Chapter 11
JANE
— Are you sure there isn’t a needle actively trying to stab my right lung? I ask Keira as the seamstress circles me like a shark around an unsuspecting swimmer.
Madame Gordon, an older woman with glasses perched on the tip of her nose and about forty pins clamped between her lips, mutters something unintelligible while continuing to adjust the bodice of the wedding dress.
I’m standing on a small platform in the middle of one of the castle’s many bedrooms, surrounded by strategically placed mirrors so I can admire my transformation into a “true Scottish bride,” as Maggie put it with undisguised satisfaction.
— Stop moving, Keira orders from a comfortable armchair, a glass of champagne in hand. The more you squirm, the more she’ll prick you.
— I’m not squirming, I’m trying to breathe, I correct.
— In that dress, that’s risky, Keira remarks with a mischievous grin.
The dress in question is, I have to admit, absolutely stunning.
An ivory white that perfectly complements my skin, it’s made of sumptuous lace and dotted with tiny pearls that catch the light with every movement.
The bodice is cut to create a perfect hourglass silhouette, and the skirt flares gently into a modest yet elegant train.
It’s exactly the kind of dress I would have chosen if…
well, if I were actually in love and about to get married.
The problem is, it was designed for a woman slightly smaller and less generously endowed in the chest. Hence Madame Gordon’s frantic adjustments, as she seems to take every extra inch of my body as a personal offense.
— I should have taken your measurements myself, she mutters, finally removing the pins from her mouth. Lady McGregor insisted on giving them to me over the phone, but I knew they weren’t accurate.
— Lady McGregor? I ask, confused.
— Grandmother, Keira translates, rolling her eyes. She’s not technically a “Lady,” but everyone in the village calls her that. Out of respect—and fear.
— I’m starting to understand why.
The door opens softly, and Maggie walks in, closely followed by Isobel. Both women stop short when they see me, their reactions as different as their personalities.
— Splendid! Maggie exclaims, her eyes shining with approval. You look absolutely ravishing, my dear.
— Hmm, it’s different from what I imagined, Isobel comments, her expression saying exactly what she thinks.
— It’s true, it’s not very conventional for a McGregor, Maggie agrees, circling me. Our brides usually wear an element of tartan, but I must admit, this style suits you wonderfully.
I shoot Keira a questioning look, and she silently mouths “that’s a compliment” with an encouraging thumbs-up.
— Thank you, Maggie. It really is beautiful. I’ve never worn anything so elegant.
— It could use a bit more room in the chest, Isobel remarks, her tone tight.
Her gaze drops to my breasts, and I wonder if she thinks I’m pregnant… Without warning, the memory of my hands on Callum’s groin flashes through my mind, and I feel my cheeks heat instantly. It suddenly feels like a thousand degrees in this room.
— We’re working on that, Lady McGregor, Madame Gordon replies. I need to concentrate to finish these delicate adjustments…
— Of course, Maggie agrees, sitting beside Keira. Go on, Madame Gordon. We’ll be as silent as fish.
The silence that follows is anything but comfortable. I can feel Isobel’s gaze scanning every inch of my figure, probably cataloging flaws to criticize later. Maggie, meanwhile, watches me with a mix of curiosity and satisfaction that reminds me of a scientist observing a promising experiment.
— So, Jane, Maggie says suddenly, breaking the silence. How are you finding our family home so far?
— It’s breathtaking, I answer honestly.
Literally, considering this dress is crushing my lungs and I’ve been holding my breath for fifteen minutes…
— I’ve never seen anything like it.
— I imagine Hollywood must be quite different, Isobel remarks, a trace of condescension in her voice. All that modernity, that glitz, that superficiality…
— Mother, Keira cuts in, I think your disdain for popular culture is showing a little too much.
— It wasn’t disdain, Isobel defends herself. Simply an observation.
— A disdainful observation, Keira mutters into her glass.
I decide to step in before things escalate.
— Actually, Hollywood can be superficial, that’s true. But Los Angeles also has incredible cultural richness. Amazing museums, a vibrant art scene, historic neighborhoods… It’s like any other major city.
— You surprise me, Jane, Maggie comments. I didn’t picture you as a museum enthusiast.
— Because I’m an actress? I ask with a faint smile. Or because I’m American?
— Both, I suppose, she replies with disarming honesty. My prejudices do get the better of me sometimes.
— Mine too, I admit. I expected Scotland to be nothing but mist, sheep, and men in kilts playing bagpipes.
Keira bursts out laughing.
— And? Isn’t it?
— It is, completely. But it’s also so much more.
Maggie nods approvingly.
— Well said, my dear. Tell me about your family. Your mother will be at the wedding, I believe?
— Yes, she arrives tomorrow. Saying she’s excited would be an understatement.
— And there’s truly no chance your father will honor us with his presence? Isobel asks.
The question catches me off guard, and I feel my shoulders stiffen. Madame Gordon makes a disapproving noise as my movement disrupts her careful work.
— None at all, I answer shortly.
— Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Maggie says, with a sincerity that surprises me. Family relationships can be complicated.
— That’s a polite way of saying disastrous, I admit with a forced laugh.
An awkward silence settles. I bite my lip, regretting my honesty. Not exactly ideal wedding dress fitting conversation.
— My father could be difficult too, Keira says suddenly.
— A brilliant man, but inflexible. Stubborn in that uniquely McGregor way, Maggie adds.
— That reminds me of someone, Keira remarks pointedly toward Isobel, who ignores her completely.
— That’s why I was so relieved when my Angus married Isobel, Maggie continues. She had the strength of character needed to balance his determination.
Isobel seems momentarily softened by the comment.
— Angus was a man of principle, she says quietly. Just like Callum.
— Sometimes too much so, Maggie sighs. He has a tendency to analyze everything, to plan everything. It’s a family trait, I’m afraid.
— The McGregors are famous for three things, Keira explains to me. Their stubbornness, their business sense, and their inability to express emotions without the help of good whisky.
I can’t help but laugh.
— That explains a lot.
— How did you convince him, Jane? Isobel suddenly asks, her piercing blue eyes fixed on me.
— I’m sorry?
— How did you convince my son—this methodical man who plans every minute of his day—to get married after only a few months of a relationship?
The question is asked calmly, but I can feel the trap closing around me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Keira sit up, ready to intervene, but I shake my head slightly to stop her. This is my battle.
— I didn’t convince him, I reply, meeting Isobel’s gaze. I simply was myself. Sometimes even the most rational people make impulsive decisions—especially when guided by their feelings.
— Their feelings, Isobel repeats slowly, clearly skeptical.
— Especially their feelings, I insist. Callum may seem cold and calculating on the surface, but in reality, he has an incredibly passionate heart.
Seeing the surprised expressions on all three women’s faces, I realize I need to be more convincing if I want this lie to hold. So I let myself lean into my own fictional story.
— Do you know what he did after our first meeting? He sent me an arrangement of Scottish wildflowers he had specially imported, with a card quoting Robert Burns. “My love is like a red, red rose, newly sprung in June…”
— “My love is like a melody, sweetly played in tune,” Maggie finishes softly, clearly moved.
I nod, surprised myself by how easily the lie comes.
— Exactly. What kind of man does that if he’s guided only by logic?
Isobel looks momentarily unsettled. Keira stares at me with a mix of admiration and amusement, as if watching a particularly entertaining performance.
— And then there was the time he called me at three in the morning, just to say he was looking at the stars and they reminded him of my eyes.
— Callum? My son? Isobel says, stunned.
— Sometimes people surprise us, I reply with a mysterious smile.
— Indeed, Maggie murmurs, watching me with a new kind of look. Indeed.
Madame Gordon finally straightens, satisfied with her work.
— There. The preliminary adjustments are done. I’ll return tomorrow for the finishing touches, after working on these alterations tonight.
— Perfect, Madame Gordon, Maggie thanks her. Jane, you look lovely. Callum will be dazzled.
— If he notices anything, Keira comments. My brother would probably miss it if you got married in a wetsuit.
— Very well, Maggie says, standing. Jane, once you’re changed, join me in the sitting room for the lesson on the Quaich ceremony. Isobel, Keira, will you join us?
— Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Keira says brightly.
— I have calls to make, Isobel declines politely. But I’m sure Jane will rise to the occasion.
Her tone is less cold than before, and I choose to take that as a small victory.
Once the three women leave, Madame Gordon helps me carefully out of the dress.
— You know, she says as she folds the precious gown with care, I’ve worked for the McGregor family for twenty-five years. I’ve dressed Lady McGregor for countless occasions, I made Isobel’s wedding gown. I’ve watched Callum grow from a serious little boy into the man he is today.
She pauses, adjusting her glasses.
— He’s never been the type to quote poetry or call in the middle of the night to talk about the stars.
My heart skips a beat. Has she figured out I was lying?
— But you know what? she continues with a knowing smile. It was a beautiful story. And the way you told it… your eyes were brighter than the pearls on this dress.
— I don’t understand, I stammer.
— Sometimes, my dear, the stories we invent reveal more truth than the ones that are real.
With those cryptic words, she gathers her things and leaves me alone, confused and unsettled.
I change quickly. The situation is so absurd I’d laugh if I weren’t still shaken by Madame Gordon’s words. The old woman clearly didn’t believe a single thing I said. If the seamstress isn’t fooled, how can I hope to convince Callum’s family?
I made up everything—the flowers, the poem, the late-night call… none of it happened. It was a performance, nothing more. My job is to be convincing when I tell stories that aren’t real.
And yet, a small voice in my head reminds me that the best performances come from a place of truth. What does it say about me that I was able to imagine, so easily and so convincingly, a romantic, passionate version of Callum?
I shake my head, pushing away the thought, and head toward the sitting room where my next Scottish lesson awaits. I need to focus on the immediate goal: survive this wedding, convince Callum’s family, and honor our contract. No room for confusing feelings that have no place in this arrangement.
But as I walk down the grand staircase, I can’t help wondering—what would Callum actually be like in love? Would he really quote poetry? Would he call in the middle of the night just to talk about the stars?
And more troubling still—why does that image make my heart beat a little faster?
I shake my head again. It’s probably just wedding stress. Or maybe a side effect—acupuncture style—of the forty pins that tried to assassinate my ribs during that fitting. Yes, that must be it. Nothing to do with inappropriate feelings for my future fake husband.
Absolutely nothing.