“Please don’t call me that,” I blurt.
A small wrinkle appears on her flawless forehead. “What would you prefer?”
“Just Morana, please?”
That tiny wrinkle appears again. “I fear that would be too informal. I would not be comfortable addressing the lady of the house in such a way.” She brightens. “Madame Morana? Mistress Morana?”
“Not the second one, please,” I say, “it sounds like a character in a BDSM romance.”
The first one sounds like I’m running a brothel,I think,but I guess it could be worse.
Back home in Moscow, when anyone was actually required to speak to me directly, it was as Miss Morana, but I guess we’re held to a higher standard here.
“Very well,” she says, equanimity returned. “Madame Morana, would you prefer to eat first or shall I draw you a bath?”
“I…” The Ivanovs may have fallen from the heights of power that our Bratva once enjoyed, but I grew up around wealth. However, having someone ‘draw me a bath’ is a bit much. “Maybe you could just sit with me for a minute while I eat? Tell me more about this place?”
Miss Kevin doesn’t sit, but she folds her hands in front of her and smiles at me approvingly. “I shall be happy to tell you about the manor. It was built in 1858, a Georgian style that was-”
“No, I mean, who lives here? Is your boss pure evil? Is he good to the people he employs?”
“Oh. Well, yes. Master Cameron is an excellent employer. He is firm, but fair.”
I barely avoid rolling my eyes.
“He is very loyal and generous to those who are loyal to him,” she continues.
“Uh, huh.”
Apparently, I’m not enthusiastic enough because she smiles reassuringly. “You need not worry about your safety, of course. There is always a rotating unit of guards on site, in and out of the house. Security here is unparalleled.”
“Sort of like Downton Abbey, but with firearms?” I ask.
A rise of one eyebrow tells me my levity is unwelcome.
There’s a giant crash outside my window and we hurry over to look. The wind has been roaring around the house all night. One of the oak trees lining the driveway has landed right on top of an expensive sports car - a Bugatti, I think - and it’s crushed beyond repair. Three of the guards are surrounding the car with equal expressions of alarm as Cameron is yelling, pacing around the car with his hands on his hips.
“Goodness, this is a terrible thing,” she says, “that is Mr. MacTavish’s favorite car.”
“He was supposed to talk to me this morning,” I mumbled.
“Oh,” Miss Kevin said apologetically, “I was instructed to tell you that he had some issues in London that required his immediate attention.”
Really…
Folding my arms as I watch his angry gesticulation, I know two things. Cameron MacTavish is a dismissive asshole as well as a kidnapper, and also, that the Ivanov streak of bad luck and utter misfortune continues.
I turn so Miss Kevin doesn’t see my grin.
Good.
Spending the next three days wandering around Cameron’s absurdly large house, I do a lot of smiling and nodding, like this is all fine and I’m happy playing Lady of the Manor while thatsvoloch',that bastard of a husband is off conducting meetings, or murders, whatever it is Scottish criminals do.
He’s called Miss Kevin - I overheard the conversation - but never spoke to me. Does he expect me to just… what? Sit here and marinate in his attractively decorated Scottish prison? Because as pretty as this place is, as kind as Miss Kevin is to me, it’s definitely a prison. There’s a guard who stands outside my bedroom door - and he scared the living hell out of me the first morning when I left the room - and there’s no leaving a single room in this place without one of his dark-suited minions following me.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I tell the guard currently breathing down my neck. “I’m going to soak a towel in toilet water. If you’re hovering here like asliznyak,a creep when I come out, I’m going to wrap it around your head and smother you. Do you understand me?”
He steps back. Just one step.
