Читать книгу Some Like It Scot - Donna Kauffman - Страница 8

Forty-eight hours later

Graham shifted gears with his right hand as he jerked the steering wheel with his left, guiding his vehicle wildly back to the right side of the road. Which was the wrong side of the road, as far as he was concerned. It had been tricky enough getting the hang of shifting gears wrong-handed, while operating the pedals correctly, sitting on the wrong side of the car, and driving at high speeds on the wrong side of the road. Not a single roundabout to be found, either. The Yanks had been there several hundred years, and still had no idea how to manage traffic in an orderly fashion.

Of course, the traffic he was generally used to navigating through had four stubby legs and a rather sturdy bleat for a horn.

He crossed over a stone and white fence bridge and drove into the historic, older section of Annapolis, Maryland. Though delighted to finally enter a roundabout, with what appeared to be cobblestone streets extending out in key points around it, he counted wrong and exited down Main instead of Duke of Gloucester. He found himself at the waterfront moments later.

As a village, Annapolis was picturesque, and he certainly appreciated the view of the bay. It didn’t make him feel entirely at home, what with all the gleaming yachts and soaring schooners moored about. Kinloch didn’t favor too many of those. None, actually. But Annapolis was a seafaring village nonetheless and both the layout and the buildings reminded him of home. Certainly the only time he’d been reminded of it since landing at the chaotic airport in Baltimore earlier. So Graham tried to embrace what good there was to be found.

It was a sincerely positive way to look at things, considering his chances of embracing anything—or anyone—else in the near future, were unlikely in the extreme. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortably warm and not a little itchy in his formal wear. Given the lack of planning time, he hadn’t many flight options and had known the window for making it to the church before the ceremony would be brief. Hence the quick change in the airport bathroom and the unfortunate substitution of a small, standard transmission economy rental over the larger utility vehicle Roan had promised he’d reserved. There’d been no time to argue, however, so he’d crammed his broad frame into the tiny piece of tin and barreled off.

He’d arrived, mercifully if not surprisingly, still in one piece after the harrowing journey along the highway. The likelihood of a successful mission seemed even more far-fetched than it had when he’d boarded the ferry in Kinloch. He was there to convince a complete stranger to not only leave with him and go to Scotland, but to bind herself to him in matrimony. What sane person would do that?

What had he been thinking, allowing Roan and Shay to convince him to do this?

Iain McAuley’s smug, impossibly perfect visage swam through his mind. Again. Graham renewed his efforts. He had to do his best to find a workable solution. Everyone was counting on him and he couldn’t let them down. He definitely couldn’t return home to face that imposter who would call himself a clan laird as anything other than the rightful successor himself.

And, to do that…he needed a bride.

Bloody hell.

He miraculously discovered a connecting street that put him back on the right path, and there, looming straight ahead, was the tall spire of St. Agnes parish, accurately resembling the one in the picture Roan had printed off the Internet. There were only two other like-size churches in the historic section and he’d passed them both going through the roundabout and getting lost on the waterfront. So it had to be the one. The massive, redbrick building butted right up against the road, leaving no room for parking, although he did spy a sleek black town car, idling at the curb at the far end of the building. He assumed, given the flowers and ribbons tied to the back, that it was the car the newly wedded couple would get in upon exiting the chapel, and though he was tempted to park in front of it in order to get inside the church as quickly as possible, he couldn’t risk coming out later to find his car had been towed away.

There wasn’t a soul outside the church, which meant the ceremony had probably already started. If he stationed himself in one of the rear pews, he would have a good opportunity to scan all the guests as they filed out behind the bride and groom, and hopefully gain the attention of Miss Katie McAuley.

He turned into a small alleyway just before the church, hoping to find parking, and, to his relief, there was a car park just beyond the stonewalled prayer garden situated at the rear of the church. He managed to make the turn without careening into anything, although an older woman walking a very small bundle of fluff had looked quite alarmed for a moment. She’d all but yanked her little lap rat clear across the road when he’d turned a bit wildly at the last moment. He would have waved an apology, but he was using all his available appendages to maneuver the vehicle safely through the narrow alley and into the car park. He crawled through each and every row of the sizable lot looking for the first available space—which wasn’t to be found.

“Who’s marrying here, royalty?” he muttered, then finally spied a wee area at a vee in the rows. Grateful for the size of his car for the first time, he managed to nudge the tin can into the narrow slot and exit without doing any further damage to himself or the cars on either side.

He winced a little as he straightened out his limbs and spine, and adjusted what needed adjusting. He patted his sporran, which contained his wallet, passport, and the picture of Miss McAuley, then locked the thing up before heading across the paved lot at a fast lope.

He thought about slipping in through a rear door, but not being familiar with the church, with his luck he’d pop in right at the pulpit, or something equally unfortunate. So, after a glimpse up the path that led into the beautifully sculpted prayer garden, he opted to take a fast jog along the cobblestone walkway that led around to the front entrance of the main chapel. But his plan faltered before he could take off—when he heard the swearing.

It was coming from…the prayer garden? He took several steps along the hand-laid stone pathway. Weeping he could understand in such a place…but swearing? An argument perhaps? Either with God himself or someone mortal, he didn’t know. Either way, it wasn’t his concern, but he didn’t turn back right away. The voice grew louder. Just one. A woman. A very unhappy woman from the sound of it.

He’d never been one to turn his back on another person’s troubles. If there was a broken-down car along the lane, he stopped to help get it back up and running. If a visitor to the island got lost out on one of the trails, or…anywhere, really, he guided them back to the familiar. Of course, given the entire loop around the island was just shy of ten kilometers, perhaps that wouldn’t exactly earn him sainthood, but ignoring a plea for help went against his grain. Only…the woman in question wasn’t pleading so much as…ranting. In fact, he couldn’t recall ever hearing a member of the opposite sex use such an…inventive string of invectives such as was being issued forth.

He definitely had no business intruding, and no real desire to confront a distraught woman, but found himself pausing another second longer when there was a break in the rant. Probably to regain her breath, he thought, somewhat uncharitably, but waited to see if there was another party as equally invested in the…conversation…as she was. How the other party would respond to such an outpouring, he had no idea, but he doubted it would be received all that well—which meant he’d be put in the position of deciding whether or not the woman could use a little…what did the Yanks call it? Backup?

But there was no second voice. And the woman didn’t start up again. He let out a little sigh of relief. He needed to get inside the church without further delay. But before he could change direction, a vivid swirl of white satin and lace whipped out past the end of one of the tall, manicured hedgerows. Quite an abundance of it, actually. It disappeared swiftly, as if snatched away.

He was truly torn. If he wasn’t mistaken, the ranting woman was the bride. An exceedingly unhappy bride, from the sound of it, which, again, was not his concern. His job was clear and quite tightly focused. Find Katie McAuley, convince her he wasn’t a madman, but a man with a problem only she could help him solve. On the interminably long flight over, he’d decided his best bet was to follow Shay’s advice and put the entire thing forward to her as a business agreement. In fact, he had the preliminary documents Shay had drawn up, in the car with him.

He was planning to use them only as talking points, a guideline of what he expected, but if she agreed to help him, pretty much everything was open to negotiation. He’d make sure she was adequately compensated. If there was such compensation for legally wedding a complete stranger to keep him from losing his land and his people.

Now Graham was the one swearing, albeit under his breath. There had to be some other way to thwart Iain McAuley’s threat. Of course, right that very second, the smarmy horse’s arse was quite likely using that genetically blessed visage of his to court any number of available MacLeod lasses. The MacLeods had been quite prolific in their ability to procreate members of the opposite sex…unlike the past generation of McAuleys. And while Graham liked to think he had the loyalty of his people locked up tight, it would only take one lass whose head could be turned by that pretty face of Iain’s to ruin it all. Given the challenges the young people of Kinloch had finding someone on the island to date, much less marry—someone who wasn’t already a relative—aye, but he couldn’t imagine it would be all that hard a task for the newly transplanted McAuley.

To Graham the idea that his fate and the future of his homeland lay in the hands of a complete stranger and a young, vulnerable woman was disturbing to say the least.

He purposely didn’t contrast and compare how equally disturbing his specific mission was. After all, his goal was nothing if not purely motivated. He had no idea what Iain McAuley’s goals or motives were—something Shay and Roan were supposed to be digging into during his absence.

So, the very last thing he should be concerning himself with, was the trials and tribulations of the woman presently stalking about the prayer garden. Except if she was indeed the bride, then the ceremony certainly wasn’t taking place at that particular moment, which bought him time to find Katie. Though it was doubtful he could have any meaningful conversation with her regarding his mission—not while crammed into a pew, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, with other complete strangers—he could possibly secure a moment of her time once the ceremony was completed.

Which it wouldn’t be…as long as the bride was out there muttering and swearing. So, he could either go and take advantage of the time stall…or offer whatever assistance he could. Those were his options, which were rendered moot a moment later when he heard the first sniffle, followed by a stifled sob.

Bollocks.

Crying women were near the top of the list of things he would rather not deal with. But only a complete cad would leave a bride sobbing behind her own wedding chapel—even if he didn’t know her, or a single member of the wedding party personally. Or course, that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it. Muttering under his breath about the utter ridiculousness of stupid clan laws, wild goose chases, not to mention crashing the wedding of complete strangers, he strode deliberately up the garden path. At the very least, he could find out what was going to happen next. Perhaps the wedding was to be called off. Then he’d have to find Katie and get her to listen to his proposition while possible chaos reigned supreme inside the church.

That would be so…fitting…given how ludicrous the whole excursion had been thus far.

He slowed as he came to the hedge where he’d seen the fluff of bridal gown. Exactly what he thought he was going to say, he had no earthly idea, but so what else was new? As it happened, a steadying breath and a straightening of the shoulders was as far as he got in figuring it out. As he stepped around the corner of the hedge, intent on announcing his presence and inquiring if he could be of any assistance, the bride came barreling around the opposite corner…and plowed directly into his chest.

“Ooph!” she grunted as she went wheeling back again.

Graham instinctively reached for her to keep her from going over backwards as she tripped over the long train of her dress. He got a fistful of veil and satin, along with her slender arms, but managed to steady her without crushing the garment—or her—completely. She was a wee thing. Though, compared with his somewhat overly tall and broad frame, most women were. Perhaps it was the voluminous dress and veil, but she was virtually lost amidst the yards of satin and tulle.

As soon as he felt she was steadied, he gently released her. “I’m very sorry, I only meant to inquire—”

“Wh-who are you?” she stuttered, her voice raw and thick with tears. He couldn’t get a good look at her face, covered as it was by waves of netting. A sparkle of blue and a slash of red lipstick were the only things he could determine. Being quite a bit shorter than he was, he had to crouch a bit to peer through the netting to get to her face. He couldn’t see her hair, pinned up as it was beneath the cap of the veil. It looked as if the thing were about to swallow her whole.

“Graham,” he responded automatically. “Graham MacLeod. I—are you okay?” Stupid question since she was clearly not okay, but as an invitation to offer assistance, it was all he knew to say.

“Are you a friend of Blaine’s?” She looked him up and down, somewhat bewildered. “No, I know everyone Blaine knows. Did he…hire you? Or something?” She looked past him.

“Hire? For what?” he asked, looking behind him as well, truly baffled, but seeing nothing but the empty garden path.

“Bagpipes? Riverdancing? I don’t know. My ancestry is Scottish and given the getup…” She gestured to the tartan he wore wrapped around his hips and over one shoulder. A white linen shirt, along with the black knee stockings, though strained a bit over his muscled calves, were properly tied and tasseled. Heavy soled, hand-tooled black leather shoes, with buckles passed down through the generations, as was the sporran he wore strapped to his waist, completed his formal clan attire.

Life on Kinloch didn’t demand an extensive wardrobe. He only dressed up for weddings and funerals, which meant…pretty much donning exactly what he was wearing right then. He’d never gotten around to purchasing an actual suit. He’d never been in need of one. Even at university, he’d spent all his time in classrooms, or doing course work in the fields. Of course, at home, all the other clansmen would have been similarly garbed at such an event. Other than his size, he’d have hardly stood out. But there was little he could do about that here.

“I’m afraid I’m no’ a piper. Were ye expectin’ one?”

“No. Of course not.” She laughed shortly, though there was a bit of an hysterical edge to it. “Although, that would certainly cap things off. They had them at my grandfather’s funeral recently, and I thought they were the saddest sounding things I’ve ever heard. So ethereal and echoing through the mists and all.” She lifted her slender shoulders in a shrug and Graham honestly didn’t know if she was going to laugh or sob. She did a little of both. “Perhaps they’d be even more appropriate today.”

“I’m terrible on the pipes,” he told her, tugging his handkerchief from his chest pocket and handing it to her. “Never had an affinity for it. I’m sorry, though. About your grandfather.”

She nodded and he thought he detected a bit of a sniffle. “Thank you,” she said, and somehow managed to get the square of linen under her veil to dab at her eyes and nose. “He was the best. My grandfather. I loved him very much. He was the only one who understood, who encouraged me to…” She trailed off, then shrugged as if unable to continue, sniffling again into his handkerchief.

“I lost my own grandfather, no’ too long ago,” he confided, not knowing what else to say. “We had pipers there, too. But it was more celebration than dirge.” His mouth curved. “We Scots enjoy any excuse for music and spirits. Auld Ualraig would have enjoyed every minute.”

He thought he saw a ghost of a smile through the veil. “That would have suited Grandpa far better than the somber affair we had, but God forbid my family do anything that might be taken as unseemly or improper.”

“You don’t have wakes here?”

“Oh, we do. But my family would not. Funerals aren’t celebrations, but very serious occasions, with lengthy, self-important soliloquies detailing all the life achievements—which are meant more to impress than to provide any comfort—and, of course, only restrained emotions are allowed, if at all. There will be no weeping or wailing. Breaking down in public would be considered a serious breach of family protocol.”

“Even at a funeral?”

“At any event, for any occasion. It was stunning, really, that they allowed the pipes to be played. But my grandfather had that much stipulated in his will. They didn’t want to hang that up in any kind of legal red tape.” She lifted a shoulder. “So, at least he was sent off with the music he wanted most to hear echoing through the air.”

“Your grandfather, he was of a different stripe? Than your family, I mean. Though no’, perhaps, from you.”

Her nod was accompanied by another small sniffle. “Different stripe, different drummer. He was that, in spades. He did his best to turn them all on their ear every chance he got. He was the only one who could shake things up. My great-aunt and uncle—his siblings—tried for years—unsuccessfully, thank God—to unseat him from the family board and take away his voting stock. If only he’d been able to control a percentage or two more, he might have really made a difference. At least one that lasted longer than the time it took to bury him.”

She crossed over to a low, stone bench, and sank down onto it, heedless of her train, miles of satin, and God knew whatever was underneath that made the skirt span out like Little Miss Muffett.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “for reminding you of a sad thing.” She was clearly already miserable enough.

She shook her head. “No. He’s exactly who I should be thinking about. He didn’t want us railroaded into this anymore than we did. If he were still here, maybe I’d have the strength to do the right thing.” She followed that with a very unladylike, self-deprecating snort. “I should have the strength regardless.”

“Us?”

She lifted her gaze. “What?”

“You said us. And we. Do you mean your fiancé isn’t happy with the planned nuptials either?”

She dropped her chin, then shook her head. “No. No, he’s not.”

Graham didn’t think he’d ever seen a more miserable person. He didn’t know her, but wished there was something he could do to lighten her load. “I’m sorry you’re upset. No bride should be sad on her wedding day.” He realized the utter hypocrisy of what he’d just said, given what he was trying to accomplish.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” she said.

“I meant it,” he said truthfully. “It should be the most joyous of days, entered into willingly and happily.”

“If only life were that simple.”

“Aye,” he said, thinking of his own immediate future, more than hers. “By any chance…do you know Katie McAuley?”

“I—what?” she said, frowning in confusion, then looked at him more closely. “Yes, of course I do.” She paused for a moment, then asked, her tone far more wary, “Who did you say you were again?”

“Graham MacLeod. I’ve come quite a long way to meet her.”

“You have? Why?”

Graham felt like a cad for bringing it up. But, for once, she was focused on him, and not so much on her own worries. Perhaps the distraction would give her the needed time to pull herself together. Or at least make him feel less guilty for badgering her when she clearly didn’t need any more of that in her life. He surmised her family was behind the wedding. He knew a little about the pressure family could bring to bear. In his case, the “family” extended to every man, woman, child, and sheep on Kinloch.

“Does she know you?”

He looked to her again, telling himself he needed to keep his own obligations in mind. “No, she’s never heard of me.” What the hell, he thought, and went with the truth. “I’ve come to ask her to marry me.”

The bride gave a short, spluttering laugh that ended with an alarming choking noise, prompting Graham to sit next to her. Gently, but firmly he patted her on the back. “Careful, now. Careful. Ye’ve a big moment ahead of you.”

Wrong thing to say.

She immediately withdrew and shifted away from him. “Yes. It’s just the wrong big moment.”

He thought she was going to dissolve into sobs again, or start another rant, but instead, she lifted her head and looked back at him. “Why do you want to marry a woman you’ve never met? Who has never met you?”

“It’s…complicated. It has to do with our dual ancestry and a ridiculous ancient clan law that I’m forced to abide by if I want to succeed my grandfather as MacLeod laird.”

“But she’s a McAuley.”

“Aye. We’re destined to always be joined. Four hundred years runnin’.” He lifted a hand. “I know, I sound like a lunatic—standin’ here in full clan regalia, lookin’ to propose to a complete stranger. Trust me, no one is more aware of that fact than I. But I’ve no choice other than to try. Too many people are countin’ on my success, and to do anything less would be a disservice to their loyalty and faith. Both to me and our joined ancestors. Beyond that, it’s a long, tedious story. And, to be sure, ye’ve better things to be doing at the moment than listenin’ to me.”

“I’d like to hear the story.”

“Shouldn’t you be gettin’ inside the chapel?”

“I should be runnin’, screamin’ from the chapel,” she said, lightly mocking his accent, which made his lips quirk, and hers too, he thought, as it appeared the red slash beneath the veil had curved a little.

“Actually,” she said, gesturing to herself and their surroundings, “I guess, in a way, I have. Halfway, at least.”

“What’s keepin’ you from runnin’ the rest of the way? In, or out? Your fiancé, is he a bad sort? Are you two ill matched, then? Is that the worry?”

“Blaine?” She laughed as if the very thought was unfathomable. “No, far from it. He’s the perfect man. With the perfect pedigree, from the perfect family.”

Graham was heartened by the news that she wasn’t about to legally bind herself to a scoundrel. Though why it mattered to him at all, he couldn’t have said.

“Both our families came over on the Mayflower,” she continued. “And it seems we haven’t managed to get away from sailing ships or each other, ever since.” She smiled then. “Perhaps it’s like your clan law thing. Only, in my case, it’s more of a clan curse.”

“In what way?” he asked, curious to hear her take on arranged marriage, given that’s what it sounded like.

She waved a dismissive hand, and promptly got it tangled up in her veil. He helped her extricate her slender fingers but it took a bit longer to get the netting untangled from her diamond ring.

“That’s…quite a stone,” he said, trying to gently work the mesh free.

She held her hand up, as if to admire the setting. “It would have been unseemly to give me anything less obscene.”

He paused in his ministrations and glanced at her, but could only see the barest hint of her chin as she’d averted her gaze once again. “I dinnae understand your meaning. I thought women loved diamonds.”

“Yes, of course. Women are supposed to swoon over the three Cs.” When he merely stared at her, she went on. “Cut, carat, and clarity. Me, I could give a rat’s patootie.”

He grinned before he could check the reaction, but she waved off his impoliteness, which just tangled her hand all over again. She tugged it free from his grasp. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll…figure it out later.”

He rather liked having her hand in his, something he wasn’t aware of until his own were free and he couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with them. He thought about that, a slender hand, delicate fingers adorned in diamonds, clasped in his, then glanced up at the church, and thought about the unsuspecting woman who waited inside.

“You’re really just going to up and propose?” she asked, following his gaze.

He jerked his gaze back to her, then to the ground, then finally lifted a shoulder. “I’ll introduce myself, explain my reason for being here, but…in the end, yes. I mean, it’s more a business dealing, no’ a true life commitment. But a commitment all the same, for whatever duration. Of course, I’d make the sacrifice worth her while, in whatever way I possibly could. All things considered…” He drifted off. Talking about it made the whole mission sound all the more ridiculous and hopeless. But one thing hadn’t changed. He still had to try.

“How well do ye know her?” he asked, glancing sideways at his bench companion.

“Are you asking me to tell you how best to get her to agree to your…proposition?”

“Never mind. That’s no’ fair, and ye’ve certainly got more pressing issues to deal with.” He started to rise. “I should leave you to them. I’m sorry I intruded.”

She impulsively grabbed his arm and tugged him back down on the stone bench. “Don’t leave. Yet.”

He looked at that same pale hand, still tangled in her veil, clutching his arm, and felt something clutch inside him. Very likely it was his heart constricting at the thought of another woman’s hand, similarly garbed, doing the same thing forty days hence.

She pulled her hand away. “Sorry. I just…I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts quite yet.” She paused, then looked at him. “Do you mind?”

He looked up in time to see, more clearly than he had, the sparkling blue eyes hidden behind the layers of white tulle. They reminded him of the water on the sound off Kinloch west, on a cloud-free day. “No. I dinnae mind,” he said, and realized as he said it, that he spoke the truth. “Not a’tall.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” They stared at each other for a beat longer, then another one, before she finally turned her face away, and stared at some unknown point in the garden beyond. He turned his head, too, and gave himself a stern, silent lecture on getting his mind back on the matter at hand…and off the compelling woman sitting next to him. The woman who was about to be married. Unhappily, but that only made the strange, sudden attraction even more impossible. Not to mention he was there to coax another woman entirely into being his bride.

He made a small sound and she briefly rested her veil-wrapped hand on his wrist, before pulling it back again. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“For?”

“You’re clearly no more happy in your stated mission than I am in mine. Seems we’re both here for reasons having to do with duty, rather than heart.”

“Aye, ’tis true.” He covered her hand with his, and pressed before she could pull it away, though he couldn’t have said what, specifically, compelled him to do it. Perhaps it was simply the need to be in direct contact with the one person who could seemingly comprehend his fiendish dilemma.

“Is there any other way?” she asked.

He shook his head. “There is a time frame stipulated in the law.”

“How much time do you have?”

“To be lawfully wed? A little more than four weeks hence.”

He heard her slight intake of breath. “Wow.”

“Indeed.”

She slid her hand from beneath his as they sat quietly for a few moments. Then she said, “How long do you have to stay married? I mean, if you’re proposing as a business arrangement, you can’t mean to stay married.”

“I’ve a friend, back on the island—Kinloch, where I’m from—looking into that very thing. I wouldn’t tie anyone down longer than absolutely necessary. Of course.”

“Of course,” she echoed.

Silence once again descended between them—which he broke by abruptly announcing, “To make matters worse, there is another contender to take my place.”

She looked at him and he could see her eyes widen. “He’s coming here to ask the same thing?”

“No, no. He’s McAuley—the direct heir to the title from the other side. He’s back home, wooing any single MacLeod lass who might stray ’cross his path. Given his gene pool is quite favorable, as is his job title and the trust fund he landed at birth, not to mention there are far more available MacLeod lasses than there are McAuleys—of which there are none—I’m thinkin’ he willnae face much of a challenge.”

“Oh.”

“Indeed.”

“So…it’s something of a race, then, to the altar.”

Graham sighed. That sounded so…pathetic. “Aye. I suppose that’s the truth of it.” How in bloody hell had he found himself in that place? It was mortifying. He just wanted to go home. Back to his fields, his crops, his lab.

Her hand moved to his again, and she squeezed. “I’m rooting for you.”

For some reason, that depressed him further. “Thank you. I’ll take all the positive support I can get.” He covered her hand with his own again, and met her eyes as best as he could, given the layers of veil between them. “I’ll return the favor.”

“I don’t know what, exactly, I’d ask you to root for.”

“Well, I can either escort you inside and see you safely wed…or you could take my rented motor car and make your escape complete.”

She laughed. “Don’t tempt me.”

He glanced at the church again. “Will no one come to your aid? You’ve been out here for a wee spell. Surely someone inside is concerned for your welfare.”

She lifted her gaze to the church and held it steadily. “I warned them not to, or I would bolt. I’m sure they’re watching from one of the windows, stunned I had the temerity to do this much.”

“Are you such a timid mouse then? Because you don’t seem it.”

He saw the red lips curve in earnest. “Thank you. I think that’s the nicest thing you could have said to me. I’m not a mouse. At least not in here.” She tapped her head. “Or here.” She laid her veil-wrapped hand against her chest. “I couldn’t do my job well if I was. And, heaven knows, I’m very good at my job.” She sighed, not sounding particularly thrilled about that fact.

“But ye don’t make a stand when it’s family. Is that it?”

She looked at him, though what she could see through all that netting, he had no idea. “No,” she said. “I don’t. Can’t. No, that’s not true. I could. But I don’t. It’s…complicated.” She continued holding his gaze. “But something tells me you, of all people, might understand where I’m coming from.”

“Aye,” he said quietly, thinking they were both idiots for allowing themselves to get into such a quandary. But what else was he to do? Perhaps she was facing the similar lack of options. “I believe I do.” He looked up toward the stained glass arched windows of the church that looked out over the garden. If there were family members inside, watching her…he wondered what they thought of him. His appearance. Not to mention their conversation, complete with hand-holding. Perhaps the fact that they were sitting and talking, which meant she wasn’t running away as yet, was enough to keep them at bay.

Very abruptly, she slipped her hand from his and stood. “This is silly. Sitting out here being ‘a petulant sulk’ as Cricket so kindly called me, is only delaying the inevitable.”

He stood. “Who is Cricket?” And why is it inevitable, he wanted to ask. But did not.

“Blaine’s mother.” The bride gave a small shudder. “Trust me when I say she’s not remotely chirpy, so I don’t know where the nickname came from. I’m just thankful I never got saddled with one. One that stuck.”

He tilted his head and folded his arms. “Now you have to tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Which ones didnae stick?” He held up one hand, briefly. “Before you accuse me of mockery, please be aware that we in the U.K. invented the hideously unfortunate nickname.”

She folded her arms, heedless of the veil she was crushing, her tone amused when she spoke. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“I don’t believe I mentioned that I had one. I was speaking on behalf of my countrymen, and all our forebears who bore the brunt of such names as Squibs, Blinker, Duckie. Those are merely in my immediate branch of the auld tree.”

She couldn’t entirely stifle the snicker.

“See?” he said. “Your turn.”

“Mine aren’t nearly so…auspicious. I have a number of names in addition to my surname, so plenty to play with. Among them Katherine and Georgina. Family names.”

“Both beautiful.”

She smiled. “Thank you. Could definitely have been worse. But the nicknames just didn’t suit.” She sighed, then said, “Mostly various forms of Gigi and Kiki, all trotted out early on during my childhood and tried on for size.”

“Hardly torturous, but how did you keep them from sticking?”

“I don’t recall, actually, but my grandfather told me I simply refused to answer to them.”

“Smart and confident, even as a child. Good for you.”

“Smart, perhaps.” She glanced at the church, and he could see a slight slump in her spine, even as she squared her shoulders. “As for the rest, well, I’m apparently still working on that part.” She looked back at him and he could see the red lips curving more broadly, though her eyes were in shadows behind the tulle. “I should get inside—before I’ve used up whatever leverage I have left. I’m sure I’ll need it just to get through the rest of today.”

“Are you certain?”

“I’ve never been less certain of anything in my life. But I am certain my life will be made exponentially more miserable if I don’t. And I don’t want to hurt Blaine. He’s counting on me. And, this way, I’m in some position of power.” She took a step away from him and fluffed out her skirts, then straightened her veil, finally managing to extricate her ring finger from the netting. “Even if it’s power I have absolutely zero interest in wielding,” she added, more to herself, than to him.

She took another step, shook out a few more folds, then turned back to him. The sun chose that moment to shift out from behind a small cloud and beam directly upon her. She was radiant, bathed in the soft yellow glow. “You’re a beautiful bride,” he said. Truly the most stunning vision he’d ever seen. He felt that odd clutch again. “I wish there was more I could offer.”

She stared at him. “You’ve offered more than you know.”

Before he could respond—not that he had any idea what that response would have been—she turned on her heel and fled. Toward the church, he noted. And wondered why her choice depressed him so.

Selfishly, it meant the service would go forward, and he’d have ample chance to meet up with Katie and at least beg a moment of her time. The fact that a complete stranger was about to tie herself to a man she clearly didn’t love, for reasons that had nothing to do with her own wishes…none of his business. Especially given he was there to embark on the very same business.

He’d never want anyone so unhappily bound to him. No matter the circumstance—which led him to decide, right then and there, that if Katie McAuley couldn’t wholeheartedly agree to the business deal he was prepared to offer, viewing it as only such, then that would be the end of that. He’d have to find another way to thwart Iain’s threat to his home, and his people.

He heard the loud reverberation of the chapel’s pipe organ ring out the beginning of Mendelssohn’s wedding march and he sprinted around to the front of the church. He slipped inside behind the bride, just as she began her walk down the aisle. His heart sank, but he shook off the disconcerting feeling and edged as quietly as possible into the end of the last pew once she’d made her way down the aisle. All eyes were on the bride. No one noticed the man in the kilt. He pulled the crumpled photo of Katie McAuley out of his sporran, and forced his gaze away from the bride and down to the picture in his hands. He needed to find her and start focusing on what he planned to do next.

He unfolded the photo…and frowned at the face smiling back at him. Blond tendrils were blowing wildly about her face, as were those of the brunette and redhead mates she was clutched between. All three women were laughing, smiling, as if enjoying a great lark. Or simply the company they were in, regardless of location or event. He couldn’t fathom feeling so utterly carefree. Or so happy, for that matter. It was both an unsettling discovery, and a rather depressing one. He enjoyed the challenge of his work, but…was he happy? The carefree smiling kind of happy? He knew the answer to that. What he wanted to know was when, exactly, had he stopped having fun? He could hear Roan’s voice ring through his consciousness, as if he were an angel—or more aptly, a devil—perched upon his tartaned shoulder. “When did you ever start?”

The pastor began intoning the marriage rites, and Graham’s gaze was pulled intractably back to the woman standing in front of the altar. She turned to her betrothed and he lifted the veil. Graham felt himself drawn physically forward, the crumpled photo in his hands forgotten, as he shifted on his feet and tried his best to—finally—see her face. It was only natural, he told himself, to want to see what she looked like, after talking with her in the garden.

But why he was holding his breath, he had no earthly idea.

She turned her head, just slightly, and he swore she looked directly at him. His heart squeezed. Hard. Then stuttered to a stop. Only this time he knew exactly why. He looked down at the picture in his hand, and forced himself to draw in air past the tightness in his chest. He distantly heard the pastor urge everyone to be seated. One by one, everyone did.

Everyone, that was, except him.

He turned over the wedding program that had been handed to him as he’d entered the church. He looked at the lengthy name engraved on the front, then lifted his gaze to her. “It’s you,” he declared, his deep voice echoing loudly, reverberating around the soaring chapel ceiling. “Katherine Elizabeth Georgina Rosemary McAuley.” Katie. The nickname that had stuck. He held up the photo, as if that would explain everything, while he stood there, acutely dumbfounded. His mind raced as fast as his heart, as everything suddenly made perfect sense. And no sense at all.

He lifted the photo higher, stabbing it forward, as if making a claim. And perhaps he was. He felt driven by something unknown, a force he could neither put name nor logic to. If he were honest, it had begun outside, in the garden. It was something both primal and primeval, driven by what could only be utter lunacy. Because clearly, he’d lost whatever he’d had left of his mind. Yet that didn’t stop him from continuing. In fact, he barely paused to draw breath.

“You’re meant to be mine,” he declared, loudly, defiantly, to the collective gasp of every man, woman, and child lining each and every pew. He didn’t care. Because he’d never meant anything more in his entire life. And he hadn’t the remotest idea why. Yet it was truth; one he’d never been more certain of. It was as if all four hundred years of MacLeods willfully and intently binding themselves to McAuleys was pumping viscerally through his veins.

Clan curse, indeed.