Page 21 of Captive Bride

“We’ll see.” Before she can give more unsolicited sisterly advice, I brush past her.

With a determined stride, I approach the sitting room where Fiona is supposed to join us for tea. As soon as I enter, I find it no longer empty as it was when I checked at five. My eyes meet hers, and the energy between us is so intense that I’m momentarily taken aback.

She wears a pale blue dress that looks lovely with her complexion.

Freya follows behind me. “Och! Fiona. Hello.” Freya slips into her favored butter leather armchair by the window.

Fiona stands to greet us. “Sorry for being late,” she says sweetly, an innocence in her voice that sends a jolt of desire straight to my core. “I got a little tied up with unpacking.”

“Sit. Sit.” I clear my throat, trying to soften the angriness from my voice. “Do you have everything you need? Is the room to your liking?”

Her eyes light up as she sits on the small, patterned sofa. “Yes. Thank you. It’s a beautiful room. Someone must have known how much I love pink.”

“‘Tis a coincidence,” I lie, sitting on the matching sofa across from her.

The day I decided Fiona would be coming here, Freya, my personal decorator, was given a clear outline of Fiona’s likes and dislikes. The bed is covered with a handmade quilt, the curtains are lace, and the walls are painted a soft, dusty rose. My only rule for Freya?

Spare no expense.

“Still. Thank you for making me feel at home.” The smile drops from Fiona’s face. “Until we get this matter settled, that is.”

“The matter of you becoming my wife?” I clarify.

I’m unable to tear my eyes away from her pink lips. I've only had a few kisses, and I crave more.I busy myself handing out plates for the casual dinner chef has spread over the large round coffee table we surround and help myself to a warm, flaky pie.

"So, tell us about yourself, Fiona," Freya prompts, pouring tea for the three of us. “It’s been years since I lived on the island. You were only a wee thing when I moved here for university.”

Fiona shyly sips from her delicate, porcelain cup before answering. "Well, as you know, I’m the youngest of a pack of brothers. Grew up next to Bayne and his clan. I studied ecology in school. I worked under the professor. Remember him?”

“Och, God, yes! He filled in for Ms. Peters when she fell ill. Taught our Forensics course. He’s the one who got me invested in criminal law.” Freya wrinkles her nose. “But the man always smelled of cabbage."

“Yes!” Fiona giggles. “I grow it for his soup. He says it keeps his brain sharp.”

Freya plops a sugar cube in my cup. “To sweeten you up,” she says. “Our Callum will be needing the recipe from the professor. Won’t you, Callum?” She gives a good-natured laugh and pats my knee. “Only teasing ‘cause he calls me the brains of our duo.”

I stir in the unwanted sugar. “I’ll be the first to admit Freya’s cleverer than me.”

Freya laughs. “Aye, only more clever ‘cause I’m a woman. Yer clever enough yourself, brother.”

Always the hostess, Freya pulls Fiona into the conversation. “What do you like to do for fun?” Freya asks, sliding a meat pie onto Fiona’s plate.

Starving, I gobble mine down with one hand, licking the crumbs from my fingers while Fiona delicately slices hers with a fork and knife. “I've always loved gardening and cooking,” she says before taking a dainty bite and chewing thoughtfully.

Freya wrinkles her nose. “That’s work, sweet girl! You’ve only just graduated from university. Surely yer off clubbing with your friends, hitting the city on the weekends?”

Knowing the wildest Fiona’s ever gotten is drinking apple martinis with her episodes of American reality television, I snort into my tea, excusing myself with a dabbing of my napkin. “Sorry.”

I watch Freya play with her food, pinching at her pie crust as if she’s full or bored. Fiona meticulously eats every bite with the utmost politeness but does not waste a crumb. As do all children who were raised in poverty.

Fiona shoots me a look. “I stay in, mostly.”

Freya shakes her head, long blonde hair swishing. “That won’t do. I’m taking you out. First thing, once I get these renovations done, we’re going down to the High Street to go drinking at O’Malley’s?—”

“Over my dead body,” I rumble. “You’ll be doing no such thing. Fiona has a wedding to plan.”

"She can do both. Besides. What do you think we’re going to be doing for her hen night? Staying in? Drinking tea and knitting?” Freya picks at the crust of her uneaten pie. “I dinnae think so.”

“There’s no need for a hen night.”

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