Playing With Fire (Glasgow Lads Book 3) (41 page)

Right now Liam had that I-must-be-dreaming sensation again, as he walked down the castle’s claustrophobic stone corridor. “How old is this place?” he asked Andrew as they passed a banquet hall, where tuxedoed footmen were laying a U-shaped table with pewter dinnerware and tall ivory candles.

“The main part of the castle, where I grew up, was built in the nineteenth century,” Andrew said. “But this section, the Auld Keep, is five hundred eighty-nine years old. Five hundred ninety as of the day after tomorrow.” Andrew led them to a spiral stone staircase. “Of course it wasn’t actually built on New Year’s Day, but we like to celebrate it then, like a racehorse’s birthday.”

Like Saint Liam, the stallion who died of sex.
Liam realized he’d never actually confirmed his mother’s story by Googling the horse himself.

Katie preceded him, placing her high-heeled shoes carefully upon each stair, the centers of which had been indented by six centuries of feet. On the stone wall ringing the top of the staircase, Liam saw more ivory candles glowing in glass containers, surrounded by white rose petals.

Nice.
Even to a cynic like himself, this place was romantic as fuck.

“The ceremony will be here,” Andrew said, “in the Great Hall.”

“Whoa.” Katie staggered forward, her single syllable speaking for them all.

The room looked like a
Game of Thrones
setting, but without the whole imminent-mass-slaughter vibe. Chairs were arranged flanking a deep red carpet in the center, like at any wedding. But here, the ceiling formed a high, round arch, made of rows upon rows of stones so ancient-looking, Liam feared they’d tumble down any moment. A hearth on the hall’s left side overflowed with flowers and more candles. From either wall curved a long rod holding a massive wrought-iron chandelier. Above the altar hung a golden tapestry bearing a red design that must have been the herald of Andrew’s father, the Marquess of Kirkross.

The entire place felt simultaneously fragile and eternal. Liam wanted to touch the walls to see if they would crumble beneath his palms.

“Beautiful, aye?” John strode out of a side room near the altar, incongruously wearing jeans and a gray hoodie. He was accompanied by Ben, along with a middle-aged blonde woman wearing a white robe and a rainbow-patterned stole.

John stopped short at the sight of Fergus. “You’ve already dressed? We agreed we’d rehearse in street clothes.”

“I told Fergus it’s bad luck,” Katie said.

Fergus glanced at her as he hurried down the aisle toward John. “I worried there wouldn’t be time.”

“But now I’ve seen you.” John’s frown turned to a wide grin. “So I get to blame you for every bit of misfortune the rest of our lives.”

“Deal.” Fergus leaned over to kiss him.

“Now that’s definitely bad luck!” Ben turned to the white-robed celebrant. “Patricia, can you bless them extra hard?”

“I’ll do my best,” she deadpanned.

After the rehearsal, Liam climbed into the wee side-altar space with Fergus and his younger brother, Malcolm, to wait while the guests arrived.

“Well, this is cozy,” Malcolm said, drawing the curtain to hide them from the early arrivals already filling the hall. The three of them sat side by side on a narrow bench, resting their feet on the padded kneeler.

Liam stared up at the faded portrait of the Virgin Mary. “I feel like we should pray or something.”

“Ah, that’s what I need.” Fergus crossed himself, then closed his eyes. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, please let John be dressed in time.”

Malcolm laughed. “Stop worrying. Andrew will see to it. That’s what best men are for, keeping their grooms sane.” Out in the hall, a baby’s wail pierced the air. Malcolm jumped. “Oh God, that’s my Izzy. I knew we shouldn’t have brought her. She must be so stressed being up after midnight.”

Fergus immediately slipped back into Captain Chill mode. “It’s fine. And it’s not your fault the babysitter got the flu last minute.”

“But what should I do?” Malcolm asked.

“Take her to see John?” Fergus turned to Liam. “My niece loves John so much it’s eerie.” As Malcolm parted the curtain to leave, Fergus said, “Don’t let her throw up on his tuxedo—or make him late!” Then he slid over into the space Malcolm had left behind. “What a year, huh?”

“Aye.” Liam shifted his weight on the bench, still getting accustomed to his kilt. As excited as he’d been to wear one, it did present certain postural challenges. “Did you ever think this time last year we’d be in this place now?”

“If by ‘this place,’ you mean Dunleven Castle, no. But when they passed the marriage equality bill in February, I did wonder if Evan and I would marry.”

“Did you want that?”

Fergus checked the dark-blue buttons on his waistcoat as he considered the question. “By that point, probably not. I didn’t want to marry him as he was then. But I would’ve married the man he was two years before.”

“You want to know my reaction to the bill?” Liam asked. “I wondered how many breakups would happen in those next few weeks, when all the couples who thought they were on the same wavelength found that one of them wanted to make things permanent and the other didn’t.”

Fergus said nothing for a moment, then burst into laughter so hard, he seemed on the verge of tears.

“What?” Liam said. “I cannae be the only one. There had to be loads of men—and women—who thought, ‘aw, no, now this yin’s gonnae expect me to propose. No more free sex.’” He looked at Fergus, who was still laughing. “I guess I’m the worst best lad ever.”

Fergus wiped his eyes and nodded. “Only because you’re the
first
best lad ever.”

Liam punched his arm. “I knew you made it up!”

“I did. Because you’re my best mate.” He clasped Liam’s hand in both his own. “I know I’m not yours, and that’s okay.”

“You pretty much are, now that Robert’s my boyfriend.” He adjusted his kilt again, thinking how good it felt to be back in harmony with Fergus. Then he leaned in close and whispered, “Remember that time you told me how you and John fucked in your kilts?”

Fergus let slip a sly smile. “Aye.”

“Well.” Liam took his handkerchief from his pocket and used it to cover the portrait of Mary. “Have I got a story for you.”

= = =

Sitting in the Great Hall amongst Charlotte and his teammates, Robert watched Fergus and John exchange their vows, which of course they’d written themselves. He’d glanced at Liam throughout the ceremony, expecting him to roll his eyes at some of the mushier bits. But his boyfriend had kept a perfectly straight face as he stood beside Fergus and his brother. At one point, he even appeared to sniffle.

And he did look pure fit in that kilt.

Holding John’s hands, Fergus continued speaking without notes. “I promise to remain faithful to you in heart, body, and mind until the end of my days. I promise to comfort you in life’s sorrows. I promise to take joy in your joys.” He paused. “Even if Rangers beat Celtic.”

Robert laughed along with the other guests, partly because he knew the chances of that outcome were slim.

“What do you mean, ‘if’?” John gave his groom a mock glare. Then he reached into his tuxedo jacket pocket and drew out a note card. “Just a second. I need to edit my own vows now.” With a self-effacing grin, he tucked the card away and took Fergus’s hands again. “I know you’re expecting my vows to be funny, but for once, let me be dead serious.” He dropped his gaze, blinking, then raised it to meet Fergus’s. “The things you promise me, I promise to be worthy of them. I promise to test your faith and trust as little as possible. I promise to share all my sorrows and joys with you, even the ones that make me seem weak or foolish or pure dead mental. I promise you honesty—and to the best of my ability, I’ll make it a kind and gentle honesty, not the brutal South Side Glaswegian sort.”

Light laughter rippled through John’s side of the hall.

“And lastly.” John took a deep breath. “I promise to listen. Your voice is often quiet but always wise, whether it’s giving an answer or asking a question. So, whenever you need me to, I will do my level best to just. Stop. Talking.”

They all laughed again, Liam loudest of all. His eyes met Robert’s, and this time they were definitely shiny.

As Fergus and John lit the unity candle, Robert saw their mothers share a look across the aisle. They smiled at each other from under the brims of their fancy hats, no doubt marveling at this “mixed” Protestant-Catholic marriage, which must have been a rare thing when they were young.

Robert stood with the other guests as the recessional began, led by Fergus and John and concluding with John’s five-year-old nephew, Harry, who wildly swung his ring pillow in time to the music, holding it by the long white ribbons.

They moved into the banquet hall for the reception, which was like a giant Warriors group project, each team member pitching in to cover the missing pieces. Jamie was DJing, Heather was filming, and much of the servingware had been provided by Duncan’s parents, courtesy of their swanky Merchant City home decor shop. Even one of the Rainbow Regiment had shown up to play bagpipes.

Ben found Robert midway through the cocktail hour, looking frazzled but happy. “I can’t believe this all fell into place in time. It’s a Hogmanay miracle!” He nudged Robert with a bony elbow. “You’ve got some great friends, you know.”

“I know,” Robert said. “Everyone was happy to—”

“Now
who
is that blond standing tragically and inexplicably alone in the corner?”

Robert followed Ben’s gaze to see their former captain, looking handsome but awkward. “Evan Hollister. Fergus’s ex-boyfriend.”

“Fergus invited his ex? That’s big of him.”

“He invited the entire team, so it would’ve been rude to exclude Evan. I think Fergus assumed he’d decline.”

“That explains why the poor man seems so dire.” Ben straightened his tie. “Looks like he could use some cheering up.”

“But you know his real name. Why would you be interested?”

“I’ll just pretend that Evan Hollister is his secret spy name. I’m good at lying to myself.” He took a step forward, then stopped. “By the way, I told Liam you saved your first gay kiss for him. He found it adorable.”

His face warming, Robert raised a fist in mock rage. “I’m reporting you to Grindr. Your account’ll be suspended for your inability to keep a secret.”

“I’ve not told your teammates you’re bisexual instead of gay.” Ben blinked at him with wide eyes. “Have you?” Then he spun on his heel and headed for Evan.

Robert sighed. In fact, he’d not had a chance to explain anything to the team, as the continued cold weather had resulted in the cancellation of every training session and postponement of every game since their league cup match in early December. If the predictions were right about this winter’s weather, then Scottish amateur teams might not play again until February.

Robert wandered over to where Liam stood with Colin, Andrew, and John. As he neared them, he heard Liam talking with even more animation than usual.

“Ooh, there’s a few in New York City.” Liam scrolled through his phone screen. “Hee, this one’s called Balls!”

“Sounds like my kind of place,” John said.

“There’s two in London,” Liam continued, “and one in Birmingham. I’ll do a search on Glasgow.”

“Search for what?” Robert asked.

“Gay sport pubs. Remember I mentioned it at Loch Lomond, kinda as a joke?”

“What, you want to open one?”

“I want to
go
to one.” Liam frowned at his phone. “But Glasgow’s not got any.”

“I’m surprised,” John said. “Our city lives and breathes sport, and it’s full of booze-loving gays.”

“Maybe Warriors should open one someday.” Colin turned to Liam. “You could do the food and drink bits, and I could manage the business end.”

“This is after you all retire from football, right?” Andrew asked. “I’d hate to see the Warriors lose their best players.”

“We’re amateurs—we’ll retire when we’re dead.” Liam put his phone away and smirked at Robert as a slow song began. “Besides, I’ve got my Ned Kilts venture to think of.”

John’s eyebrows popped up. “Your what?”

“Ask Fergus.” Liam took Robert’s hand and led him into the nearest corner. Though the dancing hadn’t officially started, they slid their arms around each other and began to sway.

“Are you really thinking of starting your own business?” Robert asked him.

“Nah, it’s just fun to toss ideas about with the lads.” He drew his fingers over the knot in Robert’s tie. “Besides, I’ve been looking into this massage-college thing.”

Robert stopped and stared at him. “Really?”

“It’s one weekend a month for nine months, so I might fit it around my work at Hannigan’s. And I could pay by installments.”

“That’s fantastic.” He took a half-step back. “You’re not doing this to stop me nagging you about it, are you?”

“I’m not
doing
anything yet, just considering. And no, I’d never change my life on anyone’s advice.” Liam tilted his head. “I guess I’m just reexamining all my daft beliefs.” He wrapped his arms about Robert’s neck and moved his body closer. “Except the one about you being my favorite person.”

“Ow.” Robert winced. “Watch where you put that sporran.”

“Sorry.” Liam reached down and shifted the leather pouch to the side. “Better?”

“Aye.” Robert gazed into Liam’s eyes, their amber depths sparkling with the white holiday lights around them. “Whatever you decide to do, I’m proud of you.”

“Och, ya big softie.” Liam looked away, obviously trying not to look as pleased as he felt. “I’m dead proud of you too. I mean, who else could’ve met his crowdfunding goals in a week? Over Christmas, no less?”

Robert felt his face flush. Perhaps he should’ve set higher goals for his Glasgow game—the
Be Less Shite
project, as it was unofficially known amongst their friends. But it was strangely fulfilling to see he’d underestimated his support by a factor of ten.

And then there was the windfall. “I got an offer today,” Robert said, “from a company who’d like to buy
Tom’s Tower
—I mean,
Tower of Spite
.”

Liam’s jaw dropped. “That’s amazing. Gaun yersel, lad!” He gave Robert’s chest a congratulatory punch. “You said yes, right?”