That gets a chilly reception, based on his expression but I don’t care. We’ve only been married a week and I’m already tired of getting my hopes up.
His fingers tighten on mine for a moment, they’re rough and calloused. Not like a cultured billionaire who handles his clan’s business.
More like someone who works with his hands, who enjoys getting dirty. There’s a network of fine white scars across his knuckles, a testament to how many men he’s bloodied and beaten.
He’s close enough that I can feel his warm breath on my cheek, he smells like pine and the scotch he’d been drinking. This is the part that always made me weak in the knees; his scent, thewarmth from him that in the few times I’d been close enough would curl over my skin like soothing fingers.
I have time to let out one shuddering little sigh before he steps back.
“We should go.”
The Foundation Gala is held at the MacTavish estate - not Cormac and Mala’s mansion where I grew up - but theestate.The ancestral seat of the clan where the Lady Elspeth terrorizes the surrounding countryside as her amused husband, Cormac Sr. enjoys the spectacle of it all.
I’ve met Michael’s grandparents many times before, and they’ve always been kind to me.
But not as his wife.
I’m not naive enough to think that they don’t know every single detail of what happened with our hasty nuptials. Cormac Sr. may have retired from his role as the Chieftain, but that doesn’t mean he’s not aware of the inner workings of the organization. The Lady Elspeth? She simply knows everything. There is not a soul on this planet who is willing to dispute that.
The long, stately drive heading to the mansion is lit up with a hundred lanterns, no searing LED blue light, but a soft, golden glow that highlights the trees and immaculately shaped hedges. The mansion is a massive stone Georgian-style building, though there’s a couple of wings flanking the main house added on by a Gothic-style-loving MacTavish, complete with towers and peaked windows. The entire place is lit up against the encroaching twilight and thousands of tiny lights string through the garden like a multitude of fireflies.
As Kyle pulls around the circular drive and halts in front of the door, Michael squeezes my hand. “Dinnae be nervous, aye? You’ve met most of these people before. Though kindly stay aware from Baron Kensington and his sweaty, grasping hands. I dinnae want to be forced to stab a peer of the realm at dinner.”
He gets me to laugh, which I suspect is the goal, and I nod. “Absolutely. No Baron Sweaty Hands.”
Michael’s grandparents are already greeting guests at the door, and not for the first time, I look at the tiny woman dressed in Dior and wonder how she managed to produce all her monstrously tall offspring. She’s built like a fairy princess, tiny, delicate lines and Cormac Sr. towers over her, looking powerful in his MacTavish kilt. He’s got a dirk strapped to his leg, as is custom, but I suspect it’s far too sharp to be merely ornamental.
It occurs to me then that Michael isn’t wearing his kilt. I’ve seen him in it before on dressy occasions, and he can wear thehellout of the MacTavish tartan.
“Are ye looking at my grandfather’s legs, ye shameless Jezebel?” Michael murmurs, and I choke back a shocked little giggle as they approach us.
“Seanair, Seanmhair,”he nods respectfully. “The gala is as magnificent as always.”
“Of course, dear.” The Lady Elspeth allows him to lightly kiss her cheek. “We’ll be planning a proper wedding for the two of you next. Fortunate that you chose to be married in summer.” She nods at us approvingly, as if that has been the plan all along instead of the hasty, improved nightmare in her son’s office.
She touches her powdered cheek to mine. “We’ll have to meet for lunch soon to start planning, do let me know when your mother would be available to join us.”
“Thank you, Mrs. MacTavish, that’s so kind of you,” I stammer.
She holds my left hand up to the light. “The ring looks lovely, a perfect fit.” There’s a little, mysterious smile before she moves on to the next guest.
Cormac Sr. gives me a warm smile and a gentle squeeze of my hand. “Welcome to the family, dear.”
Michael leads me away as I’m blinking back a sudden rush of unseemly tears. He takes a glass of champagne off the tray from a passing waiter, handing it to me, I gulp it down in the most unseemly possible way. His brow rises, but he hands me another glass.
“Sip this one, lass. I realize I must prepare ye for the infamous MacTavish Wedding Do-Over. As ye know, The Lady Elspeth has long given up on her descendants getting ‘properly’ married the first time around, so she’s weaponized weddings here at the estate to make sure they receive the grand ceremony she finds befitting of the MacTavish Clan.”
“I was at Lucas and Catriona’s ceremony,” I say. “It was quite an impressive affair.”
“Ah, that’s right,” he says, deftly maneuvering me around an older couple admiring one of the enormous ancestor paintings lining the long hall. A couple dozen dead MacTavishes all gaze disapprovingly down at us as we make our way toward the ballroom.
Because of course there’s a ballroom.
“The Lady Elspeth still wants to have a wedding for us?” He looks down at me, puzzled.
“A’course.”
“Well,” I flounder, “I mean, the- our- that night in the Chieftain's study wasn’t your average MacTavish wedding vows.”
