Nodding, I let myself feel a cautious bit of optimism.
Chapter Eighteen
In which we learn - unsurprisingly - that lunch with the Blackwoods and MacTavishes does not go as planned.
Isla…
By the time we’re on the helicopter and heading toward Glasgow, I’m feeling unreasonably soft toward Dougal. So, when he puts my hand on his leg, then resting his on top of mine, I let him. The fine wool of his suit covers the sculpted muscles in his thick thigh, and I can feel them under my fingertips, the way they slide and shift as he moves his leg.
I don’t let myself think about that spanking yesterday. At all. It’s an extra layer of complication that I’m not prepared to face yet. It’s getting harder to shove away the arousal that seems to saturate me every time I’m close to him and it’s irritating the hell out of me.
Is this Stockholm Syndrome? Admittedly, any red-blooded woman would be turned on by the sight of Dougal MacTavish. He’s infuriatingly handsome in a way that makes male models look weak and insubstantial in comparison, and when he’s wearing the hell out of a suit like this… I’m a mess.
Where’s my fury? My righteous indignation? As we get close enough to Glasgow to see the city skyline, I resolve to ignore my conflicted feelings and enjoy the day. My job is to convince Papa that I’m being well-treated and reduce his anxiety. If he and MacTavish Sr. were good friends once, maybe there’s a chance for peace between the families again.
“Did your father ever explain the enmity between our clans?”
Dougal looks surprised by the question, “So, you don’t know either?”
“My father told me that Cormac Sr. did something unforgivable and betrayed their friendship,” I say, “he always closes up when I ask him to explain further.”
“My Da refuses to explain what that means when we try to talk to him about it as well,” Dougal says. “Let’s get through lunch with your father. Maybe he’ll loosen up when he realizes you’re all right.”
Rainwater, the restaurant we selected in downtown Glasgow, is specifically out of MacTavish or Blackwood territory. It also has a back room where we can meet in private.
“Isla, love!”
Stupidly, tears come to my eyes when my father strides toward me, his face alight with relief. “Papa, I’ve missed you,” I whisper as he hugs me. His familiar smell of coffee and old leather surrounds me as I hug him. Is he thinner? Has Papa lost weight?
“I’ve been so worried,” he murmurs, “I have a team here, if you excuse yourself to go to the ladies' room, I can have them extract you in seconds.”
Hugging him tighter, my chest burns. He’s still solid, a strong man, but I can feel his arms shake very slightly against my back. “No, Papa,” I promise, “I’m alright. I want you to meet Dougal, and talk to him. I think that will soothe your fears, aye?”
The bristle of bodyguards from both clans stare each other down as we head into the back room. The owner, Michael, is there to greet us. It’s a beautiful space with a huge skylight above us, drenching the industrial brick and iron architecture with sunshine.
“It’s an honor to have you all here,” he smiles graciously, but I see the edge of anxiety in his posture. I can’t blame him for that. “I’ve arranged for a charcuterie board and a good bottle of Chateau Lafitte to get you started. Let us know when you’re ready to order.”
“Thanks, mate.” Dougal shakes his hand. “We appreciate the hospitality.”
We’re seated at a long table, meant for a large gathering but only the three of us are here in a painfully awkward silence.
“I should kill you for what you’ve done to my daughter,” Papa says suddenly. I almost bury my face in my hands.
Great start, Papa,I think,hostilities right out of the gate.
To Dougal’s credit, he stays calm, though I see his fist tighten under the table. “Isla broke into our house on your command and nearly got away with something precious to both clans. Marriage seemed like a better alternative than open warfare.”
“What’s done is done, Papa,” I intervene. “As you can see, Dougal has treated me well. Perhaps we can talk about what happens next.”
“Treated well?” he says aggressively, “What is that cast on your foot then?”
“That would be my fault. I was hiking-” I can feel Dougal’s shoulder shake with the effort to not burst into laughter and I pinch his thigh, hard. “And took a tumble. It’s just a sprain. I won’t need this walking cast much longer.”
“Where were you hiking?” Papa continues the interrogation.
“Let’s talk about this union and where we go from here,” Dougal intervenes.
“This feels like progress to me,” I say, “look! The Blackwoods and the MacTavish’s breaking bread, and not legs. This is good.”
