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I smile, lean in to kiss her, and say, "Good morning, mo gaoloch."
Sometimes I call her m'eudail instead. She never asks me what those words mean. My tone of voice must reveal the fact they're endearments.
On the first morning after her surgery, I create a sumptuous breakfast for my wife. Blueberry pancakes with a mountain of butter as well as a loch's worth of maple syrup, not to mention both bacon and sausage with scrambled eggs too. She needs to regain her strength, doesn't she? I won't worry about feeding her healthy food until she has recovered fully. Blueberries are healthy, aren't they? And eggs have protein. Aye, I'm taking good care of my wife.
Emery needs to sleep downstairs for a while, until she's up to climbing three flights of stairs again. I offer to carry her to our bedroom every night, but she prefers to sleep in the guest wing. Though she tries to talk me into sleeping in our third-floor bedroom, I refuse to go upstairs until she can go with me, under her own power. Never again will I sleep in a separate room from my wife.
When I've laid our breakfast out for Emery on the dining room table, she grins and laughs. "Wow, you sure know how to treat a girl. Not sure I could eat this much in three days, but I'll give it a shot."
"You don't have to eat all of it." I scratch my jaw, eying the spread with a touch of embarrassment. "I may have overdone things."
But I intend to keep overdoing it for the rest of our lives. Emery deserves more than the best. She deserves everything, and I'll do whatever it takes to ensure she's happy, healthy, and satisfied.
I prove my determination to do that a few days later in the sitting room when I drag the sofa over to the windows just so Emery can enjoy the view while resting comfortably. I lay a fleece blanket over her legs and bring her a mug of hot cocoa. Then I sit in a chair nearby so she can stretch out on the sofa.
After a few minutes of silent contemplation, I decide it's time to explain myself to Emery.
I get up and perch on the sofa beside my wife's hip. "I love you, Emery. Do you believe me?"
"Yes, I believe you." She strokes my cheek, her hand warm from the cocoa mug. "I love you too."
I cover her hand with mine, fastening it to my cheek, and turn my face into her palm to kiss it. "About Graham… I didn't assault him for my sake. His ridiculous article didn't humiliate me, it humiliated you, and I could not stand for that. Before you walked into his office, I'd threatened him with everything I could think of to make him issue an apology—to you."
"That apology was aimed at me?"
"It was." I rub my thumb over the back of her hand. "Donnae care what the scunner says about me. But when he slandered you, I had to make it right. Would've skelped him bloody if necessary."
She wriggles her fingers on my cheek and smiles in her sweet way.
"Graham has moved to Liverpool to stay with his mother," I say. "As for Sebastian, he checked himself into a psychiatric clinic. The investigator determined Sebastian doesn't have the pictures of you anymore, and Graham admitted he found only the one image, on a website that archives other sites. The owners of that site complied with my demand they delete the image immediately. It's over, Emery."
"Saying thank-you doesn't seem like enough, Rory. No one's ever fought for me before." She leans forward to feather her lips over mine. "You are my knight in a kilt."
"I've made too many mistakes to earn that designation." I lace our fingers, absorbed by the movements. "You were right. All those rules, I invented them as a means of keeping you at a distance. Didn't work. I think about you even when you're miles away."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"No." For the first time in the history of us, I give her a smile of unrestrained joy. "It's wonderful."
The next day, Emery tries to walk outside—on her own, no less.
I spot her sneaking away and lunge between my wife and the vestibule door. "Where are you going?"
"For a walk."
"You can walk indoors. It's too soon to leave the house."
She bites her lip, but it seems like she's doing that to stave off laughter. "I can handle strolling around the front lawn. The doctor said I should get up and moving right away."
"He didn't say traipse into the wilds where you might break your stitches."
"It's staples, not stitches."
"That's worse. The staples might pop loose."
Emery takes my face in her hands, her mouth grazing mine. "Rory, you adorably silly man, I will be fine. Come with me. It'll make you feel better, and I'd love the company."
From that day forward, I accompany my wife on her daily walks and let her call me "cute" and "adorable" and even "snuggle-icious." She uses other silly terms too, and though I sometimes roll my eyes at them, we both know I love every ridiculous thing she calls me.
