“You fecking eejit! What were you thinking?” Cormac’s roaring.
“Ach, brother lower your voice. Aren’t the bairns asleep?”
“Very funny, you arsehole,” he snaps, though he lowers his voice. His twins, Michael and Catriona are grand and I love wrestling with them. But they’re more trouble than a rabid badger when they don’t get enough rest. “Why did you do this?”
He’s silent after I finish the story, which is a rare thing.
I can hear him walking into his kitchen and the distinctive ‘click!’ of a bottle cap. I take a sip of Macallan as I wait. Letting the Chieftain of the MacTavish Clan process news in his own time is a good way to avoid immediate violence upon my person. It’s a lesson that more than one black eye has taught me.
Then, “How much did you have to pay Father Barclay? Did you get a discount at least since you showed up at the church?”
I take a bigger gulp of scotch. “I’m funding the new soup kitchen in the Carntyne West neighborhood.”
His raucous laughter cuts me off. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph he hates you! I’m thinkin’ Cameron got off easy with just paying for the new church roof and the organ for the cathedral.”
“Thanks for your brotherly support,” I say, rubbing my eyes. I suspect the cost for my hasty wedding ratcheted up when Father Barclay realized I was armed.
“I canna believe you got married. Your longest relationship has been with your right hand,” Cormac chuckles. “Am I doomed to be the only MacTavish that didn’t steal his bride?”
“Putting Mala on your jet and letting her think she’s flying to America for an arranged marriage and ending up in Edinburgh with you for a shotgun wedding is not exactly a sound foundation of trust, you arse,” I point out. “It had to be done. Aria will thank me. Eventually.”
“Aye?” he says dubiously. “Still, despite the… immediacy of the union, this is an advantageous match if you can convince Aria not to murder you in your sleep. An alliance with the King Syndicate is true braw.They have shipping routes in areas we could never gain access to. Are you expecting any blowback from the brother?”
“Aria believes in him, she claims he’s ready to run the syndicate,” I lift my glass, admiring the amber color of the Scotch in the low light of my study. “I’ve been going through his background and the lad’s been in trouble before, the bampot. A couple of DWIs, drug charges, and a fight that put a student in the hospital when he was at University. All smoothed over by his family, a’ course. He did work closely with his Da in the business. But if he tries to give me any shite about our marriage, I’ll be shutting that down.”
“Not that I don’t appreciate your immediate call to let me know the latest thing you’ve blown clear to shite, but where’s your wife? It’s your wedding night, shouldn’t you be with her?”
Well, after catching her when she nearly stumbled through the window…
Rubbing my forehead, I admit, “She’s passed out in my bed, dead hammered.” Hanging up on his raucous laughter, I remind myself to punch him in the dick the next time I see him, Chieftain, or no.
Braw - Scottish slang for fantastic, great, good.
Chapter Nine
In which Aria endures the mother of all hangovers and Lachlan has a plan.
Aria…
Everything hurts so much.
Peeling my gummy eyes open, I blearily look around the room. Where am I? If I’ve been kidnapped, at least my prison is luxurious.
Oh, damn.
Technically, Iwasabducted last night by the smiling behemoth of a man who is sitting in a big wicker chair out on the terrace off the bedroom, drinking coffee and reading something on his laptop. He looks up and grins.
“Well, good morning, my bride. Ya’ look radiant.” Rising gracefully, Lachlan strolls over to me, hands in his pockets. He’s in jeans and a black t-shirt today, fitting tightly over his wide chest and clinging lovingly to his eight-pack. Picking up a glass of water from the bed stand, he hands it to me, taking it back when my pathetically shaky hand can’t keep it upright.
“Open your mouth,” he says, shaking out two pills from a bottle.
“What are those?” I sneer. “Ecstasy? GHB? I’m not interested.”
He gives a hearty laugh, the kind that penetrates your skull like a DeWalt drill. “No. Ibuprofen. GHB, by the way, comes in liquid form. You don’t have time to get high today, we’ve got a lot to do.”
Licking my lips, I grimace. My mouth tastes and smells like a gerbil crawled in there and chose my tongue for his final resting place. I’m so desperate for water that I pop the tablets and allow him to hold the glass for me while I swallow gratefully.
Once my throbbing brain has cleared enough, I look around the room. Even turning my head hurts. I have a hazy memory of an enormous living room with beautiful old windows, and this room is just as impressive. One wall is all exposed brick with windows looking out onto a park, but when I squint a little, I can see there’s another layer of glass over the original.
