Some Like It Scot (6 page)

“You are a woman grown, aye? Of legal age to decide for yourself your course of action?”

“You don't understand, it's…complicated. So very, very complicated. I need you to get us out of here, before—”

“Katherine Elizabeth, what on earth do you think you're doing? Do you realize what you've done? You've made a spectacle of yourself. And of us. That's what you've done.” Her mother had somehow managed to wedge her svelte, size two frame squarely in front of her daughter's Scot. How a woman who was easily a full foot and a half shorter—even in her one-of-a-kind, Ferragamo, hand-dyed satin pumps—than the man presently towering over her, managed to look down her perfect, aquiline nose at him, Katie would never be able to figure out. Her mother was a force of nature. Rather like a tsunami. Or a monsoon. Sweeping in, blowing down, and drowning anything that got in her path.

“Now you'll kindly get back up on that dais, apologize—profusely—to everyone here, and proceed with this wedding. I'll make certain none of this…incident…remains digitally viable with any of our photographers.”

She turned slightly and raised her voice. “If anyone here even thinks about using their phones, or breathes a word of this outside this chapel…well, surely that's not something anyone has any interest in doing.” She looked back to her daughter. “We can salvage this.
I
can salvage this. But it will take some doing. Now, for heaven's sake, let's get back to business here.” She clapped her hands together, as if expecting time to spin backwards and all to be as it was five minutes prior. Katie wasn't entirely sure her mother couldn't do just that.

“You'll kindly use a different tone when speaking to your daughter,” Graham quietly informed Mrs. McAuley, making the room gasp collectively. “She's made her decision, and while I understand your disappointment, you've naught to do but accept it. Now, if you don't mind. We 've a plane to catch.”

“A plane!” her father blasted. He was more thunderstorm than monsoon. Lots of wind and booming noises. Occasionally incinerating things with blistering bolts of lightning. “If you think you are taking her out of this chapel, much less out of this town, you are—”

“Going to be late,” Graham replied, seemingly unfazed—which was shocking all on its own, but then, he wasn't from here. He had no idea who he was dealing with.

“Graham,” she said, keeping her voice low. “You rock in ways you don't even know. But we might want to move it along, before—”

“How could you! How dare you humiliate my darling son!”

Mrs. Sheffield gets here
, Katie finished silently, somehow managing to stifle the deep, shuddering sigh that accompanied the thought, along with the much desired eye roll. Katie was a master of the stifled eye roll. Along with the imaginary foot stomp, finger-down-the-throat gesture, forefinger pistol, and the ever popular middle finger salute. “Graham, really, we have to—”

“I'm gettin' the general idea,” he said, his words quiet and meant only for her.

Something about that accent did all kinds of delicious, tingly things to her insides. Possibly enhanced by the fact that she was being held in his rather brawny arms, and could feel his heart beating just below her cheek. In fact, were he to turn, and lower his mouth just a scant few inches…she could find out what those lips of his tasted like.

Her own parted, without permission, then snapped shut again as his gaze lowered to hers. His dark pupils punched wide, swallowing up that crystalline gray, and broadcasting what looked like a very similar desire.

Oh. Oh my.
Her heart fluttered, then she shut that down, too.
So inappropriate, Katie!
It was probably nothing more than a panic reaction to the pandemonium she was in the midst of—that she'd created. But still, no point in compounding things further.

Oh God
, she thought, as her mind—and heart—raced ahead again.
I'm really doing this!
Reality started to crash in, along with the rest of the wedding party and most of the guest list. It was when the first flash went off that Graham finally took action.

“Pardon me, ma'am,” he said, ever so politely, as he gently but firmly bullied his way, shoulder and kilted hip first, past her gaping mother and furious father, past a mottled-faced Cricket, past the wedding photographers and videographers, who Katie prayed weren't the ones using the flash. They'd never work in Annapolis again if that were the case, and were already going to be out a tidy sum for the event.

It should have been more difficult, but somehow Graham had them at the soaring chapel doors seemingly seconds later. It wasn't until he pushed through them, launching them into the streaming sunlight and fresh air, that she realized she'd been holding her breath the entire time. She was gulping in air like a beached fish.

“Hold on,” he instructed.

Like she was going to do anything else. Her dress wasn't exactly made for expedient transportation on foot. “Where are you going?” she asked, as he ducked left.

“My car is in the park, in the rear.”

“Limo. Curbside. Much closer.”

“But—”

Just then the doors burst open behind him, purging a throng of satin- and suit-clad people from the inner sanctum of the chapel.

“Limo it 'tis,” he said, and carried her down the stone steps with both a speed and agility that, at any other time, she'd have paid proper homage to, but at that moment, just hung on for dear life and prayed they made it to the limo in one piece. “Sir,” Graham shouted at the driver. “If you could be so kind as to start the car!”

The driver, who was leaning against the far side of the car, smoking a cigarette glanced up, his eyes widening in surprise—which wasn't all that odd, considering the spectacle they were making. His eyes widened farther as he spied the throng descending behind them.

“Right now, if you dinnae mind,” Graham shouted, as he closed in on the rear, curbside door.

The driver finally snapped to attention, automatically moving around the back of the car, ostensibly to open their door, as he was trained to do.

“I have it,” Graham assured him, as he held Katie more tightly with one arm. He fished his other hand out from the sea of streaming satin and lace to grapple with the door handle. “Just drive. Due haste, man.”

Katie wasn't sure if it was the accent, the outfit, or both, but the driver sketched a quick salute and dashed for the driver's side door. “You can put me down,” she told him. “I can manage the dress, if you'll just—”

But he'd gotten the door open by then, and after a quick look past her shoulder, turned and all but stuffed her into the back seat. “Sorry,” he said, clambering in behind her. And there was a lot of him to clamber.

She was sorry the sudden waterfall of veil that flipped down over her face prevented her from getting a glimpse of what he wore under that tartan. Not that she'd been thinking about that. Of course she hadn't. She'd just run out of a church. On her wedding day. Creating chaos and leaving her poor, beloved Blaine behind to handle God knew what. The very last thing she had any business thinking about, even in the most abstract of terms, was whether her partner in crime was going commando under his kilt.

She fought her way clear of the veil as the driver peeled away from the curb, sending her sprawling toward Graham, who was getting his own self situated on the seat next to her and couldn't brace himself for the collision.

“Oh!” she gasped, planting her hands on his chest—his broad, well-muscled chest. How was it, back in the garden, she'd thought him a kind of gentle giant, albeit a bit of an odd soul as well, who'd just happened across an angry bride and tried his best to console her? Because the man who'd stood up inside her family church and loudly proclaimed her to be his, who'd caught her in his arms, then boldly confronted her parents before making his way through an angry throng, leaping down old stone steps and carrying her swiftly to their escape chariot…wasn't anything like that guy in the garden.

“Sorry,” she said, trying to extricate herself, but her veil was hopelessly caught and knotted on the giant sword he had pinned to his plaid, keeping the tartan from slipping off his shoulder. Like it would dare.

“Stop squirming for a wee moment,” he instructed, trying to blow the netting off his face. “Just—”

She reached up and tugged the whole thing off her head, sending a number of pins and clips flying. She didn't care, although she was certain her veil-hair look was ever-so-delightful. But it wasn't like she had to worry about the after-ceremony photos. “There,” she said, thrusting it at him. “It's not like I need it anymore.” Then it hit her, all over again. What she'd done.

Had she really, truly, just done that? Walked out on her family?

How wrong was it, that on her wedding day, when she'd left a man standing at the altar—a man she did love—it was leaving her family that scared her more.

Graham took the veil from her, frowning, and held it in his hands, not looking at it, but staring at her.

She noticed, and paused in her attempts to tame the skirt of her dress into something she could actually sit in, while simultaneously keeping her tightly laced boobs from not cutting off her breathing entirely. “What?”

He snapped out of his reverie, and ducked his chin as he went to work, carefully untangling the veil from his sword. “Nothing, nothing a'tall.”

He sounded like the man in the garden—which would be interesting at any other time. She dared a glance out the rear window as the limo careened around the corner, mercifully cutting the church from view. She let out a deep sigh of relief, which did absolutely nothing to quell the wave of nausea climbing rapidly up her throat. “Driver! Pull over! Pull over!”

The driver immediately swerved to the nearest curb, sending her once again sprawling across Graham's lap. She shoved the door handle and pulled herself straight over him, just in time to get her head past the running board, and…nothing. Dammit. She'd feel so much better, so much…freer, if she could just—

She froze when she felt his fingers moving along her spine. “What”—she cleared her throat, and it had nothing to do with the tightness of her dress or the urge to toss her cookies—“are you doing?”

“Ye canno' breathe in this…contraption,” he said, and went to work unlacing the back of her dress.

“Seriously, you can't do—oh.” She stopped speaking as her ability to take in a deep breath became a possibility. She breathed deeply twice more. Then sighed—heavily, for a change—in abject relief. “Thank you,” she said, never more sincerely. “But…you need to stop, uh, or I won't have—”

“Give me a moment,” he said, every bit as calm and collected as he'd been in the garden.

Her port in the storm, indeed.

He tugged gently on the laces, but not so much that she felt constrained. He fiddled about a moment longer, then said, “There. All set.”

She fumbled and reached behind her, then struggled to sit back up. He helped her by all but lifting her from him and settled her back in her seat. The way one might a stuffed doll. Albeit a doll one had affection for, as he'd done it as gently as possible.

“Thank you,” she said again. “I can—” She paused, breathed, and realized she didn't feel nauseous anymore. “Thank you,” she repeated.

“Are ye all right?” Graham asked. He had one steadying hand on her shoulder. And it was steadying. Also distracting.

“I'm sorry for the drama there. I thought I was going to…you know.”

“And are you?”

She shook her head. “I just wanted to.” Right before curling up into the fetal position and doing her damndest to forget the entire day had ever happened. “I'm good now. It was the dress, I guess.”

Graham tapped on the divider window with his free hand, and the town car pulled away from the curb and resumed their journey. He lifted his hand from her shoulder and pushed the tumble of hair from her face. “I'm certain it was more than the dress. But I'm glad that much has been resolved.”

He pushed the last wayward strand from her cheek, which was such a soothing gesture, she caught herself pressing lightly against the palm of his hand. It was hard, and callused…but also warm, and gentle despite being broad enough to cup most of the side of her head in his palm alone. The acid wave in her gut was gone. Instead she had to contend with a sudden burning sensation behind her eyes. No. She was not going to get emotional. McAuleys didn't get emotional.

Though she'd always thought that rule was restrictive bordering on cruel, especially when she'd been a youngster, all that training should be good for something. Right then, crying was not going to do her any good. Later, when she was alone, it was going to be the sobfest of the century, accompanied by a gluttony of chocolate if she had anything to say about it. And possibly large quantities of whatever adult beverage she could get her hands on.

But not yet. She'd done the hard part. Okay, so part one of the hard part. Certainly there was worse yet to come. She could not allow herself to fall apart at the first sign of someone showing concern or caring. She'd just claimed her independence, literally in front of God and everyone. She was on her own, her own woman. Hear her roar.

And though she hadn't been in that new stage of her life very long, she was pretty sure being independent precluded leaning on anyone. Certainly not inside the first five minutes, anyway.

“I'm okay,” she said, forcing the words past the lump in her throat, then forcing that down, too. She removed herself from his warmth and care and concern. It would be her undoing if she allowed herself even a second more of it. It was all catching up to her in a giant rush of reality and she wasn't prepared to deal with that part yet. Truth be told, she wasn't sure she'd ever be ready.