Chapter 13 #2
I flinch at the male voice behind me. Turning, I find a man in his thirties, dressed in a leather jacket and jeans, a professional camera hanging around his neck.
My stomach drops.
A paparazzo. Of course.
— How did you get in here? I ask coldly.
— It’s a large property, he says with a smile. I was just walking nearby when I saw you. You seem upset. Is it about the photos circulating? Do you have a statement?
— Leave. Now.
— Come on, Jane—can I call you Jane?
— No. You can’t.
— You’re a public figure, he continues, ignoring me. People want to know—
— What people want is sensation—not the truth, I snap. Now if you don’t leave, I’ll call security.
He steps closer, camera ready, hoping to capture a breakdown.
— Is it true your marriage to McGregor is arranged? A desperate attempt to repair your image after the Los Angeles incident?
— I’m not answering—
Something moves behind him.
Big. White. Determined.
Hamish.
The sheep charges straight at us, head down, moving far faster than something that size should.
— Watch out! I shout.
The paparazzo turns just in time to get slammed full force. The impact sends him flying into a thick puddle of mud, his camera launching into the air before landing several feet away.
— What the hell! he yells, covered in mud. What is this?!
Hamish isn’t done. He circles him, bleating in what sounds suspiciously like triumphant laughter, then deliberately plants a hoof on the camera, grinding it deeper into the mud.
I should probably help him.
Really.
Instead, I burst out laughing.
— Meet Hamish, I say between gasps. The Highlands’ harshest photography critic.
— Call this thing off! he shouts, trying to stand—only to slip again under Hamish’s watchful eye.
— Sorry, he doesn’t listen to me. We have a complicated relationship.
As if to prove my point, Hamish leaves the camera and moves closer to me, positioning himself almost protectively between us.
— Look, I didn’t mean to offend you, the man stammers, trying to retrieve his camera without getting too close. I’m just doing my job.
— Your job? I repeat, anger flaring again. Your job is trespassing, taking photos without consent, twisting them out of context, and ruining people’s lives for clicks?
— People want to know—
— No, I cut in. People want entertainment. They want scandal to distract from their own lives. This isn’t journalism—it’s voyeurism.
I step closer, Hamish still at my side like a woolly bodyguard.
— Take your camera and leave. And if you publish anything about this encounter, I’ll sue you for trespassing and defamation. And I’ll send Hamish after you.
Hamish bleats as if in agreement.
The paparazzo, now soaked in mud, retrieves his damaged camera with a grimace.
— You weren’t always this hostile toward the press, Miss Carter. Before your scandal, you chased photographers.
That hits like a slap.
Worst of all—he’s not entirely wrong.
— People change, I say simply. Now go.
He backs away slowly, keeping a wary eye on Hamish.
— Your marriage won’t last, he throws over his shoulder. No matter what you claim, no one believes in it.
Then he turns and disappears between the trees.
I sink down at the base of the oak, suddenly exhausted. Hamish ambles over and, to my surprise, drops heavily beside me, his thick wool brushing my arm.
— I guess I should thank you, I say, awkwardly patting his head. You’re a remarkably perceptive sheep, you know that?
He lets out a satisfied bleat. I quickly pull my hand back.
— I’m starting to see why you didn’t like Heather. You must have a sixth sense for toxic people.
I glance toward the distant castle, wondering what’s happening there now. Is Callum strategizing damage control? Calling in lawyers to erase the photo? Or does he still think I set this whole thing up?
That last thought hurts more than I want to admit.
— You know, Hamish, I say, and he actually seems to be listening, I thought this arranged marriage would be simple. A contract. One year of my life. Then I’d start over. No attachments. No emotional complications.
He blinks, like he already knows where I’m going.
— But nothing’s ever simple, is it? Especially when you start seeing the person behind the contract. When you start liking them for who they really are.
I sigh.
— And now I don’t even know where I stand. Because even if Callum isn’t the cold businessman I thought he was… he clearly thinks I’m exactly the desperate, manipulative actress he imagined.
Hamish nudges my arm gently.
— At least you trust me, apparently. Maybe I should marry you instead of Callum. You’d make a much more understanding husband.
— I’m not sure that’s legal. Even in Scotland.
I jump at the sound of Callum’s voice.
He’s standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets.
— What are you doing here? I ask, not moving.
— Looking for you. Jamison said he saw you head into the park.
He approaches slowly, like he’s afraid I’ll bolt again… or that Hamish might charge.
— How did you find me?
— I followed the shouting. And the swearing. And the trail of mud, he adds, glancing at the path the paparazzo took. What happened here?
I pat Hamish’s head.
— My new friend here decided a certain paparazzo needed a lesson in respecting privacy. It involved a lot of mud—and possibly a destroyed camera.
A slow smile spreads across Callum’s face.
— Hamish attacked a paparazzo… to defend you?
— He seems to have a gift for identifying unwanted people.
— Impressive, Callum says. He’s never shown that kind of loyalty to anyone outside the family.
The words hang between us.
— Jane… he begins. I came to apologize.
— Really? For what exactly?
— For even considering that you might’ve been involved. For not being on your side immediately. For thinking about the business before thinking about you.
He runs a hand through his hair.
— I panicked. When I saw that photo… when I realized our private arrangement could be exposed… my first instinct was to find someone to blame. To regain control.
— And naturally, I was the most likely suspect—the disgraced actress, I say bitterly.
— It was unfair. And irrational. Especially after… after these past few days.
Our eyes meet, and something shifts.
— Keira gave me a monumental dressing-down after you left, he adds with a sheepish smile. In very colorful terms, she reminded me you were the main victim here—and that I was acting like an “emotionally stunted idiot obsessed with his precious empire.”
— I like your sister more and more.
— She likes you too. A lot. Actually… my whole family does.
Silence settles, broken only by Hamish’s occasional bleat.
— And you? I ask quietly. Do you like me, Callum? Or am I just a contract getting increasingly complicated?
His answer matters more than I want it to.
— You were never just a contract to me, he says softly. Even at the beginning, when I pretended otherwise. And these past few days…
He hesitates, searching for words.
— They’ve changed things. More than I was prepared to admit.
Hamish suddenly stands and wanders off, as if giving us space.
— What does that mean? I ask.
— I’m not entirely sure, he admits. Which is… unsettling for someone who usually plans everything down to the minute.
He steps closer and sits beside me, taking Hamish’s place.
— But I do know this—I’m sorry for doubting you. And I really want you to still be my bride tomorrow.
My heart stumbles at his words. It’s ridiculous… it shouldn’t matter…
And yet, it does.
— And the photo? The scandal? I ask, carefully sidestepping the deeper issue.
— Dougal’s handling it. We identified the source—and it’s not what I thought. One of the temporary servers hired for the wedding recognized you and took the photos discreetly.
— So it was someone on the inside…
— Yes. But not you. I should’ve known. I should’ve trusted you.
His eyes search mine.
— I trust you, Jane. More than I thought possible in such a short time.
— I trust you too, I say softly. Even when you act like an emotionally stunted idiot obsessed with your precious empire.
A smile tugs at his lips.
— I deserve that.
— Completely.
He stands and offers me his hand.
— Ready to face the chaos waiting for us?
I look at his hand, then at his face. In his eyes, there’s something new—something that wasn’t there when we signed that contract in Los Angeles.
Something that scares me… and thrills me.
I take his hand and stand.
— As long as we face it together, I think I can handle just about anything. Even a swarm of paparazzi—or another Scottish dance lesson.
— Even your mother-in-law? he teases, not letting go of my hand as we start walking back toward the castle.
— Let’s not get carried away, I say with a shiver. I think facing a herd of enraged Hamishes would be easier than winning over your mother…
As if on cue, Hamish follows us at a distance, like a fluffy guardian angel watching over us.
And strangely… his presence comforts me. Maybe I’m starting to like him a little.
Despite my completely irrational fear of sheep.