Some Like It Scot (5 page)

“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.

G
raham's declaration rang out inside the chapel, echoing and reverberating, then arrowing straight through her—as if the angels and cherubs painted inside each of the pocketed, celestial domes above their heads, and sculpted atop the pillars that lined the interior of the old church, had all taken up playing their trumpets and strumming their harps at the same time—creating a cacophony inside her head…and heart.

Katie stared, her gaze locked on the wild-eyed man who was not proclaiming his wish to marry her as part of some family obligation, but staking his outright ownership of her. She should have laughed. Hysterically. Because her life was nothing if not ridiculous already, so why not have a mad Scot turn her A-list attended, excruciatingly planned-to-perfection, media-and-marketing-coup-of-the-century sham wedding into utter chaos? It was certainly the high point for her.

“Katie?”

Blaine gripped her arms, jerking her gaze from the kilted man who, not ten minutes earlier had unknowingly offered up a bizarre, yet tantalizing option to the immediate future she'd thought her only choice. Blaine held her gaze, but not her attention. Her thoughts were a complete scramble. Her stomach was a clutched knot, and her heart threatened to beat straight through the hand-beaded satin and Irish lace presently binding her chest and waist so tightly she'd been short of breath since being cinched into it.

She was very much afraid she might throw up. In fact, she wanted to throw up. Surely that would make her feel better. Or pass out.
Yes
. Passing out, quite dramatically, in front of the entire church assembly, would be perfect. Not to mention a clever way of getting out of dealing with any of it. At least right that very second, anyway.

Except hadn't she spent the past six months getting out of dealing with any of it? Hell, if she were honest—and why not, better late than never—her whole life had been an exercise in avoiding confrontation and doing whatever it took to keep the people in her life happy. And by people, she meant family. Hers, and Blaine's.

“Katie.” Blaine shook her, albeit lightly. He would never harm her. Never. Poor, sweet, adorable, and adoring Blaine.

She forced herself to look at him directly, to focus. And struggled to find the words she knew—
knew
—she had to say. And had said, so many times, inside her own head, too afraid of subverting her entire life to contemplate saying them out loud. But being brave on the inside didn't count.

Hence her standing there, inside the chapel her family and Blaine's had attended since its earliest inception several hundred years earlier, in a wedding dress she hadn't picked out, carrying flowers she didn't know the names of, about to marry a man she adored above all others and had loved her entire life…like a brother. Not a husband.

“I'm so sorry, Blaine. I can't marry you.” She held her breath, her pulse drumming so loudly she couldn't tell if she'd really said that out loud, or just imagined she had. Again.

He frowned, and looked confused, which meant she'd finally gone and done it.
Oh my God
. She tensed—froze really—but there was no going back. No taking it back. Even if she wanted to—which, of course, she didn't. She just had to figure out how to survive the next five seconds without having a heart attack or stroking out.

She kept her gaze pinned on Blaine and only Blaine, carefully keeping even so much as a glimpse of anyone else—especially the anyone elses presently crowding the front pews of the church—out of her range of vision. Just Blaine. Other than her grandfather, he'd been the only safe haven she'd ever had, the one port in the storm that was a constant in both their lives. The one person she could always trust, who would always be steady. Rock steady. Only she'd just cast herself off that steady rock, hadn't she? And her grandfather was gone. She was out to sea, with no port…and a very big storm brewing that was only moments from crashing over her.

“I'm am sorry,” she whispered, never meaning the words more. “I can't. We can't. You know that, right?”

“I don't know anything of the sort. Katie, what's going on? Who is that guy?”

She had no answer for that, of course. Other than his name, she had no idea who he was. A lunatic, clearly.

And a port. If she dared.

But didn't leaping from steady rock to utter madness make her the lunatic? Clearly. Though who could blame her? Other than every member of her family, and Blaine's. Yet, given what she'd had to contend with, was it any surprise, she was having some kind of psychotic breakdown? It wasn't that farfetched—was it?—she'd finally hit her breaking point on her wedding day, standing in front of the pastor, God, and every single important person in her life, his life…and most importantly, because it was always most important, her parents' lives? Surely that was the case. What else could explain the fact that she was teetering on the brink of ruining the rest of her life…and possibly that of the only man she'd ever really loved.

“You know I adore you, Blaine. But we—I—can't do this.”

“We don't have a choice,” he whispered furiously and his grip grew surprisingly firm.

“Have you been working out?” she asked, shocked by his display of strength. “Did you finally call that personal trainer I told you about? Because, that's a pretty impressive—”

“
Katie
,” he said, shaking her. “What in the hell has gotten into you?”

She was losing it. Rapidly.
Stop blabbering
.
Focus
.

“You know we shouldn't marry each other. I mean, we're supposed to, destined to since birth, blah blah blah. But we really can't. It's too much. Too far.”

“We've talked about that,” he ground out. “Endlessly. And we agreed—”

“You agreed,” she corrected. “And I…was too afraid to go against you. Or, more to the point, them.” She twitched her veiled head in the direction of the front pew. She could hear their guests getting restless, the murmuring growing. Time was running out. “I just want to be happy. You should want to be happy.”

“Katie, we'll make it work. We always do. No one else could possibly understand what it's like for me—for us. You're the only one I can trust. Could ever trust.”

She'd never seen him look so intense, so…well, virile. It was kind of hot, actually. Only she knew better than to let that affect her. Way better. “I'm not the only one,” she said, hoping her gaze was as intense, as pointed. “And you know that. It's time everyone else did, too. There is another way. For you.”

His eyes went from furious to terror-filled. “Don't,” he said, more order than plea. “You wouldn't.”

“Of course I wouldn't. But you should. You have to. So you can start living your life. I want to start living mine.”

His expression turned heartbreakingly bleak when he seemed to realize she wasn't kidding. “Don't do this,” he pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. “I'll make it work, Katie. We will. I'll make your happiness my main priority.”

“That's just it, Blaine. I want you to make
your
happiness your main priority. And that means not marrying me. If you really love me, really want me to be happy, then do this. For yourself. For me. Whatever it takes. This is ridiculous. You know that, right? They can have everything else they want. But they can't have this. It's too much. The price is too big. For both of us.”

“But…there's a way. I know there is,” he said, clearly panicked. “Katie, come on, it's too late now. We're here. It's all set. We have to follow through, then we can…figure things out.”

“That's just it, it's not too late. And now is the only time we can fix this. I have to take a stand. I know I should have a long time ago. I'll regret forever doing this to you here, now, you know that, right? I didn't plan this. Any of this.” Truer words had never been spoken. She looked past Blaine to his best man, Tag, who had gone completely pale, then back to the man who had been her best friend since birth. “We're allowed to be happy, Blaine. I don't know what—or who—will make me happy. But you do.” She looked pointedly at the man standing behind him, who, by all rights, should be standing where she stood. “I want the chance to find out. Right now is your chance—which means this is our chance. Possibly our only chance.”

“Katie, please,” he begged, breaking her heart. “Don't. Don't ruin this. Don't ruin
me.
If you've ever loved me”—he framed her face with his hands—you can't do this,” he said, his tone somehow fierce and shattered at the same time. “I won't allow it.”

To his shock, and certainly to hers, she smiled. It was as if a sudden, otherworldly calm descended over her. Her heart slowed, her mind cleared—like she was having an out of body experience and was floating overhead with the angels and cherubs, looking down on the travesty that her wedding day had become. Had always been, actually. “You don't get to allow or disallow. No one does. Just me. If you do trust me, then believe me when I say I'm doing us both a favor.”

She turned then and faced their gathered families and invited guests…along with a certain uninvited one. She purposely looked beyond the front pews, where her parents, and Blaine's, were making noises that indicated her moment to finally stand up for herself was going to be very short-lived if she didn't act swiftly. She honestly had no idea what they would do, as she'd never risked finding out before. There always was too much at stake. Or so it had seemed. Funny, how standing there, with her own life and her very future at stake, it felt, for the first time, like hers was the more important one.

She looked past her family, and Blaine's, and found Graham. She spoke directly to him. “Did you mean what you said?” Her voice sounded far more steady and confidant than she felt. Her gaze remained locked on the Scot, who was easily head and shoulders bigger than pretty much everyone in the room. Her port, she thought, and felt oddly steadied by it. By him. She could certainly do worse.

He was still wielding some crumpled piece of paper, like a proclamation, in front of him. “Aye,” he stated, that deep, gravelly burr ringing clearly and quite commandingly throughout the chapel, despite the fact that the hushed silence of a moment before had already begun erupting in small, little volcanoes of chatter…with the biggest eruption surging to the surface in the front row as her parents stood and took their first steps toward her.

“Then I accept.”

Vesuvius McAuley-Sheffield blew approximately one second later as the entire chapel rose to its feet, as one, and looked ready to descend upon her. She went into survival mode, working off some instinct she'd never known she had. It was purely self-preservation, but when had she ever considered that an option?

When she finally put her own self first.

She turned to Blaine and slid the engagement ring off her finger. “You know I love you,” she said, quietly and fiercely, as she pushed it into his palm. Then she stepped past the gape-mouthed Blaine, and thrust her ridiculously over-the-top bouquet straight into Tag's chest. She lowered her voice so only he could hear her. “You've officially caught the bouquet. You'd better stand by him and love him the best way you know how. Or I'm going to come back and personally kick your ass.”

She turned back to Blaine, grabbed his face in her palms and kissed him soundly on the mouth. “I love you, Sheffie. More than life.”

“Mac,” he choked out, using his own childhood endearment for her, tears swimming in his beautiful brown eyes. “Don't leave me.”

She held his cheeks more tightly. “You don't need me. You only need you. Now go, be happy, dammit.”

Her mother rushed toward the stairs as Katie turned, a rather terrifying expression carved into her already rigid features. Her father was right behind, looking equal parts exceedingly angry and deeply disappointed. He'd had plenty of experience with both of those expressions where Katie was concerned—where all the women in his life were concerned, actually.

Well, she was about to give him one less woman to concern himself with.

She made a quick sidestep and danced around the pulpit. “Sorry, Father Flaherty, I really, truly am. Say prayers for me. I'm going to need them!”

Her Scot—at least he wasn't anyone else's—had worked his way quite easily through the guests thronging into the aisle and had made his way to the base of the deep blue carpeted steps leading up to the altar. She hadn't noticed, in the prayer garden, how big he truly was. So tall. And brawny. She might have thought it a trick of the plaid that cascaded over one shoulder, only he made everyone in the growing chaos surrounding him look small and ineffectual by comparison. There had to be something to that.

“Katie,” he said, his voice rising easily above the din. He reached for her.

Without a second's hesitation, she launched herself off the top step, knowing he would catch her. And he did.

“Oh!” she gasped, as strong arms closed instantly around her. He shifted her into his arms, dress cascading over his arm, as if they'd rehearsed it dozens of times, to get the timing so perfectly right. If it weren't for the abject terror starting to creep in around the defiance and righteous moxie she'd been filled to overflowing with the past few minutes, she might have felt positively princess-like. “We need to get out of here,” she whispered fervently. “Fast.”

“Wait just one minute there!” Her father, sounding superior and autocratic. Like a king, ruling his subjects, expecting total obeisance—or off with their heads. He'd had lots of practice with that.

To her surprise, her rescuer actually paused. “No, no! Keep going. This is my only chance.” She looked up at the length of chiseled jaw, then he looked down, and their eyes met, close up, and just like that, the rest of the world fell away.