Chapter 13
ALISTAIR
Freefall in McGregor Territory: A Survival Guide for a Lost McKenzie
I’m seriously starting to wonder if I’ve lost my mind.
Or maybe I’m the victim of some elaborate scheme designed to publicly humiliate me.
There’s no other explanation for why I—Alistair Keir McKenzie, heir to the McKenzie distillery—am currently parked on a muddy dirt track at the edge of McGregor land, sitting in the dark like a particularly incompetent secret agent.
Keira’s message had been as cryptic as it was insistent.
KEIRA
Meet me at the south marker at 9 p.m. Park on the forest road. Come alone. Tell no one.
I could have ignored it. I should have ignored it. And yet here I am, nervously checking my watch (9:07 p.m.), wondering what on earth possessed me to agree to take part in what feels suspiciously like the opening scene of a Scottish horror movie.
A sharp knock on my window makes me jump.
Keira stands outside. She’s wearing a dark jacket, a beanie pulled low over her hair and… are those streaks of camouflage on her cheeks?
I open the door and step out into the cool Scottish night air.
“Did you paint black stripes on your face?”
“Shh!” she hisses, glancing around nervously. “Keep your voice down!”
“Sorry,” I whisper dramatically. “Did you paint black stripes on your face?”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s charcoal. So I won’t be recognized.”
“Right. Because without it, in the pitch-black darkness of a private estate, you’d definitely be recognized by the many night walkers casually strolling through Highland forest trails.”
She shoots me a look that, even in the dim light, could make a Celtic warrior flinch.
“Did you bring what I asked for?”
I frown. “You didn’t ask me to bring anything.”
“Oh. I thought I mentioned it.”
“Mentioned what?”
“Never mind,” she sighs. “We’ll improvise. Follow me—and stay quiet.”
She turns on her heel and disappears into the brush. I hesitate for a second, then lock the car and follow.
Keira moves with the confidence of someone who knows this land like the back of her hand, easily avoiding low branches and treacherous roots that seem personally determined to trip me.
“Are you planning to explain why we’re playing secret agents?” I whisper after a few minutes of silence.
“We’re going to the archives.”
“The archives? Your family’s?”
“No, the National Library of Scotland’s. Of course they’re my family’s.”
I stop dead.
“Wait. You’re taking me into McGregor Castle? Into your private family archives?”
She turns, her face barely visible in the darkness. “That’s why I asked you to come, isn’t it? You showed me yours, I’ll show you mine. Fair’s fair.”
“So this is the kind of game we’re playing now?”
Keira exhales sharply. “Don’t be childish, Alistair.”
“Says the woman who organized a full-blown espionage mission.”
She doesn’t answer—just keeps walking.
“Keira McGregor, are you smuggling a McKenzie into your family’s inner sanctum?”
“Let’s say I’m interpreting the ‘collaboration’ clause in our engagement contract… creatively.”
“You do realize that if your brother finds me there, he’ll probably turn my skin into a new sporran?”
A metallic clinking suddenly rings out in the night. Keira freezes, then grabs my arm and yanks me behind a thick bush. I hit the damp ground, Keira practically sprawled on top of me, her hand clamped over my mouth.
The sound gets closer, rhythmic and melodic. A familiar bleat confirms my suspicion as Hamish strolls into view. The sheep pauses, as if sensing us, then continues on his way with purpose.
Once he’s gone, Keira removes her hand.
“Looks like your gift works perfectly,” she murmurs, a smile in her voice.
“Clearly. Should I assume our friend is heading to a romantic rendezvous?”
“Rosita’s probably waiting in their love nest. Those two are more reliable than the Prague astronomical clock.”
She stands and offers me a hand. For a brief second, as our fingers intertwine, I feel a strange warmth that has nothing to do with the exertion.
“Would you like to go?” I ask.
Keira peers over the hedge. “Where?”
“Prague.”
She turns back—and suddenly steps closer. Her hands settle at the nape of my neck before sliding up to the top of my head.
I catch her scent, her closeness doing things to me I’m not prepared to analyze.
“Keira… what are you doing?”
“I’m checking you didn’t crack your head when you fell, because you’re making no sense.”
I grab her forearms to stop her from inspecting my scalp.
Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, time stills.
I only realize my gaze has drifted to her mouth when she speaks.
“We should go.”
We continue, soon catching sight of McGregor Castle. Unlike the newer McKenzie estate, this place is a true medieval fortress, with thick walls and turrets cutting into the night sky—impressive, and just a little intimidating. Much like its owners.
Instead of heading for the main entrance, Keira follows the west wall to a small ivy-covered door.
“Secret entrance,” she explains, pulling an antique key from her pocket. “Used for centuries to dodge tax collectors, English invaders, and—more recently—my grandmother’s surprise dates.”
The lock creaks as she turns the key. The door opens onto a narrow, shadowy passage.
“After you,” she says with mocking elegance.
“McKenzies first, to test for traps?”
“Exactly. If I hear a scream followed by a thud, I’ll know to step over something.”
I shake my head but step inside. The air is cool, damp, heavy with the scent of old stone.
“This is fascinating,” I murmur, running a hand over the rough masonry. “These walls have probably seen generations of McGregors plotting against the McKenzies.”
“And vice versa, I imagine,” Keira adds, closing the door softly behind us. “Schemes and grudges—it’s a shared family tradition.”
She switches on a small flashlight, its narrow beam guiding us forward.
“Why all the secrecy, Keira? Why not just bring me in through the front door? I’m supposed to be your fiancé, after all.”
She slows, answering in a low voice. “No McKenzie has ever been allowed into the family archives. It’s one of the few places my father considered truly sacred.”
“Then why bring me?”
She stops and turns to face me. In the dim light, her expression is both serious and vulnerable.
“Because I think what you found in your archives might connect to something in ours. And because… I trust you. As strange as that sounds.”
The admission hits me harder than I expect. Me—a McKenzie—trusted by a McGregor with access to their most guarded secrets. If our ancestors could see this, they’d probably choke on their whisky.
“I won’t betray that trust.”
I surprise myself with how sincere I sound.
“You’d better not. Or I’ll tell the entire world that the great Alistair McKenzie sleeps with a nightlight.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m starting to figure you out. You’re too easy to provoke.”
The passage opens into a wider corridor inside the castle. Keira switches off her flashlight—the dim wall sconces are enough.
“The archives are on the second floor, east wing,” she explains. “We cross the main gallery and take the grand staircase.”
“Simple, fast, discreet,” I mutter. “What could possibly go wrong?”
“Follow me—and act like you belong here.”
“Hard to do when every portrait on these walls looks like it’s silently saying ‘McKenzie, leave.’”
“They do that to everyone—even me,” she says. “The McGregors mastered the art of disapproval long before photography.”
We move quietly through elegant corridors, Keira leading with ease. Unlike the modern McKenzie home, everything here breathes history—dark wood paneling, ancient tapestries, weapons mounted on the walls. It’s like walking through a history book where my family plays the villain.
We near an intersection when Keira suddenly freezes.
“Someone’s coming,” she whispers, grabbing my arm and pulling me into a side corridor.
I’m pressed against the wall beside a particularly menacing suit of armor, Keira tight against me in the narrow space. Her scent—heather and something indefinable but unmistakably her—wraps around me, making the proximity far more distracting than it should be.
Footsteps echo closer.
“Mademoiselle Keira?” calls Jamison’s refined voice. “Is that you?”
Keira shoots me a panicked look, then composes herself and steps slightly forward, leaving me hidden.
“Jamison!” she says with forced brightness. “What a surprise to see you at this hour!”
“I’m making my usual rounds, Miss. I might ask you the same.”
“Oh, you know me—I always have trouble sleeping. I was just looking for… a book! For my research. On… Scottish heritage preservation.”
Her acting is impressively terrible. I bite back a laugh.
“At this hour? In the east wing?” he asks, clearly skeptical.
“I’m so tired I’m not thinking clearly, Jamison.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. And does that also explain why you have… is that charcoal on your face?”
“Oh! It’s… a traditional Scottish facial mask. To… purify the pores. An old recipe from Grandma Maggie.”
I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“Of course,” he replies, unfazed. “May I suggest you conclude your research before midnight? Your mother worries when you wander the castle at such hours.”
“Absolutely, Jamison. I’ll be as quiet as a Highland mouse.”
“A creature renowned for its discretion, no doubt. Good evening, Miss.”
“Good evening, Jamison!”
He walks away. Keira waits until he’s gone, then turns to me, an embarrassed smile tugging at her lips.
“A traditional Scottish facial mask?” I repeat.
“Shut up, McKenzie. I was improvising under pressure.”
“And that’s clearly your strong suit. If interior design doesn’t work out, you’ve got a bright future in improv theater.”
She elbows me.
“Mock all you want—Jamison left, didn’t he? Mission accomplished.”
“If that’s your definition of success, I’d hate to see your failures.”
We move on, winding through a maze of corridors until we reach a narrow spiral staircase that supposedly leads straight to the archives.
As we approach a large oak door with intricate ironwork, a sudden noise freezes us—creaking, then murmuring, from the far end of the hall.
“Someone’s coming,” Keira whispers, grabbing my arm.
Almost in sync, we press ourselves into a dark alcove barely big enough for one person—definitely not two. The result is a level of closeness well beyond what’s appropriate for fake fiancés.
Her body is pressed against mine, her face inches from my own. In the dim light, her eyes seem deeper, more mysterious. I notice, for the first time, the constellation of freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose like tiny stars against her pale skin.
The noise continues—probably a staff member or family member—but my attention is no longer on our precarious situation. Instead, I’m hypnotized by the curve of her lips, the stray lock brushing her cheek, the slight quickening of her breath against my chest.
“Alistair?” she whispers, her eyes wide.
I don’t know if it’s the tension, the adrenaline, or something that’s been building longer than I want to admit—but I find myself leaning toward her, my intentions suddenly crystal clear.
Her gaze flickers between my eyes and my lips. Something unreadable crosses her face.
She doesn’t pull away.
Time slows. The world fades. No castle. No centuries-old feud. No fake engagement contract. Just Keira and me—on the edge of something that could change everything.
And just as my lips are about to meet hers, a door swings open behind me.
Startled, we both lose our balance. I fall backward, dragging Keira down with me. In a tangle of limbs and startled breaths, we crash to the floor.
I land hard on my back, the impact knocking the air from my lungs. A second later, Keira lands on top of me, her hair falling around our faces like a curtain.
Our eyes meet again, both stunned. Her lips—the ones I was about to kiss seconds ago—are now so close I can feel her warm breath against my skin.
The world hangs suspended in this perfect, absurd moment. All my attention is fixed on the woman lying on top of me—a McGregor who, I’m beginning to suspect, has completely turned my world upside down.
And the most unsettling part?
I’m not sure I want it to stop.