Chapter One

Sophie…

“The Galician Carol”

by Barra McNells echoes down the endless main hall of the MacTavish mansion as I stagger under my pile of snowy white table linens. I might be dancing a wee bit because it’s the exceptionally raucous version of the Christmas tune.

What? I can still be in the holiday mood, even if I’m workin’ the MacTavish Christmas Eve party.

Ma has been Cormac’s housekeeper since he moved out from his family’s estate in Glasgow twenty-five years ago. They’re paying her triple overtime to work tonight, and since I’d rather be washing wine glasses with my mother than sittin’ at home alone, I’m here too.

Aye, I’m here, regretting the black dress I’d worn to match Ma’s boring maid’s uniform. It’s an old one I’d bought for a funeral at a thrift store. Six years ago. The dress is so tight that my best friend Bonnie said, “Your arse looks like it’s trying to break free from that material like cats from a burlap sack.”

“Sophie, how are you?”

Oh, sweet baby Jesus, it's Cormac, Chieftain of Clan MacTavish and he’s standing right in front of me.

They used to call him the Angel of Death when he was busy stabilizing the family “business”

against a horde of other crime families intent on bringing down the MacTavish legendary status. His American wife Mala had to coach him to tone down his expression because he looked scary enough to make children cry. Gorgeous. But scary.

Now, they have five and the eldest, Michael, looks just like his Da.

Which is so unfair, because Michael is ridiculously, almost absurdly gorgeous. The kind of beautiful that normal, human males can never achieve. Michael is a giant of a man, like his father, broad-shouldered with a jaw that could cut glass and thick, dark hair.

“...this year?”

Oh, shite. Cormac is still talking to me.

“I’m so sorry, Chieftain, I didn’t hear the question?”

He chuckles. It’s a kind sound, not mocking and his jade-green eyes twinkle. The same color as his son’s, just with a few more lines around them.

“It’s Christmas Eve, Sophie, and it’s just family. You can call me Cormac. I was asking about your coursework. Your mother tells me that your grades are excellent.”

I’m gettin’ a crick in my neck, looking up at this gigantic man with hands so big that he could crush my skull like a grapefruit.

Not that he would.

But I’ve heard that he has done it before, and more than once.

“Oh! Oh, yes, thank ya, Chief- Cormac.”

My voice is pitched high enough to attract seagulls. “Just one more year and I’m out.”

“Well done,”

he says kindly. “If you’re intendin’ to continue on to law school, the MacTavish Foundation will still cover your tuition.”

“I didn’t…”

I sputter, “That’s more than I could ask.”

“University is guaranteed for all children in the clan,”

he says. I don’t have the nerve to remind him that we’re not MacTavishes, not even second or third cousin status. But my college tuition was paid in full every year, all the same.

The thought that he might consider Ma and me to be family - even a wee bit - makes me feel like I’m glowing as bright as the massive Christmas tree in the grand hall.

“Don’t work all night,”

he admonishes, moving away, “I’ve already told your ma to take a break and enjoy the festivities.”

There’s another thing. Even though I know we’re servants, I grew up here in this mansion and no one ever made me feel less for makin’ their beds or cleaning their bathrooms.

“Thank you Chief- Cormac, Nollaig Chridheil, Merry Christmas!”

“And to you.”

He disappears into his office.

Law school. I heft the towering stack of linens and walk faster. I could get a Bachelor of Laws, find a good firm to work with and make a pile of money so Ma can retire. I could send her on a cruise, half a dozen, even. She keeps a little collection of brochures in her desk drawer at home, pictures of massive cruise ships sailing off to exotic locations and I want her to see every one of them with a drink in her hand and lounging on a deck chair.

“Oof!”

I walk into a brick wall and topple backward.

“Hold on there lass.”

Two enormous hands grab my upper arms and steady me. “Are ya all right?”

It’s Michael.

Of course, it would be Michael that I bump into like a blind woman on a bender because he’s been the object of my undying affection since I was five. So naturally I’d be makin’ a fool of myself in front of him. He’s all grown up now and unjustly, he just keeps getting better-looking. His hands are warm and conversely, it makes me shiver. He smiles down at me. “Are ya all right?”

“Aye, I was just- ya know, just deliverin’ these to the dining room, and…”

I’m babbling and all the napkins slip out of my grasp. With unnatural speed, he grabs them before they hit the floor.

“I’ll carry these, and ya just tighten your grip on the tablecloth, aye?”

Oh, this is so bad.

He’s still standing there, his hands tucking the loose ends of the tablecloth back in my arms and his long fingers are right there, so close to my breasts that my nipples stiffen and I’m sweatin’ like a hooker in church.

“Um, very good. Aye. Thank you,”

I’m blathering again. He chuckles and takes my elbow, turning me in the direction of the dining room.

“Are ya back home for good yet?”

His shoulder brushes mine and I take a surreptitious sniff. He smells wonderful, like the pine trees he and his brothers wrestled into the house, and something warm and spicy, like mulled wine.

“For the holidays. Your father was just talkin’ about the possibility of law school when I graduate.”

“You’d be a grand solicitor.”

His smile makes me melt faster than a marshmallow in hot cocoa. The main hallway leading to the dining room seems to stretch on forever, our footsteps echoing on the parquet wood floor. There are green garlands draped along the walls with hundreds of twinkle lights.

“So, what are ya asking Father Christmas for this year?”

I say teasingly, enjoying his eye-roll.

“I’m more likely to wake up with Krampus hoverin’ over my bed with those chains he uses to beat naughty bairns,”

he chuckles. “I’m a bit past the Father Christmas stage.”

“Well, you’re twenty-five,”

I muse, “exactly when did you stop believing that Father Christmas was going to stuff your stocking?”

Ach, that sounded much dirtier than I’d intended. He doesn’t seem to mind, giving me a slow smile. “Father Christmas hasn’t been stuffing anything of mine for years, Sophie.”

“Oh please, ya cried like a baby when we found out he wasn’t real. At the ripe old age of ten, I might add.”

Catriona, Michael’s twin, skips down the massive stairway. “He has a soft heart, even now.” She winks at me. “He used to scare the younger kids with those stories about Krampus, though.”

“Who ever thought pairing a chain-wielding demon with Father Christmas was a good idea?” I ask.

“Our ancestors are gloomy folk,”

Catriona agrees, walking past us. “Good to see you home, Sophie. You have been missed.” She exchanges a glance with Michael that seems to convey an entire conversation. Maybe it’s a twin thing?

“Thank you!”

I call after her, “It is good to be home.”

For once, the grand hall is empty, no security making the rounds or screaming bairns chasing each other, fired up with their body’s weight in sugar. There’s a moment between Michael and me, I’m lookin’ into his fine eyes and he’s lookin’ into mine and I could gladly stand there all night. He finally steps back. “Let’s get this mess into the dining room, aye?”

Bairns - Scottish slang for children

Nollaig Chridheil - Scottish Gaelic for Merry Christmas