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“What are the odds?” Lachlan mused, his lips pursed. “If I was a betting man, I’d say this is our lucky coin.”
“Our?” I asked, hope filling me.Maybe this time.
“Ours,” Lachlan said, stepping forward to take me into his arms. “I want to be with you, Sophie. It terrifies me, I won’t lie. Ican’tlie about that. If you’re patient with me, I think we can learn, together, how to trust in love again.”
Lachlan claimed my lips in the softest of kisses, drawing out the moment, as warmth flooded through me. Unlike the flames that had consumed us the other night, this warmth comforted, as though to promise me that I’d never feel cold again.
When the crows squawked in unison, a raucous cacophony, we pulled apart and laughed, looking to where they’d fluttered to a branch.
My heart stilled.
Beneath the branch, a horse, no, aunicorn, hoofed the ground, blowing out a soft breath. She nickered softly, shaking her glorious mane of cascading hair, her horn a stunning pearlescent white. She bowed her head to us, stamping her hoof into the ground as though giving us her stamp of approval as her horn lit with an effervescent light. In seconds, she turned and thundered back into the forest. I remained frozen, tears glazing my eyes, as love for this beautiful and mysterious land overwhelmed me.
“I think she approves,” Lachlan said softly at my ear, pulling me close to him. Still, I stared into the forest, hoping for one more glimpse, and briefly debated trying to use compulsion to force the unicorn back to me. But, no, I realized that would be wrong. Compulsion shouldn’t be used on something so wild and free. She’d given us a gift this day, blessing us with her presence, and I realized now what Arthur had meant about taking risks.
Without them, you’d never see the unicorn.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
lachlan
The next few weeks passed in an almost blissful and peaceful manner. I winced at the thought, worried that even thinking about how peaceful it had been might ruin the streak of luck we’d had of late. It was as though everything was falling into place, and nobody, myself included, would comment on it lest we jinx the powers that be and bring doom back to Loren Brae.
As we neared summer, the weather began to warm, and the days grew lighter. Sophie and I had fallen into an easy pattern of spending our days buried in our own tasks, and our nights buried in each other. I couldn’t get enough of her, and I kept waiting for this initial first rush of lust to wear off. The heady intoxication that came with new love was addictive, yet I couldn’t help but worry what was around the corner. What would happen when the newness of it all wore off? Would I still find myself sitting at my desk, staring off into space and wondering what she was doing?
Once I learned how much Sophie loved discovering more about our Scottish heritage, and that she liked to be apprised of all plans ahead of time so she could prepare accordingly, I began to take her on meticulously organized dates where I even went so far as to print out an itinerary, fold it into a card, and present it to her as an invitation the night before each excursion. I loved how her cheeks would flush with embarrassment, and she’d laugh at herself and her need to know the plans, but then she’d kiss me and thank me for understanding her needs. It was a little thing, being able to make her comfortable for the days ahead, and while it didn’t lend itself to fits of impulsivity like I preferred, I was more than entertained on our excursions.
Oftentimes, I’d lead her off track on one of our explorations, tugging her down a side alley to explore a drafty shop, or stealing her into a pub along the coast where you had to take your shoes off because the waves would drift in through the door. There, she’d sat, wide-eyed with her feet tucked under her, watching the water lap across the floor of the pub with a mixture of fear and fascination in her pretty blue eyes.
Another day, I took her on an overnight trip to the cliffs along the East Coast, north of Aberdeen, to see the puffins. There, we spent the day, perched on the edge of the world, watching as the fat puffins waddled shakily to the side of the cliffs and plunged themselves into the air. Their wings would flap awkwardly as they zoomed toward the water and, on their return, we’d be able to hear their approach as they sought purchase on the cliffside, like a fat bumblebee almost too heavy to fly. Every time they’d land, Sophie would hold her breath and clutch my fingers tightly, and then let out a large sigh of relief when they settled themselves back among the craggy rocks.
“They aren’t the most streamlined of fliers, are they?” Sophie murmured, leaning back to where I cradled her close to me, making sure she didn’t get too close to the edge in her excitement.
“No, but I think that’s part of their charm. It kind of makes you root for them. Like…seeing the last kid picked for the team still being able to go out and kick arse on the pitch,” I said, my cheek pressed against her hair, needing nothing more in this world but to stay at this moment in time with her.
It was those moments that I tucked away in the corners of my heart and revisited each day while I went over the accounts, or led tours of the castle, or helped someone in town with a project. Everything was too perfect, tooquiet, and it felt like I was waiting for the axe to fall. As we ended the third week of quiet bliss, my anxiety began to skyrocket and I finally broke down and mentioned something to Graham as he met me for a particularly busy day of tours at the castle.
We’d both adorned our family tartans, mine a deep blue with black and white accents, Graham’s a green, yellow, black, and white combination. We weren’t in full dress, instead only wearing button-down shirts and waistcoats on top instead of full suitcoats, but we did wear our sporrans, boots, and each had our sgian dubh knives tucked in our socks.
“Aye, that’s normal, I’m sure,” Graham said, looking out at where the car park had begun to fill up. As mutually understood between men, we didn’t meet each other’s eyes as we spoke of our feelings. “When you’re used to rough seas, calm sailing must feel like a warning.”
“Aye…” I trailed off, struck by his words. Was it possible that I was so used to living in my own trauma that any sense of normalcy seemed foreign to me? Could it be something so simple as that? “Since when did you become a bloody therapist?”
“Och, and it’s a bartender’s job, isn’t it then? You can’t think I’m just slinging pints and wooing pretty ladies all day, can ye?” Graham demanded, putting on an affronted look.
“And here was me thinking you were nothing more than a glorified waiter,” I poked at him, banter restoring our balance.
“Better than a pretty boy trussed up like a supermodel to sell tickets to the castle. At least I know how to work hard.” Graham nodded to where Sophie approached, camera in hand. “Your photo shoot awaits, mi’ lord.”
“Fecking eejit,” I muttered, but low enough so that Sophie didn’t hear as she smiled widely up at me.
“You both look amazing,” Sophie squealed, and helpless not to, I bent to kiss her. Her lips tasted like the mint tea she favored, and I had to stop myself from thinking of how cuddly she’d been in bed that morning or I was sure to embarrass myself in front of the tourists that had begun to queue. “I can’t wait to take your photos. I’ve two particular spots in mind, if you both want to follow me?”
“Both?” Graham piped up, his brows lowering.
“You didn’t think you were getting out of this, did you, Graham? You’re positively the face of the village, right? Everybody goes to the Tipsy Thistle after they tour the castle, and you’re quite the draw. Come on, then.” Sophie waved to us, already turning the corner of the castle, and Graham turned to me with an aggrieved look.
“Don’t start with me.” I held up a hand and laughed. “Looks like you’re the cover model now, boyo.”
