“It’s about damn time ye came home.”
Michael grabs Wallace in a manly, back-slapping hug and gives me a light kiss on the cheek. “Dinnae tell me ye weren’t slowly suffocating every day in your Ralph Lauren suits and having to talk toinvestors.”
“Ye might want to remember that when you step into the role of Chieftain, ye will be doing a lot of that,” Wallace smiles maliciously. “And paperwork.”
Michael takes a long pull from his bottle of ale. “Dinnae ye remind me,” he grumbles, stomping off to talk to his sister.
“Have ye spoken with The Lady Elspeth yet?” Kenna nudges me.
“Wallace threw himself on the sword and tried to negotiate with her about the wedding plans…” I hesitate. Thisisher grandmother.
“Aye, it’s like negotiating with a terrorist,” she nods. “The last wedding held at the MacTavish estate was small, quite modest. I think I saw her soul curl up and die, floating away in ashes. She’s gonna turn your celebration into something grander and even more complicated than Princess Kate and Prince William’s Royal Wedding.”
“Oh, my god,” I moan quietly.
“Girl, you are so screwed,” Morgan chuckles unhelpfully.
Wallace brought us to a clearing that’s a short walk from our house, and demanded everyone turn off their flashlights. Nearly every MacTavish cousin is here, drawn by the promise of a celebration. The ground is wet, of course, because this is Scotland and the maples and oaks are stubbornly holding on to their last leaves before the wind takes them away for good.
It’s a sickle moon tonight, so it’s so dark that I can barely see a few feet in front of me.
“Will ye tell us what we’re doing here, ye mysterious bastard!” Kai calls.
“Tonight is All Hallows Eve” Wallace says, his voice even deeper than usual. “Scottish lore has it that we send the bairns out guising, dressed in costumes to hide them from the Kelpies, the AosSi.
“But the most ancient of the traditions is fire, used to ward off evil spirits and a spell of protection for the frozen nights ahead.” He snaps his fingers, and a fire explodes in the center of the clearing with a roar that sounds like some unholy beast, the flames reaching high above our heads and illuminating the towering trees around us.
A huge cheer goes up around the circle, some of the men take huge mouthfuls of alcohol and spray it into the blaze, creating blue streaks of flame that shoot into the inferno. Wallace turns on our portable speaker, and the blare of bagpipes and the frenzied beat of the fiddles makes everyone dance, circling around the bonfire.
It’s pagan. It’s wild. I feel it in my blood. I finish my wine and I dance too, swirling and spinning to find my husband right in front of me.
“This is amazing!” I shout, kissing him fiercely. “It’s beautiful.”
“You’re the beautiful one,” he growls, lifting me and squeezing my ass roughly. All the MacTavish men wore their kilts tonight and he looks fierce and rough, like an ancient Scottish laird here to fight, burn, and pillage.
We dance more. Drink more. Any time it lookslike there is the slightest possibility of the fire getting smaller, someone throws on another log, or twenty. The blaze illuminates the faces of the people I’m coming to love, encircling us all in a comforting light.
The scent of spilled whisky is ripe and strong, and the wind swirls it through the smell of the pines and wood smoke.
When everyone is boisterously singing along with an old Scottish tune, Wallace grabs my hand and pulls me away into the trees. When I stumble, he lifts me up with an arm around my waist and plunges deeper into the pines.
“Ye asked me once if ye could see me in a kilt,” he rumbles, lifting me up on a fallen tree so we’re eye to eye. His eyes are glowing, like the flame inside him has been let loose and it’s dancing too. “Would ye like to see what a Scotsman wears under one?”
It’s an old joke, I know, but the way Wallace says it makes it sound filthy, dark with intent.
My legs wrap around his waist and I can feel him, hard and throbbing. “I see you’re ready to show me,” I grin, rubbing against him.
“Aye, it’s a miracle that my stonner’s not lifting my kilt up.” He grabs the back of my hair, pulling it and tilting my head up. He doesn’t kiss me, hebitesme where my neck meets my shoulder. It’shard, I can feel how deep his teeth went into my skin and I groan.
“Husband. Do it again.”
He does, and this time I have to swallow a shriek before it can escape me. There’s no kissing, just biting and hair pulling and sucking at the marks he’s left on my skin. One of his hands shoves under my sweater, yanking my bra down and greedily squeezes my breast, slipping my nipple between two of his fingers and tugging on it as his hand tightens around my sensitive skin.
It’s rough, unapologetic and I barely feel the cold bark of the tree. Pulling back, he groans as I’m panting, our breath steaming in the chilly air. With a flash of his white teeth, he lifts me by the waist and puts me face down on the trunk, my feet dangling.
“I’m gonna fuck ye like I’d just caught ye wandering through my private forest,” he hisses, biting my earlobe. “A helpless lass and so bonnie and sweet. I’ll defile ye. Fuck ye and send ye away with my come dripping down your leg.”
My jeans are yanked down from my ass to mid-thigh, keeping me from spreading my legs and he growls, biting my ass, each cheek as I stiffen and moan against his mouth. He pulls my cheeks open crudely and chuckles.
