How does he know I'm nervous? I didn't say anything. I don't even think my demeanor says that I'm afraid of anything.
“I’m not nervous,” I lie.
A corner of his lips quirks up. “Ah, doll. Did you forget what lying earns you, then?”
That gives me a little tingle. I don’t respond.
We walk up large stone steps that lead to the main house. There’s a light on in the front, casting a yellowish glow on the steps before us. Large, sturdy green plants line the stairs, and a wreath made of woven branches graces the door.
It smells faintly of woodsmoke and a cold Scottish spring when we reach the main door. He takes out a large set of keys and opens the door.
The house is quiet when we enter. In the distance, there's a gentle hum of a dishwasher. Somewhere, a clock strikesmidnight, but there are no other sounds in the house but our own footsteps as we enter.
He whispers as he puts his mobile up to his ear, “Let me call Islan.”
He frowns a moment later, shaking his head. “Went to voice mail. I’ll try Paisley.”
Islan and Paisley. His two sisters, then.
No answer there either.
“Crap,” he mutters. “Both asleep. They’ve got wedding festivities or some such. They might even be with their friends tonight, planning everything.”
I nod. “It’s alright,” I whisper. “I’ll just sleep in your tee and brush my teeth with my finger. No need to get all fancy for one wee night, Mac.”
He shakes his head. “I’ll call Cairstina.”
No idea who that is either. Thankfully, he explains.
“My brother Leith’s wife. You’ll like her.”
He dials, and a moment later whispers into the phone. “So sorry for calling so late. Did I wake you?”
I’d have expected a man like him to be scarier, more intimidating, but he’s got a gentle side to him I can’t deny.
He whispers his request, then nods. “She’s here, at the house. Leith’s got the baby at their own house, but she was here visiting Islan. She’ll be down in a minute.”
I’d love to take in every detail of this place. Even cast in darkness, I can tell it’s cozy and majestic, nothing like the frigid, opulent home I grew up in.
I hear footsteps on the stairwell and look up to see the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Her eyes twinkle at me, a lovely blue, and her hair’s tucked up in a messy bun.
“Hello,” she whispers. She’s got a few things tucked in her arms. “I’m Cairstina.”
“Hello,” I whisper back. “Name’s Bryn.”
She smiles and nods, then for some reason leaves again without another word after handing Mac the items. It’s strange, like we’ve been visited by a fairy in the middle of the night or something.
“She doesn’t talk much,” Mac says. “When she first came here, she was mute.”
“Seriously?”
He nods soberly. “Aye. She still only says the bare minimum.”
It seems both sad and a little strange, but I can accept it. I have so many questions about the Cowen family. They intrigue me far more than my own.
With the bundle of clothing and a small bag of toiletries tucked under his arm, Mac leads me through the entryway toward a kitchen. “We’ll enter here,” he says in a whisper, “instead of going around the main way. It’ll be faster.”
This kitchen is brilliant, and I’d love to see it in full swing of a day. There’s a large stone fireplace, an industrial-sized stove, and sundry other things I’d like to explore at another time. Itsmells of freshly baked bread and cinnamon, and there’s an enormous cello-wrapped platter of golden scones on the table, likely for breakfast.
