Chapter 9
JANE
— You survived haggis, interrogations, and a psychopathic sheep. A little Scottish dance is nothing in comparison, I mutter, adjusting the skirt I just slipped into.
I’m wearing an outfit I never imagined I’d ever put on: a tartan skirt paired with a traditional white blouse Keira lent me for the occasion.
According to her, I need to “immerse myself in the culture” before the wedding.
Apparently, that immersion includes wearing clothes that look like they came straight out of the eighteenth century.
Three soft knocks sound at the door.
— Jane? Are you ready? Keira calls. Grandmother’s getting impatient.
I take a deep breath and open the door.
— Are the socks really necessary? I ask, gesturing to the thick white knee-high socks Keira provided.
— Of course they are, she replies, giving me a once-over from head to toe. You can’t learn a Scottish dance without the proper accessories. It’s like trying to swim without water.
— Or trying to be rational in this family, I mutter.
— I heard that, Keira shoots back with a smile. Come on, your first lesson in traditional Scottish torture awaits.
We descend the castle’s grand staircase, and I try to ignore the anxiety building inside me. After last night’s disastrous dinner and my traumatic encounter with Hamish, I’d hoped for a little break today. But no. Maggie McGregor has other plans for her future (fake) granddaughter-in-law.
The McGregor castle ballroom is just as impressive as the rest of the building. Massive windows let in a gray light—because of course it’s raining again—that reflects off the polished wooden floor. Stern-faced ancestors stare down at us from the walls, as if already judging my future missteps.
And in the center of the room, like a general before a decisive battle, stands Maggie McGregor. Beside her are a man in his sixties holding bagpipes, and Callum, looking deeply uncomfortable in his kilt.
Callum. In a kilt.
I stop dead in the doorway. My eyes linger on his bare, muscular legs, on the fabric falling perfectly over his hips, on the traditional jacket that emphasizes his broad shoulders. He is absolutely…
— My brother looks insanely good in a kilt, even if he hates wearing one, Keira whispers in my ear. He wears it well, don’t you think?
I feel myself blush like a teenager.
— I guess. I didn’t really notice…
— Of course you didn’t, she replies with a smirk. That’s why you’re devouring him with your eyes.
— Ah, Miss Carter! Maggie exclaims when she spots us. Come along, we don’t have all day.
I walk toward the center of the room, carefully avoiding Callum’s gaze. I’m not ready to admit—even to myself—just how attractive he looks in that outfit.
— Good morning, Jane, he says softly when I reach him.
— Good morning. Nice… uh… skirt?
— It’s a kilt, he corrects, a hint of a smile on his lips. And there’s nothing quite as uncomfortable as wearing one while your grandmother watches you like a hawk stalking its prey.
Maggie clears her throat to get our attention.
— Mr. Murray here will teach you the Scottish reel you’ll be performing at your wedding.
— Reel? I repeat, confused.
I stare at the newcomer, wondering if he’s the company’s social media manager, but I’m not sure why he’d want to teach us about influencer video formats… And how are Scottish reels different from the others?
As if reading my mind, Callum leans toward me to explain:
— Murray is our traditional dance master. He’s going to teach us the reel. Guests form two lines facing each other, and the dancers perform a series of figures in the middle.
A dance! That makes more sense.
— Like a choreographed battle where nobody dies, Keira adds. Well, usually.
My anxiety spikes.
— Usually?
— Ignore Miss Keira, Murray says, stepping forward. The reel is a joyful dance celebrating the union of two people. There’s nothing to worry about.
The old dancer looks me up and down, and I can practically hear him thinking, “uncultured American.”
Come on, Jane, you can do this!
And who knows? Maybe learning the Scottish reel could come in handy at some future audition. I wonder if they dance it in Bridgerton?
— Before we begin, a warm-up is in order, he declares, snapping me out of my thoughts. Basic position, please.
To my surprise, Callum immediately adopts a perfect posture: back straight, shoulders back, arms slightly away from his body. I awkwardly try to imitate him.
— No, no, no, Miss Carter. Straighten up. Imagine a string pulling your head toward the ceiling. And your arms, softer, as if you’re holding a bird—firm enough to keep it from escaping, but gentle enough not to crush it.
I shoot Callum a panicked look, and he smiles encouragingly.
— Don’t worry. I had to take these lessons my entire childhood. I’ll guide you.
— How long do we have to master this dance? I ask, naively hoping the answer will be “a few weeks.”
— Two days, Maggie replies with an innocent smile that fools no one. The wedding is the day after tomorrow, after all.
— Two days?! To learn an entire Scottish dance?
— Don’t worry, Murray cuts in. You only need to know the basic steps. Passion and love will make up for the rest.
I swallow a nervous laugh. Passion and love. Right. It’s not like those two ingredients are glaringly absent from our marital arrangement.
— Very well, let’s begin, Maggie declares, sitting down in a chair at the edge of the floor. I’ll be observing.
— Why do I feel like a gazelle being watched by a hungry lion? I murmur to Callum.
— Because that’s exactly what you are, he replies under his breath. But don’t worry, I’m right beside you in the savanna.
— That’s supposed to reassure me?
— Not really, he admits. I’ve never been on a safari.
Mr. Murray claps his hands to get our attention.
— Mr. McGregor, Miss Carter, positions please. We’ll begin with the basic step.
The next two hours are a mix of humiliation, frustration, and hilarious moments—well, not for me, but Keira laughs several times, and I even catch a hint of a smile on Maggie’s lips.
I learn that Scots take their dancing very seriously; every step, every gesture has meaning and history.
I also learn that my sense of rhythm, which I thought was decent, is apparently nonexistent by Highland standards.
— No, Miss Carter, on the downbeat! Murray snaps for the twelfth time. One-TWO-three-four, not one—two-THREE-four!
— She dances like an American, Keira comments from the sidelines, clearly enjoying the show.
— I am American! I protest, out of breath.
— Exactly my point.
Callum turns out to be an excellent dancer. His movements are fluid, precise, and he guides my clumsy steps with surprising patience.
— How are you so good at this? I ask during a break, dabbing my forehead with a handkerchief.
— Eight years of forced lessons under my grandmother’s supervision, he replies with a crooked smile. She said a true Scottish gentleman should dance as well as he runs a business.
— And she was right, Maggie interjects from her observation post. Jane, my dear, you’re improving, but you lack the spirit of the dance.
— The spirit of the dance?
— Yes, the Scottish soul. These dances aren’t just movements—they tell a story, that of our people, our traditions. You must feel them here, she says, tapping her chest.
I bite back a comment about my “Scottish soul” being as developed as a fish’s culinary skills and settle for a polite smile.
— I’ll do my best, Maggie.
— I’m sure you will, she replies, her gaze sharp. After all, a woman truly in love should be able to channel that emotion into the dance, shouldn’t she?
And there it is. Another cleverly disguised test. I’m starting to think this woman in tweed and pearls is more formidable than any Hollywood producer.
Murray has us resume, this time with bagpipes. The sound fills the room, powerful and strangely hypnotic. Callum takes my hand, and we begin the sequence we’ve practiced.
— Let yourself be carried by the rhythm, he whispers. Don’t try to calculate the steps.
I try to follow his advice, letting the music take over instead of frantically counting in my head. To my surprise, it works… for about thirty seconds.
That’s when everything goes wrong.
As we perform a figure where I have to pass under Callum’s arm, my foot catches on something—probably a treacherous floorboard—and I stumble forward. Instinctively, I grab the first thing within reach: Callum’s kilt.
Time seems to stop.
I collapse to the floor with an undignified squeak, dragging a good portion of my future husband’s traditional attire with me. A deafening silence replaces the music, which has abruptly cut off.
From my very unglamorous position on the ground, I catch sight of Callum’s bare legs—far more of them than is probably appropriate in front of his grandmother—and I realize with horror what I’ve just done.
— Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I blurt, scrambling to my knees in front of him.
I try to awkwardly fix the fabric. And I realize far too late that my hands are pressed… on Callum’s crotch. I jerk both hands into the air. My face is seconds from combustion, and I can’t bring myself to look him in the eyes.
At that exact moment, the ballroom doors swing open, revealing a broad-shouldered man with red hair and a mischievous grin.
— Callum, I wan— Well. I see I’ve arrived at an interesting moment.
His gaze flicks from Callum, whose groin is barely covered by what remains of his kilt, to me, still kneeling in front of my future fake husband.
Callum quickly adjusts his kilt with remarkable dignity for someone who was just partially undressed in public, while I stand up.
— Ewan, he says. Your timing is, as always, impeccable.
My cheeks burn with embarrassment.
— I’m really, really sorry, I stammer. I didn’t mean to—
To my surprise, an unexpected sound breaks the tension: Maggie McGregor’s laughter. A full, booming laugh that echoes through the room.