Page 75 of Captive Mafia Wife

As a Burnes does, I throw myself into work. Maybe the saying should be, “Renovations heal all wounds,” at least for people like me. I’ve especially enjoyed the work I’ve been doing on the Healing Garden.

It’s an icy morning, cloudy and overcast. I dress in black leggings, shiny material on the outside, and soft fabric inside to keep my legs warm. I opt for a long pink sweater that covers my bahoochie, to keep my nether region from freezing. After pulling on my tall blue-and-black wool-linedOverland boots, I grab my long, cream down coat and head outside.

A drizzle starts to fall as I walk toward the stone walls that encapsulate the garden. I should have nabbed a hat on my way out the door. I’m too eager to see the final installment in the garden to turn around and go back to get one.

A turn-off on the path leads to the tall, wooden doors of the garden gates. I’ve painted them a lovely deep green, installed elegant gold vertical door handles, and hung ivy and cranberry wreaths on them yesterday. An arched sign, lovingly hand-painted by Fiona, sits over the gates.

Welcome to the Healing Garden.

On either side of the cream words Fiona has lovingly painted pink peonies, a flower that represents healing, compassion, and prosperity. These beautiful flowers are known for their healing qualities, often utilized in traditional Chinese medicine.

I’m just about to turn off on the path when I see a figure from around the back side of the East Wing—a very handsome, well-dressed figure wearing a charcoal-gray vest under a long, black wool coat, his dark, damp hair swept back from his forehead.

Och! What’s Fredrick doing out here?

Typically avoiding the garden for good reason, he never wanders around this side of the estate. Staying on the path, I hurry to meet him, wanting to keep him as far from the garden gates as possible.

“Och! You! Handsome man.” I call out as I get closer, waving with a smile. “What are you doing out here?”

“I could ask you the same.” He glances over his shoulder, clearly antsy about whatever he’s up to that has him over this way. “It’s raining. You should go back into the house.”

I narrow my gaze at him, now filled with suspicion. “Och. Ken? Should I go in?”

“Oui. Now.”

I’m about to press on, asking why he’s so insistent, when I hear a sound come from somewhere behind him. “Was that a…dog bark?”

Hand on his forehead, throwing his head back, he moans. “There is no way to surprise you, wife.”

“If you like surprises, don’t marry a solicitor.” I hear the sound again, close enough to confirm, “It is a dog! I heard it.”

I take off jogging, following the path, brushing by him as I go. Over the damp grass, a wee white puppy clumsily frolicks my way. Spotting me, he gives another bark, his shaggy tail standing tall, wagging excitedly, lopsided, crooked to the right.

“Green Hills of Scotland!” My heart bursts in my chest. “Och! A puppy!”

Morven comes wandering up over the hill, blue apron tied around her waist, hollering, “See! Look at all this rain! I warned you: puppy paws bring muddy tracks. You wait till spring.”

Hearing Morven’s voice, the puppy takes off, zooming to her. Morven’s face fully lights from within, beaming with love as she bends at the waist, clapping her hands to call the puppy over. “Come here, ye wee bonnie lass!”

Morven must be in on this. I’m shocked these two could keep me in the dark for this long. “Lass? She’s a girl!”

“That she is.” Fredrick wraps an arm around my shoulders as we watch Morven scoop up the puppy. “She’s a rescue. We’ve been told she’s somewhere between eight and twelve weeks. They think she’s Maltese, terrier, and a sprinkling of husky? Morven helped me find the perfect match from the foster agency for our family.”

Morven reaches us with the puppy. “There was no question she belonged here at Wee Inverness.”

I stare at the bundle of fluff in her arms. “Aww! Rescue! What a wee little warrior. And her name?”

Finally, Morven hands me the dog. “We did the work to find her. The name and Harrods shopping spree are your job.” She gives the pup a scratch behind the ear.

The mention of Harrods fills my mind with images of purple collars, sweaters, Burberry dog coats, and wee bows for her fur.

Morven turns, heading to the kitchen, pausing momentarily to turn and eye me. “And don’t think I don’t know about the milkshake incident! Don’t you touch that blender ever again! You two stick to looking pretty outside my kitchen!” Having said her piece, she leaves us, headed back for the kitchen, mumbling about the spring mud coming soon.

Fredrick assures me. “Morven loves the dog, I promise.”

“I could see!” I look down at the puppy in my arms. “Morven’s all bark and no bite, Merry. I promise.”

“Merry?” He smiles.

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