“Why?”
“Because we’re going to play vision re-creation night, first.”
“Oh,” she said, then her eyes widened and her grin widened as well. “Oh!”
“Aye.”
“Perhaps you should take me home. We might want to practice a bit.”
“Our vows?”
“Our honeymoon.”
“What of your friend? Back at Roan’s? Shouldn’t we—” He stopped and grinned. Broadly.
“What?”
“I believe perhaps we should stop back by. Ye and Blaine can set a time to talk and I can tell one Mr. Iain McAuley to book the next ferry passage home.”
“Indeed,” she said. “Sounds like a plan.” She looked down and he followed her gaze.
“What is it?”
She lifted her gaze to his. “I was just thinking, it’s a shame we don’t have a blanket.”
He laughed as he turned with her still in his arms, to head back to Roan’s truck. “I’ll make certain I have one stowed in every vehicle on the island. A new decree.”
Her laughter was interrupted by a rousing cheer.
They turned their heads toward the road, where at least a dozen cars and three times that many people were clapping and cheering wildly. In the center were Roan and Eliza. Roan cheering, Eliza fanning her face and dabbing at the corners of her eyes. No sign of Blaine. Or Iain.
The cheering grew, as did the crowd, as Graham carried her back toward them. To think he’d been worried they wouldn’t accept her. What was not to love?
“Welcome home, mo chridhe,” he said, settling her in his arms, beaming broadly as he carried his bride-to-be to the people who loved them both. That was what true happiness was all about.
Epilogue
“It doesnae matter, really, does it? Iain’s gone now.”
“I suppose not,” Katie told her soon-to-be husband. “But Blaine thinks he hit upon something. He needs Shay to do a little bit of digging, some fact-checking while he’s still in Edinburgh.”
“Iain has no power here now, witnessed by the fact that he took the first boat out once news of our engagement swept the island. You can tell Blaine we’re very thankful, but it’s no longer something we need to worry about.”
Katie wasn’t so certain as Graham, but then his intuition was a bit rustic compared to hers. If Blaine thought he could get some definitive answers by talking to Shay, she didn’t see the harm in it.
“What of Blaine?” Graham asked. “Has he decided if he’s staying on for the wedding?”
“I don’t know. We’re…talking about it.”
“Tag is welcome to come as well.”
She smiled and rolled her stool over to his and bussed him loudly on the cheek. It had been two weeks since he’d proposed, and two days after—when he’d found her working up some sketches for Roan to look over regarding upgrades to both their catalog design and their website—he’d repurposed a section of his lab. He’d cobbled together a drafting table and had even rustled up some basic supplies. When he was at home, they often worked side by side. She’d found she was enjoying her return to graphic design, but she was really enjoying collaborating with Roan on ideas and ways they could expand their marketing plan.
“Yet another reason I adore you. I’ll tell Blaine. But that’s still a sore subject.”
“Maybe he’s the one next in line for the leap of faith lesson.”
“Maybe,” Katie said, wishing fervently that would be true. “Maybe I’ll have Shay and Roan give him the same talking-to they gave you.”
Graham shuddered lightly, then went back to studying the seed specimen he’d just slid under his microscope. “I think I’ll be givin’ the encore performance a pass. But dinnae let that stop ye from askin’.”
“Oh, I won’t.” She started to sketch again, then stopped. “What would you say if I invited my mother and father?”
He immediately lifted his head and looked at her in disbelief. “Do you really think that’s a wise idea? I’d like to actually get through the entire ceremony without fear of your father shooting me.”
“My mother has the far more deadly aim.”
“Good to know. Another reason to think this one through.” He sobered then when he realized she was serious. “They’ve yet to accept your calls.”
“They won’t talk to me until I come home.”
“Could make issuing an invitation to the wedding rather tricky.”
“Aye, I know. But I think I want to try. I’d regret it if I didn’t at least extend the branch. Maybe if they realize I’m really never coming home, that disowning me isn’t exactly a threat that holds any power over me, they’ll reconsider.”
“Do ye really believe that?”
She smiled, a bit sadly, a tad wistfully. “No. I know better. But the gesture will be extended. Okay?”
He nodded. “I’ll look into Kevlar tartans immediately.”
She swatted him, and laughed, then leaned over a moment later and whispered, “Thank you.”
“What for?” he whispered back, already looking at his seedling.
“Letting me continue to stumble along my own path, my own way.”
Without looking up he hooked his booted foot around her stool and wheeled her closer. Then he sat up, spun her around, took her face in his hands, and kissed her soundly on the mouth. Then did so again. And a third time. When he finally lifted his head, she was both a bit breathless and a lot wide-eyed.
“What was that for, Mr. MacLeod?”
“That was to remind you there’s only one thing I can truly ‘let’ you do.”
“And that is?”
“Encourage you to let me kiss you, so I can let you kiss me back.”
She thought about that for a moment.
“If it’s important to you, it’s your decision, Katie. I may not always agree, but I’ll always back you. You’ll find your own way, as I will continue to find mine. We’ll at least have each other to cling to, to celebrate the victories and commiserate over the more misguided attempts.”
“When did you get so smart, anyway?”
He pretended to think about it. “I’m pretty sure it was right about the time I opted to head into a certain prayer garden and play Good Samaritan to a bride in need.”
“Hmm.” She pretended to think about that, then stood up…and plopped herself down right in his lap, straddling him, very carefully sliding his glasses off and setting them on the lab station behind her.
“As it happens,” she told him, “you’ve yet again managed to stumble across a bride in need.”
“Have I now?”
“What do you propose to do about it?”
“What I should have done the first time it happened.” With that he surged up to a stand, making her squeal as he slid her over his shoulder and wrapped his arms around the backs of her thighs to hold her there.
“And what, pray tell,” she said, between gasps of laughter, “would that be?”
“To claim her as my own in every way I know how.”
“Oh,” she said, as he followed her down on to the bed.
“Oh, indeed,” he replied.
“How does one claim a bride, exactly?”
“Like this,” he said…proceeding to show her. In detail. For a very, very long time.
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Bo shot through the goal crease and slammed the puck into the net.
“Morning!”
That voice cut through his focus, and without breaking his stride, Bo changed direction and skated over to the rink entrance. He stopped hard, ice spraying out from his skates, and stood in front of the wolfdog.
He stared down at her and she stared up at him. She kept smiling even when he didn’t. Finally he asked, “What time did we agree on?”
“Seven,” she replied with a cheery note that put his teeth on edge.
“And what time is it?”
“Uh…” She dug into her jeans pocket and pulled out a cell phone. The fact that she still had on that damn, useless watch made his head want to explode. How did one function—as an adult anyway—without a goddamn watch?
Grinning so that he could see all those perfectly aligned teeth, she said, “Six forty-five!”
“And what time did we agree on?”
She blinked and her smile faded. After a moment, “Seven.”
“Is it seven?”
“No.” When he only continued to stare at her, she softly asked, “Want to meet me at the track at seven?”
He continued to stare at her until she nodded and said, “Okay.”
She walked out and Bo went back to work.
Fifteen minutes later, Bo walked into the small arena at seven a.m. Blayne, looking comfortable in dark blue leggings, sweatshirt, and skates, turned to face him. He expected her to be mad at him or, even worse, for her to get that wounded look he often got from people when he was blatantly direct. But having to deal with either of those scenarios was a price Bo was always willing to pay to ensure that the people in his life understood how he worked from the beginning. This way, there were no surprises later. It was called “boundaries,” and he read about it in a book.
Yet when Blayne saw him, she grinned and held up a Starbucks cup. “Coffee,” she said when he got close. “I got you the house brand because I had no idea what you would like. And they had cinnamon twists, so I got you a few of those.”
He took the coffee, watching her close. Where was it? The anger? The resentment? Was she plotting something?
Blayne held the bag of sweets out for him and Bo took them. “Thank you,” he said, still suspicious even as he sipped his perfectly brewed coffee.
“You’re welcome.” And there went that grin again. Big and brighter than the damn sun. “And I get it. Seven means seven. Eight means eight, et cetera, et cetera. Got it and I’m on it. It won’t happen again.” She said all that without a trace of bitterness or annoyance, dazzling Bo with her understanding more than she’d dazzled him with those legs.
“So”—she put her hands on her hips—“what do you want me to do first?”
Marry me? Wait. No, no. Incorrect response. It’ll just weird her out and make her run again. Normal. Be normal. You can do this. You’re not just a great skater. You’re a normal great skater.
When Bo knew he had his shit together, he said, “Let’s work on your focus first. And, um, should I ask what happened to your face?” She had a bunch of cuts on her cheeks. Gouges. Like something small had pawed at her.
“Nope!” she chirped, pulling off her sweatshirt. She wore a worn blue T-shirt underneath with B&G PLUMBING scrawled across it. With sweatshirt in hand, Blayne skated over to the bleachers, stopped, shook her head, skated over to another section of bleachers, stopped, looked at the sweatshirt, turned around, and skated over to the railing. “I should leave it here,” she explained. “In case I get chilly.”
It occurred to Bo he’d just lost two minutes of his life watching her try to figure out where to place a damn sweatshirt. Two minutes that he’d never get back.
“Woo-hoo!” she called out once she hit the track. “Let’s go!”
She was skating backward as she urged him to join her with both hands.
He pointed behind her. “Watch the—”
“Ow!”
“—pole.”
Christ, what had he gotten himself into?
Christ almighty, what had she gotten herself into?
Twenty minutes in and she wanted to smash the man’s head against a wall. She wanted to go back in time and kick the shit out of Genghis Khan before turning on his brothers, Larry and Moe. Okay. That wasn’t their names but she could barely remember Genghis’s name on a good day, how the hell was she supposed to remember his brothers’? But whatever the Khan kin’s names may be, Blayne wanted to hurt them all for cursing her world with this…this…Visigoth!
Even worse, she knew he didn’t even take what she did seriously. He insisted on calling it a chick sport. If he were a sexist pig across the board, Blayne could overlook it as a mere flaw in his upbringing. But, she soon discovered, Novikov had a very high degree of respect for female athletes…as long as they were athletes and not just “hot chicks in cute outfits, roughing each other up. All you guys need is some hot oil or mud and you’d have a real moneymaker on your hands.”
And yet, even while he didn’t respect her sport as a sport, he still worked her like he was getting her ready for the Olympics.
After thirty minutes, she wanted nothing more but to lie on her side and pant. She doubted the hybrid would let her get away with that, though.
Shooting around the track, Novikov stopped her in a way that she was finding extremely annoying—grabbing her head with that big hand of his and holding her in place.
He shoved her back with one good push, and Blayne fought not to fall on her ass at that speed. When someone shoved her like that, they were usually pissed. He wasn’t.
“I need to see something,” he said, still nursing that cup of coffee. He’d finished off the cinnamon twists in less than five minutes while she was warming up. “Come at me as hard as you can.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, looking him over. He didn’t have any of his protective gear on, somehow managing to change into sweatpants and T-shirt and still make it down to the track exactly at seven. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she told him honestly.
The laughter that followed, however, made her think she did want to hurt him. She wanted to hurt him a lot. When he realized she wasn’t laughing with him—or, in this case, laughing at herself since he was obviously laughing at her—Novikov blinked and said, “Oh. You’re not kidding.”
“No. I’m not kidding.”
“Oh. Oh! Um…I’ll be fine. Hit me with your best shot.”
“Like Pat Benatar?” she joked, but when he only stared at her, she said, “Forget it.”
Blayne sized up the behemoth in front of her and decided to move back a few more feet so she could get a really fast start. She got into position and took one more scrutinizing look. It was a skill her father had taught her. To size up weakness. Whether the weakness of a person or a building or whatever. Of course, Blayne often used this skill for good, finding out someone’s weakness and then working to help them overcome it. Her father, however, used it to destroy.
Lowering her body, Blayne took a breath, tightened her fists, and took off. She lost some speed on the turn but picked it up as she cut inside. As Blayne approached Novikov, she sized him up one more time as he stood there casually, sipping his coffee and watching her move around the track. Based on that last assessing look, she slightly adjusted her position and slammed into him with everything she had.
And, yeah, she knocked herself out cold, but it was totally worth it when the behemoth went down with her.
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“This is no place for a lady,” he observed, ancient eyes studying Gareth without fear.
“She has a suite booked at the best European hotel—and I will continue to keep her safe.”
“Most excellent.” He bowed. “Peace be upon you.”
“And upon you be peace,” Gareth returned in equally excellent Arabic.
Portia could read nothing in Gareth’s face after they’d left, unlike her wedding day, the last time they’d met. She sighed, wishing for so many things.
“Hmm?” Gareth asked noncommittally, just as he would have when she was twelve. Back then, he’d been surprised at her presence on his expeditions out of Uncle William’s house. But he’d never refused to take her along and he’d always answered her questions, even if he didn’t start any conversations. At least in the beginning, he hadn’t.
“He looks so helpless, unlike the charming—”
“Charming?” Gareth’s tone sharpened fractionally. He turned toward the large, comfortable barouche that Sidonie had just
climbed aboard.
“Parrot? Or maybe a mynah bird?” Portia spread her hands a little helplessly, before following his lead. A seagull soared overhead, effortlessly free, unlike herself. “Abdul Hamid always reminded me of a tropical creature, with his vivid waistcoats and eternal, colorful chatter. Seeing him crumpled up like this makes him look like a broken bird.”
“I doubt there’s any serious damage.” Warmth softened Gareth’s eyes for the first time until they gleamed blue as the water behind him. He offered her his hand and she took the first step up into the carriage.
“Are you sure?” Standing on the metal step, she was almost at eye level with him.
“They didn’t have enough time to tie him up and truly start working him over. The police here have a pattern they like to follow.” His expression hardened for a moment then he kissed the tips of her fingers. “But that didn’t happen. Once he sees a good doctor, is bandaged up, and has a long rest, he should be fine.”
“Are you truly certain?” She searched his face. They had never, ever lied to each other.
“As much as I can be.”
“Very well then.” She tightened her fingers around his, feeling his strength flood into hers once again. “Thank you for rescuing us.”
“It was my pleasure, Portia.” He kissed her hand again, brushing his lips across her knuckles. It was still no contact at all, nothing like all the men who’d tried to seduce her into an affair while she was married, saying she needed to distract herself from St. Arles. She’d always refused them, telling herself and them it was because St. Arles would never tolerate a cuckoo in the nest. He’d have known in a minute if another man had sired his heir and heaven knows, the son of a bitch kept hauling himself back to her bed to breed one.
She hadn’t realized until now it was because no other man made her bones shiver, even when her skin hadn’t been touched.
Don’t miss Cynthia Eden’s I’LL BE SLAYING YOU, out next month from Brava!
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