Chapter 15
ALISTAIR
Haggis, Kilts, and Insults: Welcome to the Family
I stare at the cream-colored envelope on my desk as if it might explode. In a way, it probably will. The elegant, old-fashioned calligraphy simply reads Alistair McKenzie, and the red wax seal proudly bears the McGregor crest.
No need to guess who sent it.
Margaret “Maggie” McGregor. The matriarch of the rival clan. The woman who, according to my father, once threatened to turn a McKenzie into a sporran if he ever set foot on her land again.
And, incidentally, the grandmother of my supposed fiancée.
I finally open the envelope, pulling out a thick card.
Your presence is required at McGregor Castle this Saturday at precisely 2:00 p.m. to participate in Scottish engagement traditions. Punctuality is considered a virtue. Absence will be interpreted as a lack of seriousness regarding your commitment.
This is not an invitation.
It’s a summons.
I immediately grab my phone and call the only person who can shed light on what exactly these “traditions” entail.
“Tell me this is a joke,” I say the second Keira picks up.
“Good morning to you too, McKenzie,” she replies, clearly amused. “I take it you received Maggie’s invitation?”
“Invitation? That’s a barely disguised ultimatum! What is this ‘Scottish engagement traditions’ nonsense?”
A resigned sigh comes through the line.
“Maggie dug that up. Apparently, the McGregors have always put suitors through a series of trials to test their worth.”
“And you couldn’t have warned me?”
“I was going to! But my grandmother insisted on sending a formal invitation. She says it’s more… traditional.”
I run a hand through my hair.
“What kind of trials are we talking about? Fighting a Highland bear with my bare hands? Reciting the entire McGregor clan history from the beginning of time?”
Keira laughs, and despite my irritation, I have to admit it’s a rather pleasant sound.
“Honestly? I have no idea. I swear Maggie invents half of these traditions as she goes. But if it reassures you, Callum had to go through them before marrying Jane.”
“And he survived?”
“More or less. He still has nightmares involving haggis and bagpipes.”
Wonderful. Exactly what I needed to hear.
“You’ll be there at least?” I ask, hating the note of hope in my voice.
“Of course. Someone has to document your humiliation for posterity,” she replies, teasing. “But don’t worry—there are no more bears in the Highlands.”
“Very reassuring,” I mutter.
Saturday arrives far too quickly for my liking.
I find myself standing in front of the imposing doors of McGregor Castle, dressed in my ceremonial kilt in my clan’s colors—a decision I may soon regret, but it seemed important to assert my identity before being subjected to Maggie’s whims.
Jamison, the butler with the perpetually disapproving expression, greets me with icy politeness.
“Mr. McKenzie,” he says with a slight bow. “You are expected in the drawing room.”
He leads me through corridors I’m beginning to recognize after my nighttime infiltration with Keira. This time, however, I don’t have the advantage of darkness to conceal my presence.
Every McGregor portrait on the walls seems to follow me with its gaze, judging the audacity of a McKenzie daring to walk their sacred halls.
Jamison opens the drawing room doors and announces my arrival as though I were a foreign dignitary—which, in a sense, I am.
“Mr. Alistair McKenzie,” he declares solemnly.
I step into the room and discover a larger reception committee than expected. Besides Maggie, seated like a queen on her throne, there is Keira, of course, but also Callum, Isobel, Jane, and Lachlan.
“You’re punctual,” Maggie remarks instead of a greeting. “That’s a good start.”
“I wouldn’t dare offend a McGregor on her own territory,” I reply with what I hope is a charming smile.
Keira approaches, and I’m struck by the effortless elegance of her midnight-blue dress, the way it highlights her curves. She gives me a look that is both amused and sympathetic.
“Ready for the big test?” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to my cheek to maintain our cover.
“As ready as one can be for a slaughter.”
Lachlan chooses that moment to step forward, studying me from head to toe like a scientist examining a particularly curious specimen.
“So it’s true—you’re the McKenzie our favorite stubborn mule decided to bring home?” he says, his Scottish accent even thicker than Callum’s.
Keira rolls her eyes.
“Alistair, you’ve met my cousin Lachlan. Ignore him—that’s what we’ve all been doing for thirty years.”
“Shut it, dried squid head,” Lachlan shoots back without any real bite before extending his hand. “Nice to finally meet the man brave—or crazy—enough to want to marry this walking disaster. Sorry I wasn’t very responsive at dinner last time—I was… distracted.”
I shake his hand, surprised by the lack of real hostility behind his words.
“The pleasure is mine,” I reply cautiously.
“Lachlan and Keira have been inseparable since childhood,” Isobel explains as she approaches. “Their colorful exchanges are their rather peculiar way of showing affection.”
“We call it ‘McGregor love,’” Jane adds with an encouraging wink. “You get used to it… eventually.”
Maggie claps her hands, drawing everyone’s attention back to her.
“Good! Now that everyone is here, let us begin. The first Scottish engagement tradition is the washing of the suitor’s hands.”
I expect something harmless—perhaps dipping my hands into a basin of water. But when Jamison returns carrying a large wooden bowl filled with a dark, thick, muddy liquid, I begin to understand Keira’s earlier sympathetic look.
“Last time, the poor guy had frostbite until June,” Lachlan comments loudly enough for me to hear.
I frown, about to ask Keira if she has previously been engaged, but Maggie explains with exaggerated solemnity:
“The washing of the hands tests the future husband’s endurance against Scottish winters and his adaptation to the family land. The water comes from the estate loch, mixed with Highland peat.”
I glance at Keira. She gives a slight shrug that clearly says you’re on your own. Callum, meanwhile, watches the scene with poorly concealed amusement.
“How long?” I ask, resigned.
“Until you can no longer feel your fingers—or you beg us to stop,” Lachlan replies, already pulling out his phone. “Taking bets!”
I turn my attention back to the bowl.
It’s disgusting. And freezing. Inhumanly freezing. The kind of cold that makes you reconsider every life decision that led you to this exact moment.
But a McKenzie doesn’t back down from a challenge.
As I stoically plunge my hands into what feels more like medieval torture than a romantic tradition, I suddenly feel something under the table—Keira’s hand, discreetly pressing against my knee in silent support.
I meet her gaze and find a mix of amusement and admiration that, strangely, makes the ordeal more bearable.
Lachlan notices and makes an exaggerated gagging motion.
“For the love of—overcooked beet head, keep your hands where we can see them! There are innocent souls in this room!”
“Jealous, shriveled cucumber head?” Keira shoots back instantly.
Their exchange makes me smile despite everything.
After what feels like an eternity—though it’s probably only five minutes—Maggie declares the trial complete. I pull my hands out, now bright red and completely numb.
“Impressive,” Callum admits reluctantly. “They had to drag me to the bowl…”
I frown, about to question whether he actually went through this “trial,” but I don’t get the chance.
“On to the next tradition!” Maggie announces. “The tartan procession!”
Before I can ask what that entails, Callum steps forward holding what looks like a neatly folded kilt.
A McGregor kilt.
Oh no.
“The suitor must wear the colors of his future family to prove his commitment to honoring their heritage,” Maggie explains with a mischievous smile.
For a Scotsman, wearing another clan’s tartan—especially that of a rival—is practically sacrilege. I stare at the McGregor kilt the way one might look at a venomous snake.
“Don’t worry,” Lachlan says, handing me a single, particularly hideous sock decorated with outrageous patterns. “I added this. It’s for luck.”
“And to permanently ruin your sense of style,” Keira adds.
I take a deep breath. If I want to maintain our charade—and, I have to admit, impress Keira a little—I don’t really have a choice.
“Where can I change?” I ask with what I hope is dignified resignation.
The smile Keira gives me almost makes the humiliation of trading my McKenzie tartan for a McGregor one worth it.
I’m led into a guest bedroom, and Lachlan follows, claiming he’s there to make sure I don’t try to escape through the window. The moment the door shuts, he folds his arms and fixes me with a steady look.
“So, McKenzie—what exactly are your intentions toward my favorite cousin?”
“I thought interrogation wasn’t part of the official traditions,” I reply cautiously.
“Oh, it’s not. This is just me making sure you’re not a complete idiot,” he says, dropping onto the bed. “Keira deserves better than some arrogant fool—even if she does have a questionable weakness for men in kilts.”
As I awkwardly adjust the McGregor tartan, I decide to be at least partially honest.
“I care about her,” I say simply. “More than I expected.”
Lachlan watches me for a moment, then gives a small nod.
“You know, for a McKenzie, you’re not as insufferable as I thought. I was expecting more ‘me McKenzie, you inferior’ and less… whatever this is.”
“So you’re saying I’m a normal human being?”
“Let’s not get carried away, bootleg whisky head,” he shoots back with a grin.
I pause, thrown off by the nickname.
“That’s how Keira and I communicate since we were kids,” he explains. “Insults have to start with ‘head of’ and be as creative as possible.”
“And that’s… affectionate?”
He shrugs. “It’s our thing. If I insult you, it’s a good sign. If I’m polite—start writing your will.”