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Since this holiday is my wedding gift to Emery—well, that and the Jaguar—I decide we should stop at as many destinations as possible, even though that means we won't make it to Skye tonight. By the time we reach Invergarry, we're both too jeeked to drive anymore. But we stumble onto a quaint bed-and-breakfast situated on a working farm and spend the night there. The meal our hosts serve us reinvigorates me, and my wife too. I make love to her for an hour, worshiping every millimeter of her body until she's come for me three times, then we fall asleep in each other's arms.
And I sleep so well that I feel like I could paddle our Jaguar across the Atlantic to America.
Day two proves even better than yesterday. Emery listens with rapt attention and a sweet expression while I show her points of interest and haver on and on about each one. I've discovered I enjoy being Emery's tour guide, and I grow more invested in that role as we go along. When I realize I've become quite animated, waving my hands and doing silly voices, I don't even mind that I'm acting like a numpty. Anything for my wife.
We stop for lunch, then resume our sightseeing.
And Emery gazes at me like I won the Battle of Bannockburn for her. Maybe I puff up a wee bit when my wife looks at me that way, but it doesn't mean anything.
The sun is sinking toward the horizon as we cross the Skye Bridge over Loch Alsh and land on Skye. Fifteen minutes later, I park our car in the circular drive of the two-story home I bought but never visited after the purchase was finalized. Not until today. With Emery.
I shut off the engine. "This is it."
Emery climbs out of the car, tilting her head back to survey the grey stone building. "It's a mansion."
"A manse," I correct, coming up beside her. "Not a mansion."
"What's the difference?"
"This was, at one time, the home of a clergyman. Houses like this are known as manses."
"Sure, whatever you say. I'm used to America. We have mansions and McMansions, but no manses I know of."
I pull her against my side. "You're Scottish now."
We wander into the house, and Emery delights at every aspect of the historical home, from its intricate woodwork on display in every room to the period-appropriate furnishings and decor. I inform her the house dated back to the eighteen hundreds, which she thinks is "so cool." Despite never having spent time here, I'd arranged for a contractor to install modern amenities that blend into the historic elements without overwhelming them. Emery loves the fully stocked kitchen and the bathroom upstairs.
My wife devours the dinner I prepare for her as if I haven't fed her in weeks. Must be excitement making her ravenous. I nibble on my food while observing her with amused fascination as she shoves half an enormous mouthful of tatties and neeps into her mouth.
Maybe it's not excitement. Could she be nervous? Emery hasn't spoken since I set the food on the table, which isn't like her.
After dinner, we retire to the sitting room. Emery curls up on the sofa with her knees folded and turned to the side. I recline beside her with my feet on the coffee table.
She angles her body toward me and starts wringing her hands on her lap. "I'm a hypocrite."
I move only my eyes to glance at her. "Why?"
"I need to tell you something." She clamps her hands over her knees. "Something I should've told you days ago when I realized it, but I've been afraid of how you might react. That's not like me, you know, to be afraid to speak my mind. I have to say this, even if you freak out."
Freak out? Now I'm getting anxious.
I swerve my head toward her, my lips pinched. "What is it?"
Emery's fingers dig into her knees, and she chews on her lip. "I'm in love with you."
A wave of icy coldness crashes through me, and my voice goes flat. "I understand."
"You understand? What does that mean?"
I face forward and clear my throat. "I need a drink."
Launching myself off the sofa, I rush to the drinks cabinet and grab a bottle of Ben Nevis. My hands tremble slightly, though not enough for Emery to notice, while I find a glass and pour precisely one inch of whisky into it.
Why did she have to say that…thing she just said?
My wife jumps up and stomps over to me, bumping her hip into the drinks cabinet. "I love you, Rory."
"Heard you the first time," I mutter between gulps of whisky.
