I canna blame him, to be fair.
But we haven’t offended Father Hamilton to the point of no return - yet - so he’s happy to greet us.
“My son, it’s been far too long.” He shakes my hand as if I’m a regular parishioner and not the monster that we both know I am.
“It’s a pleasure to see ya again, Father. I’d like to introduce ya to Sloan Masters.”
She’s looking a little out of her depth, she must have been raised in one of those wealthy Protestant churches where a family shows up for Christmas and Easter and then makes up for their absence for the rest of the year with a big check.
“Hello Father,” she nods and smiles, “your chapel here… it’s just beautiful.”
“Ah, have you seen the two windows on the east wall that signify the Archangel Michael’s battle against Satan? It’s been noted in many historical journals.”
“I’ll take ya over,” Patrick quickly volunteers.
She gives me a funny look but follows after Patrick.
“My son,” Father Hamilton says heavily, “she does not look like a bride excited for her marriage.”
He’s gotta stop calling me “my son.” He’s only about ten years older than me, the arse. “She is not yet aware, Father.” I let myself enjoy his appalled expression for a moment before drawing him further away from Sloan.
“I’m sure your predecessor told ya many a story about the MacTavishes-”
“Aye,” he nods placidly. “If it weren’t a sin in the eyes of the Lord, I would say that Father Barclay hated you. Aside from your grandmother, the Lady Elspeth, of course.”
“A’course,” I agree. My grandmother is a terrifying force of nature and old age has not slowed her down. At all.
“I know of his agreements to wed your uncles to a succession of unwilling women-”
“Those all turned out grand in the end,” I remind him.
“-but I canna continue this practice, my son.”
He’s really gotta stop saying ‘My son.’ It’ll look bad if I deck a man of the cloth. “I understand your reservations, Father. May I explain?”
“Of course.” He sweeps out a hand, inviting me to sit next to him in a pew in the far corner.
“Ya know of my family’s business.”
“As little as possible,” he says, his cherubic face smiling gently.
“Understandable,” I agree. “In this case, Sloan came under my protection when her stepfather put out a kill order on her.”
He pales. “I beg your pardon?”
“He wanted her found and dragged back to him. His exact order was, ‘If ya canna extract her, kill her.’ Ya can see why I’m unwilling to leave her on her own.”
“Certainly.” He shakes his head, looking genuinely sad. “Her own family.”
“Her stepfather also deals in the business. I am not the only one he sent after her. Their intentions are much worse than ya can imagine.”
Pulling out his handkerchief, an old-fashioned linen one, he mops his face. “What are you asking for, my son.”
Again with the son thing…
Controlling my temper, I continue. “She was injured in our escape, and just barely recovering from pneumonia, she’s too frail to protect herself. I need a more permanent solution to make it clear to the rest of the world that she is under my protection.”
“I will not force this poor child to marry you!”
