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 menti
on 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.”
Some Like It Scot Page 3