Laetitia watched his retreat, appreciating the sculpted tone of his shoulders and back and the movement of his muscular buttocks under his jeans as he went to the kitchen to get ice for her foot.
“This is so unfair.” Richard chuckled. “He has always attracted all women’s gazes.”
A faint blush spread over Laetitia’s cheeks, being caught red-handed checking out Tavish. She looked down, adjusting the sleeves of the big turtleneck sweater. “Er, hmm . . .”
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell.” He looked at her for a second and then over his shoulder. His expression turned serious. “Listen, Laetitia, I don’t know how to say this . . .”
“Just say it and I’ll figure it out,” she answered, a small crease appearing between her eyebrows.
“It’s not my place to interfere. We—”
“Spill it,” she said, unnerved.
“I understand Will’s appeal. He’s handsome, intelligent, aloof, and rich as Croesus—”
Her eyebrows shot high on her forehead. In an icy voice, she interrupted, “Mr. Smith. I’m not interested in anyone’s money.”
He cringed. “I didn’t mean to imply anything . . .”
But you did. “OK,” she nodded. “Go on.”
He scratched his head and shifted in obvious embarrassment. “We weren’t joking about you stealing Will’s heart.” His words were rushed and gruff, as if the story were long and time too short. “Will, Hugh, and I . . . we have been shot at, we have carried wounded buddies, we’ve held friends in our arms while they died.”
He didn’t look at her, but at Churchill’s head, sifting the words in his mind to say the minimum, but enough to help her make sense of where she stood.
“However,” he continued, “no one can fully comprehend what Will has been through. His loneliness and sourness were burning him from inside out. We’ve tried to cheer him up but to no avail, watching him die slowly. Some of us learned to manage the memories and cope with them; he hadn’t, until three weeks ago when a sudden lightness entered his step.”
Yes? Her curiosity was intense, but she resisted the urge to press him for explanations or details.
“He has been talking nonstop about you. Every time he visited you, he would stop by. At first, we squeezed a few words from him. It slowly unwound; his smiles began to appear again; his shoulders loosened. His back is not so stiff anymore. Even his limping . . .” Richard cleared his throat. “We don’t know what you did, but whatever you did, keep doing it, and whatever path you choose to follow from now on, know that Will’s heart is a precious treasure. He is a great man, and the few friends he has love him dearly.”
His out-of-the-blue words were almost a warning. Even as he was thanking her for being the reason Tavish was looking better, he was implying they would be watching closely for their friend’s happiness.
“Duly noted.” Her chin rose, and her violet-blue gaze leveled with his. “I don’t have any reasons to hurt Tavish Uilleam—much to the contrary—but it’s not because he has a few military caveman friends that I’ll be tiptoeing around. Understood?”
He chuckled softly at the bravery shown by such a woman as Laetitia. Saluting her, he said, “Aye, sir.”
Hearing Tavish enter the room, Richard smiled naughtily at her and patted her hand in an exaggerated way.
Tavish arched an eyebrow at seeing Richard’s hand over hers, and the words were out of his mouth before he could think, “I thought I said, paws off.”
Richard craned his head to look at his friend and patted her hand again. “I couldn’t resist the opportunity.”
“Humph.” That had been an old joke between them, but for once Tavish had felt differently about it. “But this one is out of anyone’s reach.”
Wha-a-a-at? “Aren’t you both chauvinists.” A perfect barbarian, aren’t you, Tavish Uilleam?
Richard rose and elbowed Tavish. “She nailed us.”
“Speak for yourself, Richard. Now, move.” He shoved his friend, shaking the ice pack. “I have to take care of this fairy.”
“I’ll be in the back if you need me,” he answered.
“Behave around her, you rascal!” Tavish knelt near Laetitia’s feet. He put pillows under her hurt foot and the ice pack over it. “Comfortable?”
“You’re handy to have around, Dr. MacCraig.” She smiled at him, loving the way he touched and cared for her. Her fingers combed his bangs out of his eyes, her thumb caressing his face.
Self-conscious, he lifted a shoulder. “It doesn’t take a doctor to do RICE.” Seeing her inquisitive look, he explained, “Rest. Ice. Compression. Elevation.”
He sat himself on the sofa and stretched out his long legs, bringing her to lean against his chest. “Now come here, Sprite.”
“They love you.”
“And I, them,” he said. “We go a long way back. They’re my best friends.”
Laetitia had never experienced such a connection and wondered what it would be like. She had a good friend in Elizabeth, but she knew they lacked the depth and bond that these men shared.
“What are you thinking about behind those beautiful eyes I love to look at? You watch everything, and you say so little.”
Not wanting to talk about herself while their burdens were so much heavier than hers, she asked, “What happened to them?”
“Richard lost both of his lower legs. And Hugh, well, Hugh was a sniper. One of the best.” He grimaced. “He . . .” Killed more people than he thought he should have.
“I see,” she said, understanding. “War is unfair.”
The creaking and hissing of the wood burning in the hearth filled the room. It was lulling Laetitia into a slumber, when Tavish cocked his head to one side, smoothing the line between her brows, and whispered, “Aye, it is. But that was not what you were thinking about.”
“I want to thank you.” There was a catch in her voice.
“For what, for God’s sake?”
“You treat me like I’m somebody, instead of a nobody.”
“Laetitia.” He brushed his fingers down her face and cupped it, tilting it backward a little. “You’re more than somebody. You’re special. Time will tell you how special you are. And if time doesn’t, I will.” He swore it to her as if he were an unstoppable god.
She cuddled better on his lap and yawned. “OK, then. I’ll hold you to it.”
“Now, go back to your rest.” He stroked her face until she softened in his arms again, sleep reclaiming her.
CHAPTER 34
1:34 p.m.
Hugh glanced inside the room, startling Tavish. His gaze fell on Laetitia sleeping comfortably in Tavish’s arms, Tavish’s fingers wandering in her hair. Tavish motioned with his head for him to enter, and Hugh sat on the rug by Churchill and petted the dog’s head.
“What?” Tavish asked.
“Watch yourself, Will.” Hugh’s face was grave.
“What do you mean?”
“You do know you’re courting danger, old friend, do you not?” Hugh drawled, his expression shadowy.
Tavish narrowed his eyes, a look far from friendly, as he regarded his companion. “You expect me to toss Laetitia aside because she brings danger with her?”
Hugh shook his head slowly. “I meant that Laetitia is the danger.”
“Hugh—”
“No, I will have my say,” he insisted, folding his arms over his chest, piercing Tavish with his blue gaze. “I have known you for decades, and you have never shown such an interest in a woman before and—”
“I beg to differ. I’ve shown inordinate interest in women. Quite often.”
“You’ve had women: lovers, dates, friends with benefits,” Hugh corrected. “No one who could compare to this wisp of a woman whom you look at with adoration. I’ve never—ever—seen you treat any woman or protect one as you do her. Not even Johanna. You’ve never allowed one in your life, into your heart, as you have this one.”
“And you know this how?” Tavish grudgingly demanded. “Do
you have a love meter?”
“I don’t need a love meter, Will. I’m warning you flat out that you are showing every symptom of a man who has fallen in love.”
Tavish rolled his eyes at his friend. “OK. And?”
Hugh grimaced. “That is not why I am here. She . . . is not who you think she is.”
I know it. “Un-fucking-believable, man,” he hissed, and as Laetitia sighed and shifted on his lap, he lowered his voice. “What makes ye say something like that?”
“I’m pretty sure I’ve seen . . . those elfin ears before. I’ve seen her—or someone like her—before.” Hugh rubbed his hand over his face. “I just can’t remember.”
“Hugh . . .” Tavish eyed his friend, stupefied. “You’re saying you met her before?”
“Not exactly. When I saw her this morning, she reminded me of someone—something important . . . I had the eeriest feeling . . . but—I’ll let you know when I remember.”
With those cryptic remarks, he rose and left the room.
Tavish MacCraig’s apartment
Friday, September 26, 2014
10:01 a.m.
The car parked in front of a beautifully whitewashed four-story building, in a quiet London residential area, facing a private garden.
Tavish exited the car, with Cleopatra on his arm, and helped Laetitia out. “Careful with your foot.”
The driver put her luggage on the ground and opened the front door for them. “Where should I put Ms. Galen’s luggage?”
“In my bedroom, Garrick.”
She gazed around and then up at Tavish. “You live here?”
“Aye. Where did you think you were sleeping?” He frowned, amused at her.
She raised a shoulder. “In a hotel?”
“Nae, of course no’.” He frowned again. “I’ve never brought a woman here, if that’s what is bothering you.”
Laetitia had never been so astounded in her whole life, but she didn’t dwell on it that he was making decisions without consulting her. “No, it’s not that. You didn’t mention that I was moving in with you.”
Tavish always knew what he wanted and expected to be treated and dealt with properly and in the way he deserved. He didn’t ask—he took. Not deceptively but with command and without apologies. Just as he gave back, smoothly and seductively, without holding anything back.
He just assumed since she was sleeping with him he was entitled to have her in his bed from now on, that she was his. “You dinna ask.”
“I didn’t, but . . .” You presumed. She blinked, confused. “To move in . . . it’s too soon. What will your partners say?”
“Screw what they will say.” His frown deepened, and he put Cleopatra on the floor and pushed her into the house. “We’re grown-ups; we are together. We do what we want.”
When Laetitia fidgeted on her feet at the door and didn’t follow him in, he turned and asked, “What?”
“I’d rather you didn’t make decisions without telling me.”
“Foolish of you to think I’d let you out of my sight.” Holding the door open for her to enter, he commanded in a low tone, “Come on in.”
“Tavish Uilleam.” Her heart threatened to halt, but her chin tilted up. “This was my decision to make. Surely you can understand that.”
“Laetitia.” His mood darkened. “I understand you’re upset, but I won’t allow you to rush into danger, and I won’t leave you all by yourself. Haven’t you had enough frights already?”
That’s not the question here. Laetitia struggled between her desire to go in with him or to call a cab and check into a hotel, just for the sake of asserting herself. Rational thought won, and she stepped inside his house. “Very well. Next time, you ask me first.”
“Next time.” He nodded. “I won’t forget, Little Elf.”
“Mr. MacCraig?” Garrick called, arriving by their side. “Will you be wanting anything more?”
“Perhaps later, Garrick,” he answered. “Thank you.”
“Miss Galen.” The driver nodded and closed the door behind him.
Tavish helped her with her dove-gray coat, which he stored in a small closet by the door. “Welcome.”
The way he bit the word out in that gravelly voice of his said much to her: he desperately wanted her to like his home.
The first floor was a stunningly vast space, functioning as a reception room with heated floors made of white cold marble. The fireplace was a large construction of white-striated gray single-block marble, with steel-and-glass-framed photos displayed on the mantel. A wide white suede couch and two large matching armchairs, which looked as if they had never been sat upon, were before the fireplace. Between the couch and the fireplace was a white center table. Everything was shockingly white.
An exercise in simplicity and cleanliness. Spartan. Sterile even. Until one looked at the paintings hanging on every wall.
On the farthest wall, there was a morbid, creepy Glen Brown; on the main and largest wall, a dark and brutal Adrian Ghenie; and over the fireplace, a soothing yet spooky Peter Doig from the Friday the 13th series.
Turning slowly, Laetitia took them all in, including the last painting on the wall next to the entrance door. A Christopher Wool black-and-white painting, with text purposely written incorrectly, read:
IT IS NOT
MYINTEN
TION TOIN
TIMIDATE
OR FRIGH
TEN YOU
“No?” she asked, looking up at him.
“Nae.” He shook his head, knowing exactly what she was asking. “Aside from them all being excellent artists, I chose the paintings for their potential as reminders. For myself.”
Reminders? Then it dawned on her, and her heart sunk in her chest in horror. Oh. Danger. Decay. Death.
“Do you want to drink something? I don’t think I have much to offer as a snack; I was supposed to have gone shopping . . .”
There was a small, white modern kitchen, stocked with the barest of essentials but for a supply of Scotch whisky.
“We can do it together later.” She bumped her hip against his leg. “Men are known for not knowing how to keep themselves.”
He motioned to the stairs and helped her climb up.
Despite the first impression of sterility and whiteness, and despite her love for the paintings, she felt that Tavish’s apartment was turning out to be a darkness, a void, which was starting to grate on her nerves. This is going to be like cracking open a rock with a pencil.
At the top of the stairs, there was a small room that opened directly into his ample bedroom, which occupied the whole second floor.
It was a little better than the first floor. The huge bed had a thick navy silk-and-velvet-upholstered headboard and a navy comforter, over which were comfortable white and navy pillows thrown in a way that could have appeared haphazard but was purposely done. On either side of the bed sat a wooden bedside table, with a lamp on each; and on the left table, an iPad, a notebook, a pen, and a cordless telephone, which gave the room a coziness and a sense of being lived in.
Laetitia was surprised when she saw that hanging over his bed was one of her paintings, depicting an old stone bridge.
“I’m flattered,” she said softly. Seeing that the result of her labors—the hours she had spent over the huge wood stencil, and the days it had taken her to put that image on the canvas—was now decorating the bedroom of such an art connoisseur made her lightheaded, and her heart beat faster. “I’m really, really flattered.”
“Little Elf,” he scolded, so gently that it brought a smile to her lips. “I had to fight with Maddox over it, and in the end I can fairly say I practically stole it from him. He had a potential buyer for it, who even doubled the offer when he was told it had been already sold.”
“Why this one when you had so many others to choose from? It’s so dark, so lonely, almost morbid.” Tell me you haven’t chosen it for those traits.
“Aye, it is. It’s all of that and so much more. It is so trivia
l, and yet the forms, colors, and dimensions you gave it make me want to touch it to see if the image is going to resist under such fusion. And when I blink and look at it again, I sense all the darkness of the winter night, the age of the bridge stones, the cold of the river water, the silence of undisturbed old places. It reminds me of Scotland, of my childhood, of happy times. I feel . . . comforted, content. At peace.”
She turned to the huge bookshelf, which occupied the other two walls, so he wouldn’t see how much she was moved—or the tears in her eyes. No one had voiced such deep feelings for her creations. And coming from him, it was all the more significant.
Surprised, she noticed his literary taste included poetry mixed with classic, modern, and contemporary romances. Resting against a few books, a small Elizabeth Peyton portrait of a woman with short, dark hair, reclining on a couch, interrupted her survey.
Approaching it, Laetitia said the first adjectives that came to her mind, which didn’t quite apply to Peyton’s work: “Sexually strong. Harsh even.”
It took him a moment of debating with himself whether he should say something. She hadn’t asked, but he volunteered anyway. “Johanna.”
“Johanna?” She gawked at him and then back at the painting. “Your Johanna?”
He crossed to where she was and entwined a lock of her hair in his fingers. With a pensive look, he said, “Aye, perfect definition.” He watched the portrait with a sorrow that was disconnected from his previous heartbreaking longing. “Johanna was never mine, Little Elf. She was nobody’s—not even hers.”
“And still you loved her,” she whispered.
A slight nod. “I did.”
“She must have loved you very much, too,” she said, trying to give him a measure of comfort.
“Nae, she dinna,” he breathed. “I understood that when it was too late. Johanna was too . . . selfish, impulsive. She liked the adrenaline, the risk, and she put herself and others in danger.”
“Sad,” she murmured, her heart clenching for him.
“Aye.” He didn’t say anything more. He couldn’t dispute the fact, but he wouldn’t dwell on it. Johanna’s love he had supplanted; Johanna’s loss was another thing altogether. “The dressing room is here.”