“You look like you could use a drink, my bride.”
Lachlan’s voice is not unsympathetic.
“Don’t call me that.” He raises a single dark brow, towering over me. “All right. Yes. I would like a drink. Why not?” I chuckle humorlessly.
“White or red?” he asks, heading over to the wine fridge installed in his antique walnut bar.
“What are you having?”
“I have a nice Macallan 50 Year bottle I’ve been waiting to open,” he says, pulling out a couple of glasses. “This is a grand occasionfor it, aye?” He pours a glass and offers it to me. I ignore it, seizing the bottle and drinking straight from it.
“This one’s mine,” I say, wandering over to the windows. “Get your own.”
The arrogant bastard has the nerve to laugh at me. “Now darlin’ are you planning on getting pished on our wedding night?”
“Oh, god,” I moan, taking another swig. I’m not used to hard liquor and this burns down my throat like a streak of fire. After the fourth or fifth gulp, my stomach is pleasantly warm and it’s not so bad.
Does he really expect me to have sex with him? After the whole married at gunpoint thing?
There’s a soft rustle as he seats himself close to the windows, lounging back in his oversized armchair, watching me as he sips from his glass of Scotch. Luckily he had another bottle. He’s not getting any of mine. I have no idea how much of this expensive Macallan it will take to make me completely numb, but I’m about to find out.
Married. To the man who assassinated my uncle - at my request - and demandedmein payment instead of the statue.
The thoughts swirl around me like a dense fog. I understand what the words mean in theory, but I can’t comprehend the reality of them.
“I had my cook leave dinner for us,” Lachlan interrupts my spiraling thoughts. “Roast beef and Halloumi fries.”
“Really?” My chuckles are more frequent with each swallow of Scotch. “And here I thought you ate nothing but haggis and human souls.”
He is unperturbed. “Only on the weekends.”
This Macallan isn’t too bad. No wonder the rich boys always seem to be swilling it. “How much is a bottle of 50-Year Macallan?”
He flicks a piece of fluff off his dress pants. “Around three hundred thousand pounds.”
My next mouthful sprays onto the window. “You just let me guzzle like…” I examine the bottle. It looks a little fuzzy but I think a quarter of it is gone. “Like seventy-five thousand pounds worth of booze?” I try to wipe off the window using the sleeve of his jacket.
“Oh, sorry,” I lean against the glass, awkwardly trying to take it off. “This’ll need to be dry-cleaned.”
Running his thumb over his lower lip, Lachlan watches me, half his face in shadow. He doesn’t seem upset, more entertained by me.
Bastard.
“You’re a bash..tard, you know that?” I say, trying to take another drink but the mouth of the bottle hits my cheek instead.
“No, I’m not a bastard,” he says calmly, rising from his chair. “You’ll know that without a doubt when you see all the MacTavish brothers together. I am, however, an arsehole.”
Walking closer to me, his gorgeous head tilts in an odd way. It’s a little scary, like a bird of prey sizing up a meal.
“I’ve also been called a bampot. A son of a bitch - that one is also not accurate and I was forced to kill the man who said it - a fecking dick, a bawbag, a dobber, a lavvy head, a walloper… It’s a long list and a distinguished one. I’ve likely earned every insult.”
Placing his hands on the window I’m pinned against, Lachlan cages me. “However, the only thing you are allowed to call me is husband.”
Jabbing my finger into his wide chest, I sneer, “You doan’ tell me what to do.” My knees are all… gooshy or something and when they fold under me, Lachlan is there to scoop me up again.
***
Lachlan…
