Some Like It Scot (4 page)

“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.”