Some Like It Scot. Donna Kauffman
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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.