“Aren’t you a sweet surprise,” he murmurs, touching my cheek lightly before pressing hispalm against the panel.
We walk out into a proper pub that feels and looks ancient, like we should be sitting at the bar, drinking an ale. Wallace dressed in a suit and me in some Victorian lady garb. I suspect they’ve kept it looking this way deliberately. There’s big timbered beams and brick walls. The windows are small and a bit grimy.
A brassy sort of lady is handing out drinks and insults behind the bar. Two fiddlers entertain the crowd, encouraging them to stomp their feet, making glasses rattle and beer to slop out onto the bar top.
Wallace leads me through a little path between the tables, there’s not many women here, and the men turn and stare as we pass them. Wallace greets a few of them with that manly slap on the back thing all guys seem to do. He doesn’t introduce me, and I’m okay with it.
“Apologies, lass,” he says as we step out onto the cobblestone streets of Old Town. “I’d rather those men not know ye.” He eyes me critically. “I should have given ye a hoodie. Your beautiful hair is very distinctive.”
“Distinctive? Beautiful? The kids used to call me the Reddest Ginger in elementary school. I put up with it for two years. It stopped after I punched Jimmy Donnely in the face. The principal sent me home with a sternly worded letter for myparents.” I chuckle, thinking of my mother’s horrified response. “My dad hugged me and told me he was proud of me for standing up for myself.”
“I wish I’d met him,” he says. “Uncle Cormac thought well of your Da.”
“Where are we going now?” I ask brightly. I don’t want to think about Dad right now. About Mom.
“The Witchery by the Castle.” He slings an arm around me, putting himself between me and a thicket of drunk college students.
“I’ve heard of The Witchery!” I bounce a little. “I’ll have to take pictures for Morgan.”
We walk down the old streets and cut through a couple of narrow alleyways with minimal lighting, people leaning against the brick and stone walls there. They watch us pass by, but no one speaks, not even to ask for a handout. Is the MacTavish reputation that fierce?
In less than ten minutes we’re in the lobby of the hotel and it’s magnificent; a high, curved ceiling painted with busts of Greek gods, heavy paneled walls, and red. So much red. As we pass the room that serves as a library, I chuckle. So much plaid, too.
It hits me that I didn’t ask what we’re doing here. Is he taking me to dinner? We’re heading towards a carved set of double doors and hepauses for a moment. There’s a vase of roses on an antique sideboard. He eyes them, then pulls the flowers out of the vase and hands the bouquet to me, dripping water on the plush carpet.
“Why am I-”
He pushes open the double doors. The room is large, and looks like an old English study. Dark, detailed wood wainscoting, lamps with yellowed shades on every table because there’s no overhead lighting. Even with them on, it’s still murky in here, the dim light not reaching the shadowed corners.
And there are two men waiting for us.
Chapter Fourteen
In which this is not the wedding of anyone’s dreams.
Scarlett…
What the actual…
One of the men looks like a lawyer or a businessman, watching us enter and not looking entirely happy about it. He’s wearing an expensive looking suit, dark gray, which fits perfectly with the mood in the room. His assistant - clearly, his assistant because his suit is not expensive - steps forward with a folder and an anxious smile.
“Mr. MacTavish-Taylor, good, you’re here! We can just get the words spoken before Registrar Douglas, sign some paperwork and you’re all set.”
None of them are looking at me.
“Exactly what the hell do you think is going to happen here?” I pull away from Wallace’s grip on my arm, putting the dripping roses on a nearby table.
“Darling, we’re getting married.” Wallace saysthis like it’s the most logical thing in the world.
He’s truly insane.
This is a real shame because he looks so good for a crazy person, his blond-ish curls perfectly tousled and his amber eyes glowing in the dim light.
“No. That’s not happening. I’m assuming here in Scotland you still can’t marry a woman against her will, right?” I’m appealing to the officiant, who directs his attention elsewhere.
“Really? You’re going to pretend I didn’t just stridently object?” The man refuses to look at me, so I spin to glare at Wallace. “How much are you paying this guy?” I stride toward the door. I don’t know what I’m going to do but I’m not staying here.
“Luaith Bheag,haud your wheesht.” Wallace is instantly behind me, pressing me face first against the door, his hand goes down to where I’m gripping the doorknob and his long fingers close around my wrist like manacles.
