He opens his palm and there’s a little cluster of short, stubby wooden matches. “The match heads are a cluster of potassium chlorate, sulfur, and glue. If ye use the side of a matchbox, the black stripe that ignites the flame is red phosphorus and powdered glass.” I gingerly touch one of the wooden sticks, the match headis bigger than normal, with a different hue.
“Making them this way puts everything I need for the flame together including red phosphorus, and I use the rough edge of my fingernail to create the friction and light it.”
“Creating fear and awe in friends and enemies alike,” I say appreciatively. “That’s so cool.”
His phone rings and my hand darts up to squeeze the Triquetra necklace Morgan gave me.Be brave. Don’t say anything extra weird.
When Wallace picks up, he pushes a button and a window opens on the monitor in front of us, showing three people sitting together.
“There you are!” This must be Isobel, she’s blonde, like her brother and wearing a giant grin that tells me Wallace is in for so much crap. “The woman who charmed my cold and heartless brother into holy matrimony.”
Brilliantly, the first thing out of my mouth is, “Oh, it was a Registrar. No priest included.”
His mother hides a grin with a genteel cough. “Forgive my daughter’s manners. Scarlett, it’s lovely to meet ye. I’m Sorcha, Wallace’s mother, and this handsome chap is his father, Alastair.” She has a wonderfully warm smile and flaming red hair.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I’m sitting up straight, trying to appear like a Well-Bred YoungLady of Means and Good Manners. I don’t think his dad is buying it.
They’re sitting in a drawing room or something equally British, with lots of wood paneling and expensive looking vases that are probably from the Ming Dynasty.
“This does come as a bit of a surprise,” Alastair says. He has a chilly gaze and a stern jaw. He’s dressed impeccably in a three-piece suit and yes, he’s intimidating as hell. The square jaw and amber eyes are his contribution to Wallace’s spectacular gene pool.
“Given our family’s history, it really shouldn’t,” Wallace says, reducing the sting of his words with a slight chuckle.
“Hmm…” Sorcha taps a slender finger to her chin. “Yes, I do remember a very precipitous marriage ceremony with your father as well.”
Alastair’s jaw gets tighter. “It was necessary for your protection, darling. As we have discussed many times.”
“I know,” she says serenely. “But I never tire of teasing ye about it.” They exchange a smile and Wallace is right, their love for each other is palpable.
“My hasty wedding with Scarlett was for the same reason,” he interjects smoothly. “After nearly burning her alive, I owed her myprotection.”
Was that all?Suddenly, the memories of last night don’t feel as warm.
“Yeah, not exactly a meet cute,” I joke weakly. This does not go over well with Alastair, but Isobel and Sorcha laugh gleefully.
“One day when we know each other better,” Sorcha says, “I’ll have to tell ye the story of my ‘meet cute’ with Alastair.” She blinks up at him adoringly, but I know she’s screwing with him because I didn’t think his jaw could get any tighter.
“When will you be bringing Scarlett home for a proper meeting?” Alastair asks, and I can feel Wallace stiffen next to me.
“Soon, I hope,” he says. “I have a job to do for the Chieftain, and there’s some information I’m acquiring about Scarlett’s situation.”
This interests his father, who leans forward, closer to the camera. “While I know the MacTavish intel resources are excellent, you well know thatoursare better. Let me get started on this end, we can work together.”
Wallace nods stiffly. “I’ll send ye- you- what I have so far.”
I side-eye him. Did he just slip into an English accent?
We talk for another twenty minutes or so, every one of them ticking by with painful slowness. They’re not sure what to ask about me, given my idiot step-brother’s strike against the MacTavish’s business in Boston. What am I going to brag about? That Marlena forced me to drop out of college and I’ve been a house cleaner and a cook for the last two years?
What a catch, eh?
Alastair makes me feel even more excruciatingly guilty by mentioning the Taylor Mafia was a partner in the MacTavish holdings there. There’s a stumbling round of apologies from me until he waves them off. “You didn’t do this. You have no fault or responsibility here. Please don’t trouble yourself.”
I ask general questions about their lives; where Isobel goes to school, about family and friends. I keep far away from any details about how they met after Sorcha’s taunting of her husband earlier.
Wallace is mostly silent, adding in a detail here or there. I’m sweating down the back of my dress by the time we finally wrap it up.
“We’re very much looking forward to having ye here in London for a bit,” Sorcha says, still unfailingly gracious and kind. “Sweetheart, I hope ye can finish your business there soon.”
