Sorcha is the one to sit next to her. “You carried this secret for decades,” she said, squeezing Caroline’s hand. “You kept it until you had no choice but to tell him, and it saved my father’s life. Alec loves you. He’ll find a way to process this. He will.” She nodded firmly, smiling at this woman who just admitted to an affair with her father, lending her warmth and comfort without a second thought.
I love my wife. I love everything about her.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
In which Sorcha proves just how tough a good Scottish girl can be.
Sorcha…
The MacTavish Estate…
It’s the first time I’ve been home since the kidnapping.
The fallout from Caroline’s revelation was painful. I know Da told Ma. I can’t imagine how the house is still standing, but they’re together as always. Alec disappeared for weeks, no one, not even Alastair knew where he was. Caroline went back to her villa in Tuscany to mourn.
And we came back to Glasgow for another wedding, as demanded by the Lady Elspeth.
Alastair talked me through the plan, asking how I felt and examining me for signs of an oncoming panic attack until I told him to go pick a fight with one of my brothers and give me a moment to breathe.
For a full half second, he looked a little wounded before giving me a devilish smile and whispered, “That’s one.”
A few nights after he rescued me from Alec, I finally asked him about it.
“What do you mean when you say, ‘That’s one, that’s two?”
We were in the hallway outside of our room and he pressed me against the wall. “If you drive me to a point where I am forced to say, ‘That’s four,’ I’m going to spank your perfect arse pink.”
The heat of his big body against mine was distracting, and his voice dropped to that sexy rasp when he threatened to spank me, I might have made a little whimper. He’d given me that “I’m the Man” expression and put his knee between my thighs, hoisting me up a bit so my center rubbed hard against the thick, defined muscles of his thigh. My husband put his hands on my waist, rubbing me back and forth until I wasthisclose to coming… and then pulled his thigh away and walked casually down the hall, whistling.
The manky bastard.
***
I’m sequestered in the MacTavish Dowager House, following Ma’s rigid traditions that every MacTavish bride must spend the night there before her wedding. The hilarious bit here is that other than Cormac and Mala, we’d all been married already in various unsavory circumstances. My sisters-in-law spent the night with me and it was one of the happiest times I could remember.
They’re all drinking champagne with me, aside from Aria, who’s pregnant with her and Lachlan’s first.
“Has Alastair stopped by to check on you yet?” Morana asks with an innocent expression. The other three are havin’ a laugh at my red face.
“No! We all know what happens when a MacTavish comes up to ‘check on his bride,’” I snap. “Alastair isn’t a MacTavish. He doesn’t know and none of ya’ are suggesting it, do ya’ hear me? I don’t need any calming down!”
This highly embarrassing “tradition” started when my oldest brother Cormac cornered poor Mala and “calmed her down” with oral sex when she was throwing a paleerie. The last thing I need is for Alastair to show up and for all my brothers and sisters-in-law knowing what’s going on.
“If that’s what you want,” Isla says, clearly holding back a giggle. “But I’m thinking one of those bampot brothers of yours might tell him.” She shares a gleeful grin with the others.
I know she’s fecking with me. They’re all fecking with me. But what if someone did say something to Alastair?
“Oh, sweet Mother Mary and all the Saints!” I moan, putting my head in my hands. “Go! Every one of ya’!” Leaping up, I make shooing motions with my hands. “You grab my brothers and don’t you let them near Alastair, do ya’ hear me?”
They’re laughing. Laughing! Disloyal creatures, the lot of them.
“We’re going,” Morana says, “we’ll be back after we tell them all to be quiet.”
“Thank ye!” I say fervently.
“Nae problem,” they chorus as they go out in search of their husbands.
The quiet in the room is nice, a break from the chatter. The Dowager House is just a smaller-sized replica of the MacTavish mansion, though very little has changed here over the last century. Large oil paintings of flowers line the walls, with ancient oriental rugs on the polished floor, and filmy white fabric draped over the four-poster bed.
