“Ach, just taking the piss outta ya.’ You’ve done a hell of a job,” he says. “I’ve never seen ya’ like this.”
“Like what?” Elana joins the other women with a tentative smile, and they welcome her in. Working on the legitimate side of King International has been good for her. She still blows up sometimes at my Aria over little things, but she apologizes after.
Usually.
“Like you’re the night sky and she’s your moon,” he says.
“Is Isla makin’ you read poetry or some shite?”
He laughs heartily, slapping me hard enough on the back to nearly pitch me into the fountain. “You foundgaol do bheatha,the love of your life. Of all the bets we’ve placed as brothers, none of us ever thought to bet onyougettin’ married. It’s disappointing, that is. Though I probably would have betagainstyou ever entering into holy matrimony so I’d lose anyway.”
“Your belief in me is inspiring, brother,” I say dryly. Though he’s right. Before Aria, the very concept of marriage never crossed my mind.
Aria catches my gaze and smiles, a naughty little grin as her gaze drops below my belt. We’re planning a visit to Dante’s Inferno tonight.
The Lady Elspeth joins us, my petite mother not reaching my shoulder, even in skyscraper heels. “How is Aria feeling?”
“Good,” I say, watching her keen gaze run over my wife’s figure. “Why do you ask, Ma?”
She makes an infuriating little humming noise. “No reason. And where is Zed?”
“He’s flying in late, he had to handle some business first.” Z’s taken to the role as spokesperson seriously, half in relief from not having to handle the dark and dangerous parts of thesyndicate, and because he is a charming little bastard when he feels like it.
Sorcha skips up to us, laughing and breathless. “Your wives are requesting your attention, you two. Get your arses out there and dance.”
“Language,” our mother says automatically.
“Sorry, Ma,” Sorcha says, not sorry at all. Her blue eyes are glowing and it makes me happy to see her flushed and laughing. She’s always cheerful and carefree, but we all know that what happened to her when she was kidnapped as a wee one has changed her irrevocably. She’s twenty now and hasn’t left the estate since she was rescued.
Wrapping my arm around her, I kiss the top of her head. “All right, ya’ nag. Ya’ coming out?”
Fanning her flushed face ostentatiously, she says, “I’ve done my part to add grace and charm to this party. Time for you to make an effort, ya’ bampot.”
So, I stroll over and take my wife by the hand, spinning her and making her light blue skirt flare out around her. The Scottish band is playing “Strip the Willow,” the fiddler’s bow moving in a blur as we move around the dance floor.
All my brothers have joined their wives and we move in and around each other with expertise born from long, boring dance lessons Ma demanded.
“You look happy, my bonnie bride,” I grin at her, spinning her again.
“I am happy,” she says. “I’m here with our family. No one-” she ducks under my raised arm in time to the song, “no one is trying to kill us. At the moment, anyway. There’s cake and dancing, andlater…” She pulls me in, wrapping her arms around my neck, “We’re going to our favorite place here in Scotland.”
“I dinna know the Inferno counted as your favorite,” I growl into her sweetly scented hair. “I’m honored, my filthy girl.”
“We might have to visit one of the higher levels, though,” she says casually, “maybe one of the private bedrooms with all the accessories?”
“Ya’ don’t feel like running for your life while I chase you down and fuck you in the dungeon?” I growl, biting her earlobe.
“Hmm… I do miss that,” she agrees, “but the doctor said rough sex is still fine as long as it’s notreallyrough. I told him all the levels at the Inferno and after breathing into a paper bag for a while, he got enough breath back to say that anything from Level One through Five is fine in my condition. The poor man looked rather pale, though.”
My heart freezes in my chest. “What do ya’ mean, your condition?” I ask hoarsely, “Are ya’ all right? Are ya’ sick? What’s-”
She takes my hand in her smaller one, putting it over her stomach. My tanned, tattooed hand looks so dark over her pretty dress. “I’m pregnant, love. Eight weeks along, the doctor says, so-”
I let out a shout, picking my beautiful wife up and spinning her, her silvery blonde hair flying around us. “You’re certain?” I ask, “You’re sure? We canna hurt thebairnwith rough play?”
“I got the doctor’s seal of approval,” she promises, “I want it now before I’m so gigantic that chasing me is laughable.”
“No chasing! Maybe we stay in tonight,” I say, panic overtaking me. I know how to be a husband, but a father? Can I take care of this wee one? Can I keep them safe?
