“I’m working with Tatiana and Maddox full time. I’m here with you.” She gazed at him bewildered. “I don’t understand why you’re saying all that.”
“Fuck, Laetitia! To no’ give us—yourself—a chance, it’s dragging me with you. It speaks of a total lack of self-esteem.”
Enough! Her shoulders squared back. Only her head turned, but the simple movement was sufficient to halt his pacing.
“I’ll say this just once, Tavish. I may have been beaten into submission so badly it took me years to realize who I was and a few more to understand who I am. I still speak softly not because I’m scared but because I’ve learned that shouts and fits of pique achieve nothing.”
She stopped to take in a deep breath.
In her violet-blue eyes, a fever burned, but her voice was even when she agreed, “Perhaps I’m afraid of my full potential because I want to take baby steps when I should be throwing myself in head first. I can’t see myself as you do, because I don’t like my weird, freakish ears, and I don’t give my appearance much thought. Yes, I have yet to come to grasps with our relationship, this new happiness I’m feeling . . . it scares me to death.”
He opened his mouth just to shut it again, when she shook her head very slowly, keeping her stare on his.
“Never, ever, say again that I lack self-esteem. It was what made me escape hell, made me strong in my fragility, made me survive a world I knew nothing about. My self-esteem steered me away from bitterness. It kept me together.”
His expression softened, revealing he knew how hard it was for her to say all that. “Little Elf—”
She raised a finger. “I’m not finished.”
Her voice was too quiet, but the room was even quieter. It was as if the world had stopped to hear what she was going to say.
He held still.
“I want to belong. Maybe you’ll be that man. Maybe . . . not.” She faced him fully, not caring what his reaction would be. “You, Tavish, you are confounded. As you said, I may put myself in the line of fire. But I don’t endanger or drag others with me. The woman you loved and didn’t love you back—Johanna—she did it. She was the one who lacked self-esteem. Don’t equate me with her.”
The words, spoken slowly and clearly, hit the mark. Right in the center of his soul. His eyes blistered down on her for a second, before he abruptly turned his back to her, crashing against the small side table, sending it to the floor.
Both of her hands flew to her mouth when she realized what she had said, what she had done. He had confided in her an intimate truth, a secret grief, and she had thrown it in his face at the first opportunity.
Fuck you, Laetitia. He put the heels of his palms on his closed eyes and pressed his forehead on the cool glass. His eyes remained tightly closed for a brief second, as a headache started to insinuate its ways into his temples.
Oh, I was never mean before. She watched the tension ripple across Tavish’s shoulders and his rib cage expand and deflate, several times. Do not do to him what has been done to you.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, but he didn’t see the trees in the park in front of his house. Reflected on the glass was Johanna, freely laughing, as she provoked every man in their platoon; happily screaming as she dangerously base-jumped or dove from a cliff into waves that broke on rocky walls; carelessly throwing herself into the line of fire, to brag afterward of how many she had killed.
Lastly, he saw her vitrified eyes as her bloodied head rolled from her neck.
Familiar helplessness battered against Tavish’s composure; guilt, a noose around his neck, choked him.
For a moment he thought he would vomit.
“I’m sorry.”
The soft touch of her hand on his back was too much.
He jerked away from her, completely out of control. Without looking at her, he exited the living room.
“Tavish Uilleam.” She ran after him.
The garage door was already open.
“Where are you going?”
He raised his palm, slowly, in warning—warning her not to come closer, rage scorching inside him. “Out.”
“I—” The words couldn’t pass through her throat. I can’t do this. “I’m going to a hotel—”
“Ye doona dare go out,” he snarled. “Doona dare.”
“I—”
The car door banging and screeches of the tires on the cement were her answer.
When he came back, two hours later, Laetitia was sleeping on his living room sofa, huddled under her dove-gray coat, her boots carefully laid at the sofa’s side, with Cleopatra draped over her feet.
She hadn’t turned on the heat nor dimmed the lights. He ventured she hadn’t even entered his bedroom to get her toiletries.
What man in his right mind would speak so rashly to such a woman? He exhaled hard. Only me, with my black heart.
Part of him wanted to put the blame on her shoulders for making him lose control, but he knew he couldn’t. She absolutely had the right to not want to go to his brother’s estate. The lies were piling up, his nerves were frayed, and he had taken it all out on her.
The cat raised her head and meowed at him, complaining, before moving to her bed near the hearth.
“You’re right, Cat. I’m a brute,” he whispered, bending, and picked Laetitia up in his arms, pulling her to his body.
Awakening, she lifted her eyes to him. He was so big, warm, and tender that Laetitia felt as if he was blanketing her. “I’m sorry. That was—”
“Shh. It was my fault, too, Little Elf.” Making his way to his bedroom, he squeezed her lightly. Dropping his head to her cheek, he kissed her tenderly and murmured, “It’s late. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
5:21 a.m.
Tavish stretched his arms over his head, arching his back against the mattress.
With a half smile forming on his lips, he sighed in contentment and reached over to pull Laetitia’s warm body back into his embrace. His hand met with the empty expanse of sheets, causing the smile to fade from his features. Frowning, he opened one eye to follow his hand.
“Laetitia,” he murmured lightly, sitting up. He had been sleeping better each night, with no nightmares plaguing him; however, he still hadn’t been able to switch off the lamp. His voice was hoarse from sleep, and he cleared his throat, calling out, “Snowdrop?”
Then he recalled their fight on the previous night. Running a hand over his face, he went to the bathroom to wash himself and threw a robe over his black cotton pajamas and went looking for her on the top floor, where she had made a small space for herself.
She was bundled under blankets they kept stacked there, reading a book and doodling on a notepad, with Cleopatra propped on her legs.
She was so focused on it she didn’t notice he was leaning on the door frame, watching her. But Cleopatra did and jumped from her lap to rub herself on his legs. He bent and picked her in his arms. “Good morning, Cat.”
Laetitia raised her eyes to him, but the smile that opened on her face was not the one that had dazzled him.
He wedged himself behind her, brought her to his chest, and brushed a tender kiss on her cheek. “Good morning, my Little Elf. It’s too early to be working.”
“Tavish.”
“You know, you only call me Tavish when we are making love,” he whispered in her ear. “Or when you’re serious or angry.”
“Tavish Uilleam is too big a name. By the time I finish saying it . . . well . . . I don’t stay angry for long.” The problem is that I stay sad.
“I talked with Alistair Connor last night,” he said, “and I asked him to postpone the party. Also, Sophia wants to meet you. A girly outing.”
Sophia . . . always this Sophia. “Listen, Tavish, I—”
“Tavish Uilleam.” He kissed her on the nape. “Say it, Little Elf. Tavish Uilleam.”
She sighed. “Do you want me to say it in falsehood? Because if you want, I can do it, and it’ll be the last time you
hear me saying your name.”
“Jesus, Laetitia.” He felt as if she had slapped him. “There’s no need for such animosity.”
She craned her neck to gaze up in his eyes and finally asked, “What is this? Us?”
His mouth tightened. His sea-green eyes pinned her. “You tell me what this is.”
She waited, still wanting more. Wanting answers or heartfelt statements of what was next. She then shrugged to cover her sadness. “A mistake?”
He stiffened and scowled. “If ye say so.”
“Then why doesn’t it feel like it?” she whispered, feeling so vulnerable that she might actually break down and cry.
“I doona know.” He seemed just as confused as she was. He didn’t know what to do now any more than she did. “What I know is that I made a big mistake, and I have tae apologize.”
She regarded him with that solemn, searching expression. “Why did you do it?”
“I . . . it was done with the best intentions—”
She looked at him warily. “As Shakespeare said, hell is full of them.”
“Would ye listen first? Please?” He tightened his arms around her.
She shifted in his arms, and facing her, he told everything: from the moment he had asked Alistair for her address, stealing her mobile, Hugh’s suspicions, and lastly what Baptist had found, including Alistair asking for her documents.
“Thank you for telling me, Tavish Uilleam,” she said.
Hearing his name on her lips, he sighed, relieved. “I should have told you from the beginning. I’m sorry, Little Elf.”
“What do we do now?”
“Alistair Connor can arrange a meeting with . . . them.”
“Her parents?”
“Aye, if ye wish,” he said. “Do you?”
“Yes, perhaps. I—I don’t know.” She wriggled her hands together. “How can I tell the parents of a deceased girl . . . I am using her name?”
“Alistair Connor is a master in dealing with difficult situations,” he said.
“But—They will want to see her burial place, won’t they?” She put her face in her hands. “And—and if they decide to tell the authorities?”
He had no answer for her, so he bent his head and took her mouth in a kiss—a kiss that spoke of desperation.
6:37 a.m.
“So you are going,” he said, knotting his tie.
She couldn’t imagine why Sophia would request her presence. Certainly not to have breakfast and go shopping, of all things.
“That will hardly make me her friend,” she muttered.
He smiled wryly. “Tell that to Sophia. She seems to think a near-death experience gives her the right not only to order me around but to ensure that you are not being horribly mistreated beneath my roof.”
There was something squeezing deep within her. Something that felt very much like fear. She whispered, “Does she know about me?”
She sensed more than heard him cautiously move to stand close to her. She kept her gaze downward. She didn’t want him to see her face.
“About you?” he asked, confused.
“Does she know . . . I am not Laetitia?”
He hesitated, as if choosing his words with care. “I’m not sure. Alistair Connor trusts her with his life. Sophia is protective, too, Laetitia.”
“And she wants me to have breakfast at her house and then go . . . shopping with her? It doesn’t make much sense. Any sense, in fact.”
“You aren’t forced to go. Only if it’s what you want.”
“And if I want to do something else?”
“I’m sure she would be willing to alter her plans if there is something you would rather do. I don’t know . . . any of these things you women do and don’t tell us.” He put his hands over her shoulders. “What is it, Laetitia?”
“I don’t know what she wants with me. She is your sister-in-law, and she seems . . . too upscale for the likes of me.”
“Upscale? You have no idea. But for the likes of you? Sophia is . . .” He gave a soft laugh. “You have to see for yourself. She’ll not judge you, if that’s what you fear.”
Is that what I fear? Laetitia hunched her shoulders. The truth was she didn’t trust this Sophia. Not when she offered something so rare as friendship. Her experience had taught her that such offers always came with a cost. Usually one she didn’t want to pay.
“I’ve never had anyone . . . a stranger, ask me to go shopping before. Only you.”
“Ah. I am a stranger now.” He looked at his watch. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”
“I’ll go. But it will hardly make us friends,” she muttered again.
Mayfair
In a rented apartment
6:41 a.m.
Watching over her in London was not as easy as it had been in Warwickshire, but still he kept pace with her the best he could. And he had to admit he was feeling much more confident about her safety, as the man she had chosen shielded her under his protective wing and was doing a good job of taking care of her.
And she seemed happy, which eased a bit of the guilt he had been carrying all those years. Perhaps, he would leave her alone. His appearance had distressed her enough, and she didn’t even know who he was or what he had done. He could accept living a life where he watched her from afar, knowing she was happy and safe.
He had been diligently researching Lieutenant Colonel Doctor Lord Tavish Uilleam Davenport MacCraig, and what he had found so far was exactly what he would have chosen for her.
But as much as he trusted military men, Leon Camden had learned that there was no such a thing as too much precaution.
CHAPTER 37
Atwood House
7:00 a.m.
Laetitia had learned a lot about millionaires while working for the baron, but nothing had prepared her for what was coming.
Her first clue was all the security at the entrance of Kensington Park Street. Filled with embassies and billionaires mansions, the small and quiet street in the middle of London was barricaded at both ends. It took a call from Garrick to open the tree-shaded street barrier, and then a complicated code, a password, and a guard to check the car, and only then could the BMW roll onto past black-and-golden iron gates, to stop at the entrance of an enormous house with imposing Roman columns.
Garrick parked, exited from the car, and opened the door for Laetitia. “Miss Galen.”
Oh, my. “Thank you, Garrick.” She stepped out of the car, running a hand over her soft baby-blue merino dress; adjusted the long, fringed teal wool shawl over her shoulders, and tightly gripped the handle of her new bag, hoping she would fit somewhere in that mansion.
“Good morning, Garrick. How is Monique?”
Laetitia turned upon hearing the melodious voice and faced a five-foot-six, pregnant, very beautiful young woman.
“Fine, just fine.” The old man’s face opened up in a huge smile. “She has learned to say Grandpa this week.”
“Clever girl.” With her long black hair swept up in a ponytail, dressed in a long, simple black dress and flats, Sophia was climbing down the stairs, smiling. “And you must be Laetitia.”
“Yes. I’m . . . Laetitia.” She felt herself being wrapped in a tight hug and kissed on both cheeks, as if she were one of Sophia’s best friends.
“Sophia. Come in. Now.”
The deep male voice ordering her name in a clipped tone made Sophia say to Laetitia, “Well, now you know: I’m Sophia.”
Laetitia looked over Sophia’s shoulder. Alistair was at the top of the stairs, dressed in a suit, arms crossed over his chest.
Great, Laetitia. His brother is home. Of course, he is home! Laetitia almost stepped back into the car again. It’s seven in the morning.
“Don’t mind him. He’s always cranky when I am pregnant,” Sophia whispered to her. “Garrick, tell Monique that Auntie Sophia is taking her, Gabriela, Peter Liam, Ariadne, and Michael to a picnic tomorrow.”
The man’s smile grew bigger. “I will.”
/> “Come on in, Sophia,” Alistair called in a clipped tone. “It’s cold—”
Children’s happy screams echoed down the entry hall, followed by an ear-piercing shriek of a toddler. Laetitia watched wide-eyed as two boys and two girls of various ages wearing costumes come running toward her.
“Uncle Tav’s galfiend! I’m Peter Liam, Mister of the Highlands,” said a chubby black-haired, green-eyed boy—a perfect copy of Alistair—bowing at her. He was joined by a gorgeous white-blonde girl with startling blue eyes. “I’m Gabriela. I’m Queen Fairy—But . . . that’s you now.” She paused and frowned, serious for a moment, and then a smile stretched her face. “You can call me Princess Fairy.”
“I’m Ariadne, the Queen Sprite!” exclaimed a strawberry-blonde girl.
A tall and lanky blond boy puffed up his chest. “I’m Michael, the King of Trolls!”
Laetitia stared, openmouthed. This is not what I was expecting.
“Welcome to Atwood House, Laetitia.” Thoroughly defeated, Alistair rolled his eyes to the sky and climbed down the stairs. “And nae, before you ask, they’re not all mine. Ariadne and Michael are my sister’s.”
She stayed there, bobbing her head.
Hooking his son under one arm and picking up Gabriela caveman-style over his shoulder, he said, “It is Master of the Highlands, Peter Liam, not Mister.”
Finally, Laetitia found her voice. “Mr. MacCraig—”
“Alistair Connor. Or rather the Mighty Laird of the Highlands, at your disposal,” he corrected, regally nodding his head at her. “Now, Queen Fairy, could you please come in, so my . . . er . . .” He looked at Sophia, who was smiling placidly at the mayhem around her. “Who are you today?”