He watched me, green eyes keen and I knew he saw more than I was willing to say. “I was under the impression ye intended to propose to Celia Montrose?”
I’d thought about it, not with any real enthusiasm. I was going to need heirs and a wife when I became Chieftain. There was no one I’d been interested in for years.
Ye fecking liar.
Celia was appropriate. She wasn’t bad in bed. Good connections with her obscenely wealthy family that would be useful on the legitimate side of our business. I still would have ended things with her at the club if Xenia hadn’t messaged me first.
And the moment I’d said those words, though, that I intended to marry Sophie… something moved in my gut, unfurling. Something light, like relief.
Like anticipation.
“Are ye disappointed, Da?”
“God, no,” he said instantly. “I canna stand Celia’s father, and your mum thinks Celia is a cold fish.”
Laughing, “Is that really the phrase Mum used?”
He gave me a slight grin. “More along the lines of ‘chilly, stuck-up cow.’”
“Aye, that sounds like Mum,” I agreed. “Do I have your blessing, then?”
“If there’s a true reason, that Martha acted under some kind of threat and she’s not just greedy for money, ye have it,” he nodded. “Can ye accept this, though, if Sophie is involved?”
Damn it. Da watched me again with that sharp, assessing gaze that had always stripped me bare when I was just a bairn. He was right to question me.
Because the truth of it? Even if Sophie was the one who was responsible, I’d still want her. It may be a chink in my carefully crafted suit of armor, but I know the thought of her being sent away is intolerable.
Currently…
Given the situation, I dinnae expect enthusiasm from Sophie with this pronouncement. Relief, maybe. Possibly gratitude. But abject horror?
Very flattering.
It dinnae matter. She’ll marry me and be grateful I spared her mother’s life. From the moment I stepped into the cottage and saw her, her wide silver gaze finding mine, desperate and teary-eyed, I knew I couldn’t let her be punished.
Not by death or banishment, at any rate.
“What?” Ethan is first to speak, forgetting to catch his knife and nearly stabbing himself in the thigh.
“There’s precedent,” I say evenly. “Coric MacTavish, first cousin toSeanair,to grandfather. He married the girl at the butcher shop who’d been carrying messages for the Campbell Mafia. She wasn’t banished and he took care of her family.”
“That was… what? Fifty, sixty years ago?” Uncle Cameron says doubtfully. He exchanges glances with Da and shrugs. “Well, the precedent is valid.”
“W- wait,” Sophie sputters, “you just-”
Rising, I stroll over to her. “Would ye prefer the alternative, lass? There are multiple places all over the globe where we can send ye: your mother to Johannesburg, perhaps. We could put ye on a farm in Poland. Ye would never be free again.” I feel the slightest twinge of guilt as the blood drains from her face and Martha lets out a gasp.
It clearly dinnae occur to them that we could separate them.
“Why would you want this?” Sophie whispers. “You think we’re traitors.”
Tilting my head, I study her thoughtfully. The truth is, I dinnae fully know why I want this. I’m twelve years older than her and I’m no fecking cradle robber. But it’s been impossible to ignore that Sophie’s all grown up. I can still remember her beautiful, flushed face when I gave her the bouquet of flowers at her graduation. My usual skill of standing back and analyzing every situation before acting has deserted me here.
“Make a choice, lass. We dinnae have all night.”
“There’s no other way?” she asks weakly. Despite the seriousness of the moment, I hear a smothered snort from Ethan, the bastard.
“Wait. Sophie- she-” Martha interrupts, “She’s innocent here, she didn’t do anything wrong! Please don’t make her pay for my mistake.”
