The sound of her soft sobs is tearing through my insides. “When I got to the clinic, he was so pale… I thought I’d lost him. He’s in stable condition. But we need ye. Can ye and Scarlett get here soon? Uncle Alec says he’s already sent your jet; it should be landing within thirty minutes.”
“We’ll be there.” There are more words stuck in my throat, I can’t get them out, picturing my indomitable father, pale and gray in a hospital bed. “Are ye all right? What about Isobel?”
“Everyone’s fine, dinnae worry,” she says firmly. “What about ye, my boy? Please let Scarlett support ye, aye?”
“Of course. We’ll be there soon.”
“I love ye, Wallace.”
“The same, Mum.”
Scarlett overheard me, she’s standing a few steps away, twisting her hands anxiously.
“Your family? Did someone get hurt?” she whispers, as if saying it louder would make it true.
“My father was shot. We have to leave.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
In which we learn the true comfort of family is that they are simply there when needed.
Scarlett…
Wallace won’t look at me.
He hasn’t spoken a full sentence since that horrible, “My father’s been shot.” I try to hug him, bury my face in his neck and tell him it would be okay, we’d go face it together, but he's already in motion, pacing the kitchen and calling his personal pilot - my husband has a personal pilot and ajet?- issuing commands in a cold, clipped voice.
I call after him. “I’ll pack for both of us, okay?” I get a short nod, but he doesn't turn to look at me.
Hurrying through the bedroom, I pack as fast as I can, throwing open the dressing room door and pulling out the closest clothing items at hand. Throwing our toiletries in a bag, I pause by a heavy, silver framed photo of Wallace andAlastair.
The frame has the Taylor family crest on it, a lion snarling across the shield, like the one on Wallace’s chest. His father’s hand is on his shoulder and his smile is warm. Wallace, though, is looking slightly out of the frame. His pose is the same, tense, angled like an arrow ready to shoot in a different direction.
“Are you ready?”
I nearly drop the picture. Wallace is looking at me, his expression is blank and a little chilly.
“You have an English accent,” I say, blinking at him.
“Yes, well…” He looks down, adjusting the cuff of his dress shirt. “It’s time to go home.”
The cool despair in his voice makes me hurry closer, wanting to hug him. “I’m sorry, this must feel so scary.” This time, he lets me put my arms around him for a moment, patting my back.
“Do you have everything?” He picks up the bags.
“Yeah, I think,” I agree. Murder Mittens leaps onto my shoulders, wrapping herself around me and purring soothingly in my ear.
At leastshe’snot freaking out.
“Since when do you have a jet?” I ask. “You’vealways used one from the MacTavish fleet.”
“This is a Taylor Holdings jet,” he corrects as the Range Rover pulls up to the private airfield where we’d landed when he brought me here from Salem. The jet in front of us is a gleaming white with a royal blue logo, cool, and sharp.
Wallace hustles me up the stairs and introduces me to the flight attendant. “Marco, this is my wife, Scarlett MacTavish-Taylor, please make her comfortable.” He turns to me. “I have to speak with the pilot, why don’t you get settled.”
“Of course,” I give him my brightest smile. “Do what you need to do. Don’t worry about me.”
Murder Mittens nearly takes a bite out of poor Marco when he offers to take my coat. “Sorry, don’t take it personally,” I apologize. “She hates everyone.”
