She beams, the first true smile I’ve seen from her in a while. “It’s true. The acoustics there made it so much easier to check for mistakes. The sound was so clear.”
I dinnae tell her that I used to sit out on the balcony of my suite in the main house on the rare occasions when I stayed over,listening to her play. How the delicate notes from her flute rose and danced over me like a butterfly hovering over a flower.
“Do ye still play?”
“Not as much as I did,” she says. “School’s taken up most of my time. I miss it, though.”
“That’s a shame. I’m sure ye can find a space with the right acoustics for ye here in the courtyard.” I’m visualizing her future here, and it’s mildly shocking to realize that after I made the decision that night, I’d never thought further than the need to make sure she was here, that she wasmine.
Even from here, I can smell her scent; the tart bite of anise, the warmth of cinnamon and a mellow tone of vanilla. She smells good enough to eat.
Her silver eyes glint in the candlelight as she watches me, pink lips parted as if she’s surprised that I’m making future plans for her as well, something that dinnae involve imprisonment.
“This was amazing,” she says, breaking the silence. Rising, she picks up her plate and mine. “I’ll tidy up.”
“My mother did teach us all to clean up after ourselves. Not that it ever took with Jack.” There’s a poorly concealed snicker from her. I pick up a couple of the platters, following her into the kitchen. “Davina dinnae make dessert, how fortunate that we have a huge selection available, aye?”
“I knew it,” she pretends to be shocked. “That gourmet dinner was just an elaborate ruse to get your hands on my cake.”
Realizing her double entendre, Sophie turns a bright pink. “I mean… I’ll just put some of the cookies out, too,” she clears her throat. “You can’t make an educated decision about my mad baking skills without trying everything.”
An hour later, I’m still arguing that her coconut cake is a masterpiece.
“How can you say that when the caramel pecan cluster has the perfect balance of crunch and sweet?” Sophie argues, waving her half-eaten cookie.
Chuckling, I take a sip of wine as I eye my signet ring slipping loosely around her finger. “You’ll need a proper wedding band.”
She looks down, moving it back and forth with her thumb. “It’s not important.”
“You are a MacTavish wife,” I counter, feeling the seriousness of the words. Her experience has been so different. Each bride brought into the family with my cousin's hasty marriages was immediately embraced by the others. Three of the MacTavish brides are our neighbors here, and I know they’re not sure if they can reach out to Sophie.
“When we go to the estate tomorrow,” I begin, “I’ll have a jeweler bring over a selection-”
“Mr. MacTavish,” Ian steps hastily into the room. “Apologies for the interruption, but ye have a visitor, Miss Montrose is here.”
“Who opened the gates for her?” I snap.
“Her being a frequent visitor… they must have assumed she had a pass,” he says apologetically.
When I look back at Sophie, her expression is set, and cold. “I’ll head upstairs, out of your way.” She swiftly leaves the kitchen, which is wise. I suspect Celia is not going to take the news well and I dinnae want Sophie around to witness the ugliness.
Celia breezes into the room just as my bride disappears upstairs, hurrying over to embrace me in a cloud of expensive perfume. I lift my chin as she tries to kiss me, her lips landing on my jaw.
Pulling back, she frowns for a moment before rearranging her expression into something more well-bred. “I’ve missed you, darling.” She’s wearing a coat, too warm for the summer night and as she’s unbuttoning it, she purrs, “I was so excited to see you again-”
I see a flash of her nipples before pulling her coat back together. “Let’s talk in my study.”
“What in thebloody hellare you saying to me?” Celia whispers/screams.
“I’m saying that I canna see ye again,” I repeat patiently. “That I am married. It was sudden. I know this comes as a shock and for that, I’m sorry.”
Her manicured fingers tighten on the couch arm, scoring the leather. “I cannot be hearing this correctly!” she shouts, then hastily lowers her voice.
She canna let the help hear her,I think,it would be unseemly.
“You’remarried? We’resupposed to be getting married! I’ve been waiting for you to propose forweeks!”
Raising a brow, I watch her devolve from a pampered, but well-bred princess to someone I wouldn’t allow around sharp objects.
