An uncomfortable expression flits across her face before she goes back to her pleasant mask. “He headed out early today, he left instructions to make ye comfortable.”
I didn’t get the sense Michael was at all interested in making me “comfortable,” but okay.
Davina keeps up a pleasant stream of chatter as we head downstairs and into the kitchen, which is already my favorite room in this house. Skylights let in sunshine from the slanted timbered ceiling, with a long slab of white and grey granite for the island and more for the countertops. There’s a dark blue Aga stove and black wooden cabinets.
“If ye’d like to sit down, I’ve got some eggs and sausages ready, and some bread I baked this morning.” Davina looks as uncomfortable as I feel, pulling out a chair at the table and fussing with the silverware.
I guess she’s not used to wives that get locked in the bedroom, either. I realize she probably knows exactly what happened and who I am.
A traitor to the clan. Alive, but no one understands why.
I spend the rest of the morning and afternoon putting my stuff away. The guest room has an enormous walk-in closet, unheard of for a house that has to be two hundred years old, so I suspect Michael did some extensive renovating. I’m grateful though, that he kept the large number of fireplaces throughout the house. The one in this room has a beautiful jade green tile with an ancient silvered mirror. The intricate parquet floor gleams withdecades of being lovingly polished and the bed is enormous, with a mattress high enough that it requires a running start to get on top of it.
My favorite spot is a lovely cushioned window seat with lots of pillows that looks out over the green square separating the houses. Surrounding all of them, though, is a solid brick wall topped by iron spikes. There’s a guard house much like the one at the MacTavish estate by the gate. Michael’s house is beautiful. But it’s still a prison and I’m fighting a constant, anxious nudge at the base of my spine that’s urging me to run. But there’s no getting out of here.
Where would I go?
Mom and I are guarantors for each other’s good behavior.
It’s late afternoon when I finally knock on the door, hoping to creep down to the kitchen and find something for an early dinner. It’s quickly unlocked and I find Ian leaning against the wall.
“Are you here to keep an eye on me?” I blurt out.
His bland expression doesn’t change. “Aye.”
“Okay, then…” I shift from one foot to the other. “I’m just going down to the kitchen.”
He follows me down the stairs like the world’s most awkward shadow and I feel his stare on the back of my neck. How do people tolerate having a bodyguard? Of course, Ian’s not here to keep me safe, so much as to keep an eye on me.
Davina’s gone for the day, so I open the fridge and find a tidy stack of pre-made dishes. Glancing back at Ian, I ask, “Do you want me to heat one up for you?”
“I’m here to work, not eat, Mrs. MacTavish.”
Flushing red, I turn around, shaking my head slightly. In all my silly teenage dreams, when I thought of being called Mrs. MacTavish, it sounded and felt a lot better than this.
Eating my lonely dinner of salmon and wild rice, my hand itches with the desire to hold my phone again. They took it from me yesterday, along with my laptop, so I have no way of checking on Mom. Is she okay? Have they locked her in the cottage like Michael did with me here? Are they interrogating her? Scaring her?
I think of everything she’s done for me, all the things she’s given up and my heart twists in my chest. I may not have known that I came from a mafia family, but I knew growing up that we did pretty well; nice cars, a big house. Mom didn’t fall apart when we lost Dad and Jordan, she took the first job she could find when we arrived in Italy. I’ve never heard her complain about losing her luxurious lifestyle.
I linger in the kitchen for as long as I can, slowly washing the food container and wiping off the counter. Reluctantly turning back to Ian I ask, “Is Michael going to come back tonight?"
“I dinnae know,” Ian says. “But I am instructed to take ye back up to your room when you're finished.”
“I see,” I struggle for the right thing to say. “Could you please ask Michael if I could call my mother?" The look he gives me is not encouraging but I force myself to smile. “Please, it would mean a great deal to me. You can listen the entire time.”
He shakes his head silently, and now I’m getting pissed off. “You’ve been in my mother’s kitchen a million times, taking off with all her baked goods! I understand why you’re cold and paranoid right now, but you have no right to treat me like crap. I don’t think for a second that Michael instructed you to act like this.”
Actually, it’s entirely possible that Michael might have.
A flicker of discomfort flashes over his face and I go in for the kill. “I just want to make sure she’s okay.”
“I’ll call him,” he mutters. “I need to get ye situated back in your room first.”
After making a brief detour into Michael’s lavish library - bookcases rising to the ceiling with one of those cool rolling ladders - for something to read, I gloomily head back upstairs, Ian following a polite distance behind me.
Before he can lock me back in the bedroom, I stick my foot in the doorjamb, blocking him. “You said you’d call him. Please?”
“Aye,” he says tiredly, and I’m a little proud that I’m weakening this man’s resolve. “In ye go now.”
