Chapitre 30
ALISTAIR
A Signature on Our Hearts
I’ve never been particularly superstitious, but today, standing in front of the mirror in this guest room at McGregor Castle, I finally understand why grooms aren’t supposed to see the bride before the ceremony.
It’s not about luck—it’s about nerves. And mine are currently strung as tight as the strings of a Celtic harp.
Which is completely ridiculous, of course. This isn’t a wedding. Not yet. It’s simply the official signing of a business partnership between the McKenzies and the McGregors. A historic event, sure, but essentially a formality after months of intense negotiations following our family meeting.
So why am I adjusting my tie for the fifteenth time?
— If you keep that up, you’re going to rip it off, Martha says as she walks in, carrying my freshly pressed jacket.
Martha, my longtime assistant, insisted on coming to the castle this morning to make sure I’d be “presentable.” As if I were incapable of dressing myself.
— I just want everything to be perfect, I reply, taking the jacket she hands me.
— And it will be, she says with a warm smile. I’ve never seen you like this, you know.
— Like what?
— Happy, she answers simply. Truly happy.
I don’t know what to say to that. Martha has known me for so long—she’s seen me through professional crises, breakups, successes, failures. The fact that she notices a difference now affects me more than I’d care to admit.
— Must be the McGregor effect, I joke, masking the emotion tightening in my chest.
— No, it’s the Keira effect, she corrects. That woman has done for you in a few months what I couldn’t manage in years—turned you into a human being.
— Thank you for that compliment, Martha. Your usual tact is as refreshing as ever.
She laughs, then checks her watch.
— You’ve got half an hour. I’ll head downstairs and make sure everything’s ready.
Once I’m alone, I check for the hundredth time that I have everything.
The document is still there, carefully folded.
I slip it into the inside pocket of my jacket.
I’ve drafted and revised it so many times I could probably recite it by heart.
There’s something else I tuck in alongside it—an object that might soon carry a great deal of meaning.
I step over to the window and watch the bustle in the castle gardens.
Spring is just starting to arrive, though the air still carries a chill.
Members of both families are busy with final preparations.
In a specially set-up enclosure, Hamish and Rosita keep watch over their lambs, born only a few days ago.
Those sheep have somehow become the unofficial mascots of our reconciliation—woolly ambassadors of McKenzie-McGregor peace.
The past few months have been a whirlwind.
Negotiations with my father are still difficult, but now they’re constructive.
The first experiments based on Elspeth’s recipe confirmed our wildest hopes.
The application for protected designation for our future whisky, Archibald & Elspeth.
The renovation of the shop according to Keira’s original designs, enriched by the history we uncovered together.
Not to mention the Highland Games, where our two families faced off in what was, all things considered, a surprisingly cordial way.
And in the middle of it all—us. Keira and me, learning to be together for real. No facade. No arrangement. No contract. Just two people who, against all odds, found something precious in the chaos of their lives.
It’s time to head downstairs. I take a deep breath, check my pocket one last time, and walk toward the door.
It’s a big day.
The castle’s great hall has been transformed for the occasion.
The old solid oak table—likely witness to more arguments between our clans than any piece of furniture in Scotland—is now draped in emerald green fabric embroidered with the intertwined crests of both families.
On top, the official documents wait for our signatures.
What strikes me most as I step inside is the atmosphere. Not long ago, a meeting between our families would’ve been about as relaxed as a face-off between cats and dogs. Today, the conversations are easy, laughter comes naturally, and the mingling groups speak of a deep shift.
My father—typically as sociable as a bear just out of hibernation—is engaged in animated conversation with Maggie McGregor in the corner. As I pass by, I catch fragments about 1920s distillation techniques. Who would’ve thought those two would ever share anything other than mutual disdain?
A little farther on, my mother and Isobel are exchanging what appear to be photos on their phones, punctuating each swipe with amused exclamations.
If I had to guess, they’re showing each other embarrassing childhood pictures of Keira and me.
I make a mental note to confiscate their phones before too much damage is done.
Near the buffet, Callum and Lachlan are talking rugby and bonding over their shared disdain for the English team. They greet me with friendly nods that almost make me feel like part of the McGregor clan.
— Big day, huh? Lachlan says with a crooked grin. Ready to chain your life to our family of lunatics?
— After surviving Hamish, I think I can handle any of you, I shoot back.
— Don’t underestimate Maggie, Callum cuts in, laughing. That sheep’s an amateur compared to her.
— I can hear you perfectly well, young men, Maggie calls from across the room without even turning around.
We exchange half-amused, half-terrified glances. That woman definitely has supernatural powers.
— Where’s Keira? I ask, suddenly realizing she’s not in the room.
— In the gardens, Callum answers. She needed, and I quote, “a minute to breathe before all this madness begins.”
— Is she okay? I ask, a flicker of concern tightening my chest.
— She’s fine, he reassures me. Just a little nervous—like you. Why don’t you go join her? We’ve still got time before the lawyers arrive.
I don’t need to be told twice.
I find her near the sheep enclosure, wearing an elegant navy dress that echoes the deep tones of the McKenzie tartan.
Her hair is swept up into a sophisticated bun, exposing the curve of her neck—the same neck I kissed last night as we lay beneath the stars on the castle terrace. The memory tugs a smile from me.
She doesn’t hear me approach, absorbed in watching Hamish and Rosita with their lambs.
— Do you think they understand what they’ve started? I murmur softly so I don’t startle her.
She turns toward me, her face lighting up with a smile.
— I hope not. Otherwise Hamish’s ego would be even more out of control than it already is.
I move beside her, watching the little sheep family.
— And now they’re the only ones with an official relationship and kids, I point out. We’ve got some catching up to do.
She nudges me playfully with her elbow.
— One thing at a time, McKenzie. Let’s sign the business partnership before we start talking about lambs.
— Are you nervous? I ask, catching the faint tension in her voice.
— A little, she admits. Not about the partnership—I know it’s the right decision. But all of this… it’s huge. Our families together, generations of rivalry fading away, your father finally looking at me without wanting to turn me to stone…
— He likes you, you know. In his own way. Yesterday he said you had a remarkable analytical mind—for someone interested in history.
— Coming from Malcolm McKenzie, that’s practically a love declaration, she laughs.
— He’ll like you even more with time. My mother already adores you, which is a miracle in itself. She’s never liked any of my girlfriends.
— I’m not your girlfriend, she reminds me with a teasing smile. I’m your fake fiancée.
— Right. I keep forgetting. This situation is getting confusing.
We laugh, and then a comfortable silence settles between us. The lambs dart around their parents, carefree, fully present in the moment. There’s something to learn from them, I think.
— Keira, I say finally. Before we go back inside for the signing, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about.
She turns toward me, a flicker of concern crossing her face.
— Everything okay?
— Everything’s perfect, I reassure her. It’s just that… before we sign the official partnership between our families, I’d like to propose a different kind of agreement.
Her expression shifts from concern to curiosity.
— What kind of agreement?
I take a deep breath and pull the document from my inside pocket.
My hands are trembling slightly—which is absurd.
I’m a seasoned businessman, used to negotiating million-pound contracts without the slightest hint of nerves.
But this document… these few sheets of paper…
represent the most important investment of my life.
— What is it? she asks, taking the document I hand her.
— Read it, I say simply.
She unfolds the pages carefully and begins reading aloud:
PERSONAL COMMITMENT CONTRACT
Between the undersigned:
Alistair Duncan McKenzie, residing at McKenzie Distillery, hereafter referred to as “The Taken Heart”
And
Keira Margaret McGregor, residing at McGregor Castle, hereafter referred to as “The Heart Thief”
The following has been agreed:
She pauses, lifting her eyes to mine, caught between amusement and emotion.
— You didn’t.
— Keep going.
She continues, her voice growing more unsteady as she reads:
Article 1: Purpose of the Contract
This contract aims to formalize the genuine feelings of “The Taken Heart” toward “The Heart Thief,” feelings that emerged completely unexpectedly during an arrangement that was initially professional and temporary.
Article 2: Duration of the Contract
Unlike our previous agreement, limited to three months, this contract is established for an indefinite duration, with the possibility of extension into perpetuity upon mutual agreement of both parties.
Article 3: Commitments of “The Taken Heart”