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“What about work?”
“I think we both know they’ll cater to whatever, just so long as you say yes.”
I absolutely hated the thought, more than I hated the past and all our enemies—hated it even more than the fact I grew up motherless—but if he had to go, he had to go. It was who he was.
I’d watched him quietly yearn for a challenge these past months. Even renovating a heap of old bricks, then helping me through thirty-six hours of labour still hadn’t really fazed him.
The house renovations should’ve taken years but he’d got it done in eight months once he knew we had a baby on the way. Some rooms still needed prettying up, but we’d moved in. It was a marvel, everyone said so. We’d transformed a shack into a £15million mansion. Or rather, he had. I’d only given him the fancy ideas.
“Do you want me to go?” he asked, a tremor in his voice.
“I want that less than I want a cactus up the arse, baby. I want it less than I want to put Logan back inside me and go through it all again.”
He swivelled and appeared dejected but relieved, too.
He shrugged and I walked to him, held my hands at his elbows and gazed up into his eyes. “I knew what I married, Callie. I love you more than ever, but I knew what I married.”
He moved in and kissed me, the world fading away.
Later, after dinner, he went quietly into the study downstairs. Having just loaded the dishwasher, I picked up junior from his living-room cot and walked out into the hallway.
Our glorious hallway, with polished flooring covered in extravagant green wool rugs. The staircase wallpaper above the newly added wood panelling was bold with bright red flowers. The wall lights and even the overhanging lights were shaped like little lanterns; there was a grand teak mirror before the cloak area and all the doorframes, skirting and railings had been revarnished. He’d given this place the feel of a “wee Scottish castle” and it was unusually warm, cosy and gaudy for a London townhouse. I loved it. Before climbing the stairs and sinking my feet into the green stair runner, I caught sight of my husband through the open door, sat at his desk pensively studying whatever was on his laptop. Jet lay near Caelan’s feet with a grumpy expression, as if sensing something was going on. I winced because I knew if Jet was given even half a chance to accompany his master, he would probably dive right into hell alongside him.
Deep down I’d prayed for him to say he wouldn’t go. Not a chance, I’d hoped he would say.
It wasn’t even like I’d feel better knowing what the situation was. Even if I was given an ironclad guarantee Caelan could handle it, and would get home safe, just the thought of him going away and not being beside me was sickening.
He didn’t notice me looking at him, or if he did, he decided not to return my stare, lest he give himself away. I took Logan upstairs and the boy started to wake from his evening dreams. I changed him and he cried blue murder, then we settled in my rocking chair in the corner of our bedroom and I began feeding him. He had nothing to cry about then.
After feeding, he went down and I changed into a nightshirt, wandering kind of aimlessly around the house.
It was a beautiful house and was Caelan all over. The way he’d carefully sanded, varnished, painted, added new covings, mouldings, all sorts. It was crisp but warm. Stunning. I did wonder if we’d ever get some rooms finished, there were so many, and we really only lived on the ground and first floor.
For example, as I was wandering the attic, which was now mostly a store room for my odd artwork that we hadn’t found a place for downstairs yet, the walls were finished finely with just white paint and all the holes had been filled in. We’d laid a plain grey carpet and it was bland but ready to be used. Some of the rooms on the second floor were the same. Fine, but empty, aside from the guest bedroom which I’d done out like a Royal boudoir with purple everything.
I knew I could’ve pushed Caelan to fully finish everything else, even done most of it myself, but some part of me felt like this wouldn’t be forever. We’d made the living areas our own, but these extra spaces… spoke of a life yet to be lived. A life not yet fully settled.
He found me sitting on the attic floor looking through some of the old boxes my father had kept. I’d thrown out most of my childhood odds and sods, but some remained… and I was holding the leaflet my friends had knocked up to sell my virginity.
Dad had even kept that.
Looking over my shoulder, Caelan snickered. “Who was the highest bidder?”
I tucked the piece of paper back within a packet of other bits and bobs. “It was a joke to wind my father up. Of course, it was my artist boyfriend who eventually won me.”
Caelan knelt beside me, his breath whispering through my loose waves. “I dinna wish to go, Flora. Tell me not to.”
“Don’t go,” I said quickly, no thought.
He dipped his head and kissed my shoulder over the nightshirt. It was a foregone conclusion. If it hadn’t been me forcing the situation, it would’ve been someone else. Caelan would regret it forever if he didn’t do something.
Sighing, I said, “You can’t tell me anything about the operation?”
“I canna and we ran through this before.”
I’d tried to understand his life, exploits… the way he worked. He wasn’t able to tell me anything. Most of his life would forever remain a mystery to me because of that bloody Secrets Act.
“The artist.” He paused, and I saw him out of my peripheral vision rubbing his lip. “Did ye love him, Flora?”
