Triplet Babies for the Scottish Mafia Boss by Rosalie Rose
9
Emma
“Nice this time of year, aren’t they?” Callie gives me a surreptitious sideways smile—one I can’t believe I’m able to return. “These gardens were first planted by the lady of the house, centuries ago. Mr. Walker had them fixed right up when he took over. The rose roots were practically stone, but we got them back up. And now look. Amazing what can happen with just the right circumstances.”
I cast my eyes skyward, cupping a pink rose to my nose and inhaling deeply. “Subtle, Callie.”
She clucks her tongue. It’s been four days since Malcom left. Every day I’ve ventured further from my room. The first day I explored the upper floor of the manor. I didn’t find much but carefully sheet-draped furniture and strange, worldly antiques. On the second day, I made my way down to the ground floor, where I found the music room, the parlors, the atrium, spare bedrooms all made up as though for guests and, of course, the library. For some reason I couldn’t compel myself to go in.
It’s something about how Malcom remembered the poetry. Of everything he knew of me when we were together, however briefly, all those years ago, this is what sticks with me now. He’s made himself coarser, colder; but deep down, is Malcom Walker still a hopeless romantic?
No, I can’t bear to go in the library. It’s an acceptance of sorts, and although I’m softening to this place despite everything, even I know that’s too far. I won’t give him the victory. I can’t.
But the roses…
“Mr. Walker mentioned you like to garden.” Callie side-eyes me again, and I continue my tentative exploration with my back to her. “We do what we can, and the gardener keeps it up. But it could use some love, don’t you think?”
I don’t know what comes over me. But before I can stop myself I turn, leveling Callie with a hard stare. “What exactly do you think is happening here? Why do you let it? Do you not feel even the slightest bit of guilt that I’ve been taken against my will?”
Callie has the good grace to avert her eyes, and behind her, Pete, following at a safe distance, does the same.
“I’m a prisoner,” I bite out, even as shame coils in my belly. “And you stand by while I’m imprisoned.”
Callie is quiet a long moment. When I turn and begin walking, I hear her follow. After a while, she says, “Mr. Walker—he isn’t a bad man. I know it must seem that way. And I do feel guilt for your being stuck here, Miss. But Mr. Walker has his reasons. And I believe, in the end, he’s doing what he must for the greater good.”
I ignore her, guilt gnawing at me as we walk the gardens. Slowly, my anger diffuses. The wind smells of salt, and it’s the first day there’s been no rain. Spring will turn to summer and summer to fall, and I’ll be here still. I’ll be here forever.
“Greater good,” I finally say. “You mean taking over the Scottish mafia.”
“Yes, Miss.”
I trace a deep, blood-red rose with my fingertips, unable to quash my curiosity. “Go on.”
“His brother, an evil man, will take the crown if he doesn’t. One must ensure they have an heir to follow them, so the mafia doesn’t fall into the same impossible position it’s in now.”
“Because of Malcom’s friend, who died. He was the heir.”
“Yes, Miss.”
I stop when I reach the edge of the garden, looking up at the manor. Rosehill really is beautiful. Malcom has spared no expense repairing it, though it must have taken years and wealth and attention to detail. The naïve romantic in me knows the truth—the one I’ve been swallowing for days now.
That I can see myself here. I can see myself writing and living freely. Roaming the beautiful hills and gardens and black-sand beaches. Visiting the ghosts that haunt the broken halls of Blicktenner.
I can see myself leading children through these roses. Reading to them in the windowsills and at the lit hearths; I can see an entire world unfolding here. I can see myself with Malcom Walker. Falling for him, like I once did. I saw a glimpse of it, didn’t I? The man he used to be? When he rescued me at the ruins, his arms powerful around me, his heartbeat wild against my ear. When he left my door unlocked, even after I ran away.
Is there a good man left inside of Malcom?
I snap a rose from its stem. Callie gasps sharply, reaching for me. I don’t realize why until the sting cuts through my reverie. I examine my palm, which is pierced by a half-dozen thick thorns. Pearls of blood rise on the broken surface of my skin, but I barely feel it.
“It’s fine,” I tell Callie, pulling away. I cradle the rose in my bleeding hands, and turn back. “I think I’d like to see the library now.”
* * *
The next few days pass uneventfully. I read, write, garden. I bathe and eat, and explore the grounds. I go to the stormy beach, walking up and down the frothy black shoreline, collecting stones and shells and breathing in the salt spray. I take a picnic to Blicktenner, carefully this time, and eat in the sun with Callie and Pete hovering nearby.
Strangely, I find myself quite happy. Relaxed, almost, as though I’ve only been spirited away to a different world or reality. That’s what Malcom said, in a way, isn’t it? That all he wanted was to build me my own world?
Apart from the happiness, there’s a persistent anxiety and fear. And odder still, an acute sort of loneliness. I find myself smiling at a verse and look up to share it, only to find myself alone. I savor my meals, but there’s no one to savor them with me. And my bed in the night feels big and empty and cold, and more than once, I fall asleep thinking of him.
It’s wild to me that my interest in him grows while he’s away. The house, I suppose, feels vast and emptier than ever without him in it. The loneliness turns to a sort of yearning, and I catch myself staring into the distance often, wondering where he is, what he’s doing, if he’s safe.
It’s in this way I realize that I have to tell him the truth about me. He may be a monster, but telling him the truth can spare us both a great deal of pain and suffering. I wanted to use my infertility against him, but knowing what I do now of his past and his reasons, I can’t see it through. And anyway, I’m not cold or cruel. I won’t let this terrifying situation make me that way.
* * *
I wake to a hand over my mouth. I jolt, screaming futilely into the leather glove of my assailant. For a moment I think it’s Malcom—he’s back, he’s angry, I’ve done something—but then the man takes a fistful of my hair and drags me from my bed.
My knees slam onto the cold flagstones. Where is Pete? Callie? Jen? Watery moonlight falls through the window, illuminating a sleek man in all black, his face concealed by a mask.
“Shut the fuck up,” he snarls at me. His accent is thick. I’m certain I’ve never heard his voice before. “Scream, and I’ll push you out the window and watch your pretty little body splatter on the rocks.”
Fear lances through me, turning my bones to ice. I nod hysterically, whimpering as he moves his hand from my mouth. But I don’t dare scream.
“Shoes,” he bites out at me. I scramble to my feet, shaking so hard I drop my boots twice before fitting them on. “Come here.”
I obey. He pulls a length of coarse fabric from his coat and ties it tightly around my mouth, muffling my ragged breathing. Hot tears soak my cheeks as he turns and reaches for my jacket, hung on a hook by the door.
I have no time to hesitate. No time to think. I seize the nearest object—a thick, wrought-bronze candlestick—and slash him over the head with it.
He barks out a curse, staggering, and I lunge for the door. The candlestick falls from my hands, clattering across the stone floor as I race down the stairs. His footsteps thunder after me.
Halfway down, his hands catch my shoulders. I attempt to scream, but the gag is on too tight. The man easily yanks me backward, slamming my back against the wall. Before I can catch my breath, he slams one fist into my jaw.
I’m on the floor, the vaulted stone ceiling whirling overhead. I blink stars from my eyes, lifting my head off the steps. My temple is pounding and wet with blood. I touch it tenderly, my fingers coming away red. The stairs multiply, swinging before my eyes.
I wait for the man to seize me again, to beat me or kill me or drag me down the stairs and into the dizzy, frigid night. But he doesn’t. When my vision finally rights, I manage to sit up. He’s gone, and I’m alone. Futilely, I try to pull the gag from my face. My hands shake, making it impossible, and the world beneath me undulates like a sea.
Darkness swarms my vision. At the foot of the stairs, I realize the door is open, a figure framed in it. The assailant? Has he come back?
Then he steps into the light, and I see the shock of dark red hair, the beard, those flashing emerald eyes—for once a comfort instead of a fright. Malcom. Is he there? Is he only a dream?
Either way, I find serene safety in his presence. Then the dark slides over my head, and the world falls away.