Stonner - Scottish slang for erection
Grotty - Scottish slang for sordid or disreputable
Chapter Twenty
In which there is afternoon tea and revelations.
Scarlett…
As I’ve gotten older, it’s been harder to remember my mother, how she laughed, the feel of her hugs, the warmth of her concern. I have a feeling, though, that she would be a lot like Mala.
She exudes a calm confidence that’s very reassuring after that surreal photo shoot.
“I could offer tea,” she says, leading me into the mansion’s great room, “but I’m thinking it’s not too early for a glass of wine.”
Thinking of the hangover I woke up with, I gulp and say, “Maybe the tea? I had… a night.”
Mala laughs lightly. “Welcome to a very long line of MacTavish women who woke up feeling the same way after their wedding. I’ll go order tea, why don’t you relax for a moment? That photoshoot and catcalls from the Russian peanut gallery must have been an ordeal.”
While I grew up surrounded by luxury in our house in Boston, it doesn’t compare to theMacTavish estate. The main hall soars up two stories with a glassed-front entryway squeezing in all the light the weak Edinburgh sun is willing to give.
The great room is centered around an enormous fireplace - I’m sure Wallace loves this room - deep, substantial-looking leather couches and a gleaming herringbone floor. The floor to ceiling windows look out on the front entryway with a circular driveway and the very tall and substantial gate.
Settling into one of the nice, squishy couches, I take my first deep breath of the day. In fact, I don’t feel like I’ve caught my breath since Wallace saved me from being immolated along with my family’s office building.
“Trying to catch up?” Mala’s back with a big tray of tea and cakes and little sandwiches. “I must admit, I wasn’t much of a tea drinker when I lived at home back in the states. But once you add all the pastries, it starts making sense.”
“Where are you from?” I accept the cup from her, it’s a soothing green tea.
“San Francisco, originally.” A shadow crosses over her face. “I understand being raised in a crime family.”
“Not a happy beginning?” I venture.
She shrugs. Mala must be in her late fifties, butshe looks a decade younger, her auburn hair is still bright and she’s lean and strong.
“I have more of a Zen perspective these days,” she says, eyeing one of the little pink frosted cakes. “Everything I went through brought me to Cormac, so I can’t regret a thing.”
“Being Zen sounds lovely,” I sigh. “My life’s been pure chaos since I lost my father.” Am I volunteering too much? Being too needy? I stuff a little sandwich in my mouth.
“Cormac told me about how Wallace found you. He said Wallace was so horrified that he could barely speak about it. My nephew has an…exquisitegift for making fire. But he would never kill an innocent.”
“He risked his life to come back into that building to save me,” I say.
“Has Wallace shared anything about his life with you yet?” She’s watching me closely.
“No. And it’s infuriating. He - and your husband - have a very thorough background report on me, probably right down to the fact that I failed calculus in high school.”
“Oh, I was terrible at math,” Mala agrees.
“The point being, this has been a wildly unbalanced…” I flounder here. A relationship? I can’t even say the word marriage. “Situation,” I finish awkwardly. “So, I would very much like to know more about Wallace.”
“Most of Wallace’s story is his to tell,” she says regretfully. “I will say that I’ve never seen him like this about a woman before. He takes his responsibility for your life as… almost a sacred duty, I think. Does that make sense?”
“Maybe?” I say doubtfully.
“There’s more to it.” She drinks her tea, brow furrowed. “Wallace isn’t impulsive, like some of my nephews, or mysons,for that matter. In fact, taking a full forty-eight hours to marry you from your first meeting to saying ‘I do’ could be considered glacial by MacTavish wedding standards.”
I hide my grin by stuffing another little scone in my mouth. This family.
