“That would mean a lot to me, thank you,” I say.
“Are you going to miss the lodge, lass?” he asks with that filthy smile of his.
“Not the ravine.”
I will miss this place a little, though. Even though my solitude here was imposed on me, having time for simple pleasures like reading a book, or watching a movie all the way through without someone needing something has been luxurious. The lodge has a solid, comforting feeling, more like a fortress. Even though it’s meant to keep me in, it’s kept the real world out. I never realized how much I needed that.
Dougal laughs, “You just hate the concept of anything besting you, I’m thinking that ravine taught your ankle a lesson it’ll not soon forget.”
Narrowing my gaze, I defiantly finish my lobster, butter running down my arm.
I might even miss Dougal’s helicopter. It flies serenely over downtown Glasgow and the terrible traffic and lands on a helipad atop a twenty-story building. It’s a gorgeous structure; an elegant mix of traditional stone with enormous windows on every floor. It fits in easily with the older buildings lining the street.
“Welcome home,” Dougal says as he helps me out of the helicopter. The words twist low in my gut, a funny burning sense of happiness and a sense of shame for feeling it. Home is Blackwood House.
Isn’t it?
“Of course, you have the penthouse floor,” I laugh as he shows me around, “nothing but the best for Your Grace.”
“Ah, Christ. You talked to Lachlan last night, didn’t you?” he groans. “That god-cursed nickname.”
Teasing him is better than wandering aimlessly, jaw dropped like a simpleton. Because this place is astounding, start to finish. The glass windows stretch in an uninterrupted flow across two of the walls, showing the Glasgow cityscape.
“The pool is on the opposite end of the helipad,” he says casually, “the gym is there…” He points to a door. “The kitchen…”
We walk intoArchitectural Digest’swet dream, a shining expanse of granite, stainless steel appliances, and most intriguing, a wall of plants growing happily by the massive kitchen window.
“Your own vertical herb garden,” I marvel, brushing my hand over the drooping strands of rosemary.
“Not that you had the chance to at the lodge, but do you cook?” he says, opening the giant refrigerator and handing me a bottle of water.
“Thank you,” I take a quick sip, “I’m not good, I’m afraid. I baked sometimes with my mother, but… I don’t know. I stopped when she died.”
“Can I ask how she passed?” he asks gently.
“Cancer. By the time the doctors caught it, she was in stage four. We had one more month with her and then…” Why am I crying? I don’t cry. I also don’t ever talk about my mother and yet here I am.
Dougal moves closer, though he seems to understand I can’t bear to be touched right now.
“I had so much hope, I was sure the oncologist could fix her. She wouldn’t try an experimental treatment and I was so angry. I understand it now. At eleven, though, I still believed there was nothing the Blackwood name couldn’t buy.”
“Eleven,” he muses, “so young. I’m sorry, lass, I know that doesn’t take away the pain in your heart, but I am.”
This moment feels like venturing out on a frozen pond, both of us tentative, unsure if it can hold our weight. He kisses me very gently on the forehead and takes my hand. “There’s a shooting range one floor down.”
“You have successfully distracted me,” I blurt, and he kisses me again, this time on the lips with his arms around me.
“Go change,” he says, “all your things are in our bedroom. I want to see just how good you are.”
The shooting range is hidden behind a thick steel door, which is hidden by an elegant wooden door that looks like the rest of the ones on this floor, as if nothing more sinister than an office is behind it. A biometric lock opens the steel door and I gasp.
“Hello, sweethearts. I love you all,” I sigh rapturously.
It’s an armory as well as a shooting range, and the wall of neatly organized weapons is a masterpiece. “Is that a 1877 Bulldog Gatling Gun?” I gasp, “Sweet Jesus, you have one of the four engraved Jones Deluxe that exist in this world?” I put my hand to my chest, overwhelmed.
Dougal’s leaning against the steel wall, arms folded and grinning at my excitement. “Aye. Why don’t you pick a revolver and let’s have a little target competition, aye?”
I’m busy petting an STI International Combat Taran Tactical pistol like it’s a baby kitten and it takes me a moment. “Why do you want a competition?”
