A Scottish Highland Hideaway (Scottish Escapes #7)

Prologue

A listair materialised at the passenger side door of the toffee-and-black Rolls-Royce and reached for the handle. He had been our family’s chauffeur for many years and today would not have been the same without him.

In the backseats, I shot a big grin at my dad beside me.

“You look stunning,” he said with a sigh, the crow’s feet around his hazel eyes fanning out with pride. “Right. Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

I took a big breath, before gathering up the hem of my wedding dress. It was a slim, elegant affair, with Italian vine embroidery on the high, stiff collar and three-quarter-length sleeves. A long train, edged with the same vine motif, fanned out from my ice-blonde chignon.

September sunshine splashed everywhere.

Alistair assisted me out of the car, as a bank of press photographers and journalists spilled their way out onto the road. “Och, you look a real bobby-dazzler, Miss Anastasia.”

I planted a kiss on Alistair’s freshly shaven cheek and he blushed hot pink under his smart peaked cap. “Thank you.”

I’d chosen to get married at the medieval church, which sat only a stone’s throw from our family home, Bannock House, in a village on the outskirts of Edinburgh. The stained-glass windows of the church glinted down like precious jewels and its spires shot up into the denim-blue sky.

I tightened my grip on my bouquet of blush roses and amber gerbera, interspersed with thistles and ferns.

Everything was perfect.

I appreciated the frothy arrangement of flowers entwined around the high wrought-iron church gate, which matched the blooms of my bouquet. Being a florist, I’d put the most thought and planning into the flowers I wanted for my own wedding day.

More shouts and appeals from the press pack rose into the afternoon air.

“Miss! You look gorgeous. Could you just turn this way please?”

“Miss, could we get a shot of you with your father please?”

My dad rolled his eyes up to his sandy hair. “Don’t that lot ever give up?” he hissed to me under his breath.

We both turned around outside the church. “Just let them have a few pics, Dad. Much easier that way.” I squeezed his hand. “The party girl’s finally settling down. I bet they can’t believe it.”

“Neither can I,” quipped my dad. “You should’ve had a loyalty card for all those nightclubs and after-parties.”

I laughed and waved at the press pack. “Right. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” I called out. “I think I ought to go and get married now!”

More crackles and whirrs from cameras followed me and my father as we made our way closer to the church entrance.

On hearing the organist launch into one of our musical selections – Vivaldi’s Four Seasons – my stomach erupted into a series of manic flutters.

Dad’s arm slid through mine. “Ready, poppet?”

“Stop. Hold on!”

My older brother, Marcus, erupted out of the church entrance, his partner, Jacob, hot on his heels. They both looked like a pair of sharp, cheek-boned models, all louche and handsome in their pale grey morning suits and waistcoats.

“What is it?”

Marcus and Jacob exchanged strange glances.

My smile died. “What’s going on?” My imagination started to go into free-fall. “Oh God. Is it Declan? Has something happened?”

My attention shot past my brother’s shoulder and into the cool, elegant interior of the church, where there was a sea of angled hats and fascinators. A few of the guests were turning around in the pews to observe the commotion.

It was like a who’s who of British entertainment and society. My floristry business, Majestic Petals, mainly supplied the events and private homes of prominent clients, which meant I had an address book overflowing with impressive and high-profile individuals, some of whom had, over the years, become friends.

Marcus shifted uneasily.

I blinked at my brother, confused.

“Has Declan had an accident?” asked Dad.

“No, not an accident,” managed Marcus in his familiar Scottish rumble. He was struggling to look at me. His dark brown floppy fringe lifted a little in the breeze.

“Then what?” I pushed. My tastefully manicured fingers gripped my bouquet tighter.

“He’s not coming,” said my mother. She had emerged out of the church and was hurrying towards me, immaculate in her aqua fitted suit and wide-brimmed hat.

I stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

From outside the church grounds, I could sense the press had caught wind of a story. A fresh volley of camera clicks went off, competing with the sound of excited chatter.

Mum reached up one hand and stroked my face. Her navy eyes expressed sadness and … was that pity?

Icy fingers tore at my heart. “What do you mean, he’s not coming? We’re about to get married.”

My parents, my brother and Jacob all swapped strained looks.

Mum slipped one arm around my waist. “Come on, darling. Let’s get you home.”