daniel Grant and I are working on a proposal to write a series of westerns based on the life of a Pinkerton agent.”
“Why is this the first I’ve heard of it? And why aren’t ye shopping the Teddy Roosevelt book?”
“We were keeping it quiet until we heard from Jack’s literary agent. She has signed us as clients and is shopping the proposal to editors at several publishing houses. I also pitched the Roosevelt book, and she said we’d talk about that in a few months.”
Elliott raised his glass for another toast. “My heartfelt congratulations. Cheers to the adventures ahead. Slàinte mhath.” He set down his glass and refilled it, knowing there would be more toasts to come. “At this rate, I’ll be pished—properly hammered by the time the fireworks start.”
“You won’t be the only one hammered tonight, Elliott. We all have good news to celebrate,” Clay said.
Elliott cocked an eyebrow. “What else am I missing?”
Clay finished his drink and then reached for his pipe to pack and light, but his fingers froze over the tobacco pouch. Elliott wondered what thought had entered the lad’s mind that stopped the familiar ritual.
“Nothing specific like an engagement to announce, but we have an abundance of new loves, reconciliations, new homes, and exciting futures that deserve an all-night celebration.”
“I guess that means ye two have resolved yer issues.” Elliott looked from Clay to Archibald.
“Now that I know the Illuminati was after him, I’ve almost forgiven him for faking his death.
” Clay’s face was a combination of softening and guarding, revealing his struggle between a desire for peace and a need to protect himself.
“And we’ve had a few conversations about what lousy parents he and Violet were. ”
“Faking a death and being a lousy parent are a bit much to get over, but I have faith ye’ll get there.”
Archibald cleared his throat. “Both are my fault, but Clay understands how much I love him, and after hearing all that about Violet, we both know why she did what she did. Neither of us can hold that against her.” Archibald put his arm around Clay’s shoulder and gave him a side hug. “We’re good. Right?”
“We’re good.”
“What about Marcelle?” Elliott pressed gently. “Would she like to go on another adventure?”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Clay’s mouth. “When she has a break from the symphony, she might. But first, she needs to finish Trainer Ted’s training plan.” Clay shook his head, half amused. “The one designed to turn her, Skye, and Kaitlyn into Navy SEALs or Army Rangers.”
Elliott chuckled. “Ted’s training paid off for Isabella. It’ll pay off for them, too.” He looked up to see Robert walking in with Isabella, holding hands. “Speaking of her, did I miss something?”
Clay shrugged. “That’s been going on for a few weeks. Rory wants Isabella to live in our house.”
“What’d ye say?”
“I told him we need to finish it first, and she needs to complete her fellowship.” Clay glanced back. “If you two will excuse me, I’m on bar duty, and Kenzie’s standing over there with a clipboard to keep track of who shows up and who doesn’t.”
“I’ll help ye at the bar for a while,” Archibald said. “Then I’m going to find the best place to watch the fireworks. I heard our display will top the one in D.C.”
“That was Braham’s goal.” Elliott watched the father-son duo head toward the bar. Their relationship still had some problems, but they had a good foundation and would work it all out.
James Cullen and Emily waltzed in, making what looked like a red-carpet entrance. Elliott’s heart nearly exploded. God, he loved his sons. Emily rushed over to help Penny and Amber with the food trays, and James Cullen brought a glass over to Elliott’s table.
He poured whisky into his tumbler. “Mom said you wanted to tell me something important.”
“She did?”
“She did. And she said you didn’t know she was going to tell me to talk to you. Does that make sense?”
“It does.”
“Does it have to do with your audience with Violet?”
“What makes ye think that?”
“My gut. Since the clan meeting, I sensed there was something you wanted to talk to me about. I’ve waited and realized that if I was going to find out, I’d have to ask you. Emily encouraged me to do it now because we’d both be on our best behavior.”
Elliott chuckled. “She knows how to set boundaries. I appreciate that.” Elliott leaned forward. “I left this out of the briefing on purpose because I didn’t know how it would affect ye.”
“Well, tell me, and we’ll find out.”
Elliott had rehearsed this conversation, focusing on delivering it with understanding and not blasting Violet for what she’d done. Even though that’s what he wanted to do. He took a deep breath and got to the point. “When ye were in the future getting healed, Violet had yer sperm harvested.”
James Cullen’s eyes widened. “That’s cool!”
Elliott froze.
Not outwardly—years of discipline kept his face composed—but something inside him stuttered hard, like a missed step on familiar ground.
“That’s cool” wasn’t one of the responses he’d expected.
For a fraction of a second, Elliott could only stare at his son, searching his expression. Casual, unburdened acceptance.
“That doesn’t bother ye?” Elliott asked, his voice quieter now.
James Cullen shrugged. “Why should it, Dad?”
Elliott had carried the weight of what Violet had done like a loaded weapon, bracing for fallout. Instead, James Cullen stood unshaken—unwounded in a way Elliott had never learned how to be. “Because ye didn’t give yer consent.”
“Violet wanted the next Keeper’s sperm in case we failed at our mission. Then she’d need to repopulate her civilization.”
“Did ye know?”
“No, but I’m not surprised. Violet and her people remade me.
I owe them my life. Taking some of my sperm is a small price to pay for what they did.
If she needs insurance, I’m glad to provide it.
But they won’t need it because we won’t fail.
We’ve got plenty on our plate without worrying over what-ifs.
But there is something I’ve been thinking about. ”
“What is it?”