He’s there in a moment, stern in his dark suit, one of my best men. And a right arsehole.
“The comment about my wife poisoning the baked goods…”
He stiffens, folding his hands in front of him. “I was trying to oversee any potential threat, sir.”
“And where would she have managed to procure this poison?” I ask. My tone is mild, but he senses the fury underneath it. “Has she hidden a chemist’s lab, perhaps, in her closet? Stolen highly toxic ingredients from the kitchen?”
“No, sir. I’ve been with her every moment.” There’s a fine mist of sweat on his forehead. Ian came to us from the British Special Forces, I’ve rarely seen his scarred face deviate from determined stoicism.
“So, the intent behind accusing her of poisoning a plate of cookies is, what? Humiliation? Helping her learn her place?” My tone is still deceptively mild, but a bead of sweat runs down the side of Ian’s stubbled cheek.
“There have been so many security breaches in the past few months, sir.” His shoulders are back and his speech takes on a military cadence. “It is difficult for me to anticipate all the potential avenues of harm. I can see my concern here was misplaced.”
Rubbing my forehead, I take a breath, controlling my temper. “You’re right to be cautious. But I expect ye to show my wife the same respect you would any other MacTavish.”
My wife.
That sounds far more natural than I want to admit.
“Ye can leave for the day,” I say. “I’ll not need ye until tomorrow. Good night.”
“Thank you, Mr. MacTavish, to ye as well.” Ian swiftly absents himself from the house, no doubt happy to be away from my cookie-slinging wife and my angry disapproval.
Heading into the kitchen to take custody of the plate of salted caramel swirls, I find it wedged into the corner by the big stand mixer. That thing is Davina’s pride and joy, and I see Sophie was careful to scrupulously clean it after the full on baking assault this afternoon.
There’s a piece of paper wedged under the platter. Pulling it out, I find it’s covered in grease stains and crumpled, and in Sophie’s handwriting. Ah, one of her famous lists. When I read the fourth entry, I burst out laughing.
4. If that doesn’t work, hit Michael on the back of the head with Davina’s cast iron frying pan.
It’s good to know she’s not completely cowed. I fold the note carefully, slipping it into my pocket.
I let her hide in her bedroom until dinner.
Tapping on her door, I say, “Sophie, come downstairs. We’ll eat and talk.”
When she reluctantly opens the door, I frown, seeing her swollen, red eyes. “You didn’t lock me in?” she asks.
“No.” She seems surprised by this. I ordered her to be locked in her room at night, but did Ian keep her under lock and key for the last two days? Of course, Ihavebeen distracted by the fecking disaster I’ve been handling, so perhaps I wasn’t clear with him.
“Ye have free reign of the house, aside from my bedroom and my office.” I put up my hand. “Upon one condition. Ye must bring the cake down with ye.”
She snickers, but heads back into her room for the coconut cake, still showing a long streak through the frosting where I’d drawn my finger along it.
“Wow, did you cook?” Sophie pauses at the door to the dining room. The table is beautifully set with candles and flowers, andcovered in dishes; langoustine and mussels steaming in a white wine sauce, Akune Gold wagyu, delicate greens in vinaigrette.
I chuckle. “Hardly. Davina stopped by. She also wanted me to thank ye for leaving the kitchen so spotless.” I pull out her chair and she hesitantly seats herself. We eat silently, sitting on opposite sides of the table, framed in the golden light of the overhead pendant. Watching her carefully pry out plump mussels from their shells is uncomfortably erotic, and when her tongue darts out to catch a drop of butter, I’m surprised my stonner isn’t lifting up my corner of the table.
“I appreciate you letting me talk to my mother,” she finally says, tucking a rebellious curl behind her ear. I follow the movement. Her fingers are long and elegant and I flash back to when she was younger.
“Do ye still play the flute?”Why am I trying to put her at ease with conversation?
Her brows draw together. “You remember that?”
“I remember the music,” I say.
She’d sit in the open window of her bedroom, her back a graceful line against the frame as the silver flute reflected the light against her skin. The breeze would lift her long hair as it carried her music across the estate.
“I believe Maisie mentioned that ye liked how the sound of the music bounced off the stone wall in the courtyard.”
