Page 18

In which there is a tour of the coolest house in Scotland.

Logan…

There’s complete silence in the car after Arabella is back in her seat and we’re heading to my place. Theo and Hamish, my driver and bodyguard, don’t risk a single glance back at us. After firing off a text to Xenia to check for surveillance cameras in the store and wipe any incriminating footage, I take my wife’s hand. When I squeeze it, she doesn’t squeeze back, but there’s the tiniest bit of a grin.

Her smile fades when we turn into the street that ends with four tall, narrow buildings facing each other with a green, park-like space in the center. There’s iron gating surrounding the square, and a bristle of security cameras. Mine is the “most annoyingly grandiose,” according to my sister Kenna. I love the ancient stone house with a huge clock tower, enormous chimneys, and copper roof tiles.

“Does that clock tower still work?” Arabella’s squinting up at it with interest.

“Aye, it used to strike on the hour, every hour until my cousins informed me that they were going to attach C4 to the tower and detonate it the next time I was out of town if I dinnae change it.” I pat the weathered corner of the building. “Now it chimes once a day at twelve noon.”

Thinking about fucking my bride inside the clock tower instantly makes me hard again. Damnit, I’m gonna develop a medical condition if this shite keeps happening.

“Let me show ye around.”

Arabella paused as I opened the front door. “Is it your cousins, then, who live in the other houses? They’re all nestled in too close to be strangers.”

“Ye have a sharp eye. One belongs to my cousin Michael, you met him on the rescue mission. The house across from me is Kai’s, and my cousin Mason owns the other. We all loved the layout of the square, easier to defend, the iron gates and security measures discourage anyone who might want to linger.”

“Ye talk like you’re a commander bracing for an attack on the castle.” She’s frowning, examining the big security panel in the front hall.

“Aye, in a way, we are,” I admit. “It’s a concentration of MacTavishes, combining our security just made sense.”

“MacTavish…” she muses, strolling down the hall. “What is the plural? MacTavishes? MacTavi? Aye, MacTavi. A plethora of MacTavi.”

“Like a rout of wolves?” I ask, catching up so she can read my lips.

“Or a flutter of butterflies,” she says sweetly.

“More like a frenzy of sharks.”

“Ye keep going back to the deadly ones,” she says tauntingly. “Also, it’s a shiver of sharks.”

“That canna be correct.”

“I watch a lot of the Discovery Channel.” She stops at the entry to the great room. “This is… imposing.”

Kai was in and out of town so much that he’d had a decorator design his place. I never liked the idea of someone else shaping my surroundings. The floors throughout the house are a dark, burnished walnut. I’d kept all the old iron-paned gothic windows and took out the second floor over the great room to give it more height. The fireplace is a monstrous thing and demands a ridiculous amount of firewood on chilly nights.

I love it.

“It’s big, but it’s comfortable.” I squeeze her arse. “Like me.”

“Oh, ye are so vain,” she laughs. “But this is beautiful. The furniture is gigantic, too. Did ye have all this custom-made?”

“I’m 6’5. Everything is too low or I’m always knocking my knees into a table or a chair. It made sense at the time.” Watching her try to lean back in one of the big leather armchairs is a wee bit hilarious. The seat is so deep that she looks like a child trying to wiggle into place. “We can always downsize a few pieces.”

“Based on the men I’ve met so far from your family, you’re all gigantic creatures, so I suppose your enormously oversized furniture makes sense,” she says wryly, standing up.

“Ethan - another cousin - married an American recently. Sloan insists on calling us Scottish Yetis.”

“That makes so much sense.”

“Come into the kitchen, ye Bessie.” Arabella snickers as I scowl down at her. She is unmoved. Apparently, my glare no longer acts as a deterrent with her.

“Mum was insistent that her sons know how to make a few edible meals,” I explain. “The art of sewing on a button and understanding how the dishwasher works. As it turns out, I like to cook.”

“This is ridiculously large for one person, but you’ve kept it homey, somehow.” She runs a hand down the big black and gray granite countertop.

Suddenly, the thought of showing her my bedroom, well, throwing her on my bed and fucking her senseless is taking over my good sense. Seizing her hand and pulling her toward the stairs, I narrate rapidly. “There’s a pantry past the kitchen and a bathroom. Second floor…” I barely give her a chance to glance down the hall. “Gym. Study. Guest bedrooms.”

My bride is laughing breathlessly.

“Third floor. Master bedroom. And… I’ve changed my mind.”

“Changed your mind about what?” She yelps as I throw her over my shoulder and sprint up the last flight of stairs.

“Ye need to see the clock tower.” Throwing open the steel door, I set her down.

“ Oh… Logan. This is magical.”

The huge square space is lit by the clocks in each wall and the ancient mechanisms that keep them moving run along the ceiling. A steel beam runs from the roof to the floor, and I’ve built a four-sided bench to enclose it with cushions and blankets. I keep a wine cooler up here with a bar cart and a space for serving food. I can tell my sister Kenna, who has a key to “water my plants” when I’m out of town, threw a wee bit of a party in my absence. There’s a cluster of empty wine bottles in the trash and someone left a scarf and lipstick on the bench.

Of course, this is the thing that my bride’s sharp gaze lands on.

“Will there be much lamentation and wailing now that you’re off the market?” Arabella’s wearing a sly smile but she’s looking at the scarf like she wants to set it on fire. “At least, off the market for now.” She adds hastily.

I dinnae like that little addendum at all.

“My sister Kenna has a key to my place and it’s looking like she had a girl’s night here while I was gone.”

She’s looking through the glass between the clock numbers on the east wall, and I settle in behind her, pulling her hips against me.

“I’ve slept with a few women. Well, maybe more than a few.” I’m speaking into her ear so she canna ignore me. “But ye are the one I’ve married. I honor my commitments and the only woman I want…” That goddamn stonner, which had just been going down, is back in full force and I press it against her back, enjoying the quick intake of her breath. “The only woman is you.”

“This is mad,” she says solemnly. “Really, just completely mad.”

“Aye. But I am, too.”

The sky’s fading from blue to violet with a hint of stars, and finally, she relaxes into me.

“So, about ye knowing how to cook…”

Nuzzling her neck and running my tongue along the thin skin of her throat is making the concept of stopping for dinner a harsh one. But Arabella is mine. Mine to care for.

Which includes dinner.

Ye Bessie - Scottish slang for a sharp-tongued or sassy woman

Stonner - Scottish slang for an erection