Chapter 16
JANE
If someone had told me six months ago that I’d end up married to a kilt-wearing Scotsman in a centuries-old castle, surrounded by people drinking whisky while reciting incomprehensible poetry, I would’ve asked what illegal substance they were on.
And yet, here I am—Jane Carter-McGregor, married for exactly twelve hours and twenty-three minutes, according to the elegant silver watch my new mother-in-law gave me as a wedding gift.
— I am officially exhausted, I declare, dropping into a chair in the corner of the reception hall. If I have to dance one more jig, my legs are going to detach and go on vacation without me.
Keira settles gracefully beside me, her champagne glass still full despite the late hour.
— You did remarkably well for a beginner. Most non-Scots give up after the first sword dance, but you made it to the fourth.
— I’m just terrified of disappointing your mother and your grandmother. They can make anyone fold with a single raised eyebrow.
— A family talent, Keira confirms. You’ll see—after a few years of marriage, you’ll develop it too.
Her comment snaps me right back to reality. A few years of marriage. The irony almost makes me laugh. Our contract is very clear—this masquerade lasts one year, not “a few years.”
I glance toward the dance floor, where Savannah and Lachlan are currently dancing. They make an unlikely pair, probably united for the evening by the impressive amount of alcohol they’ve consumed.
— Where did your brother go? I ask, quickly changing the subject.
— Last I saw him, he was trapped in a fascinating conversation with old McTavish about the comparative merits of East versus West whisky. A discussion that could last until dawn if no one rescues him.
I scan the room and spot Callum near the whisky bar, politely nodding as an animated elderly man gestures enthusiastically at him. Even from a distance, I can see the deep boredom etched across his face.
— Maybe I should go save him, I say, straightening slightly.
— You’d be surprised how acceptable people find it to monopolize the bride and groom at their own reception. And trust me, I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been a bridesmaid at…
She trails off, squinting as she counts on her fingers.
— At least fifteen weddings!
I get to my feet, suddenly a little nervous.
— Wish me luck.
— You don’t need it, Keira replies. You’re already the only person who can make my brother smile in a crowd.
That comment unsettles me more than it should. It sparks a warmth inside me, a strange sense of pride I have no business feeling. After all, making Callum smile is just part of the role I’m playing… isn’t it?
I weave my way through the guests, exchanging polite smiles and thanks with those who stop to congratulate me. By the time I finally reach Callum—after what feels like an obstacle course—our eyes meet over his companion’s shoulder, and I see unmistakable relief wash over his face.
— Ah, there’s my charming wife! he exclaims, warmth in his voice that catches me off guard.
— I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation, gentlemen, I say, slipping my arm through Callum’s. But I’m afraid I have to steal my husband away for a moment.
The elderly man—McTavish, apparently—smiles indulgently at me.
— Of course, my dear. A day like this belongs to the newlyweds. We’ll continue this discussion another time, Callum.
— I look forward to it, Callum replies with such perfectly feigned sincerity that I have to bite back a laugh.
The moment we’re out of earshot, he leans toward me.
— You just saved me from a forty-five-minute dissertation on the ideal peat percentage in malt drying. I owe you.
— It’s my duty as your wife to rescue you from boring conversations, I reply with mock seriousness. It was in our vows—somewhere between “for better or worse” and “until the contract do us part.”
A flicker of something I can’t quite identify crosses his face at the mention of the contract, but he quickly recovers.
— Well, if it’s a marital duty, then I’m doubly grateful.
He checks his watch.
— It’s almost one. Tradition says the bride and groom leave before the guests—though in our case, it’s more of an excuse to escape further whisky debates.
— Oh. Right. The… wedding night, I stammer, suddenly aware of what that normally implies.
Callum seems to read my mind, because he adds quickly:
— Don’t worry. Our arrangement remains the same. We’ll share the master bedroom, as planned, but nothing more is expected.
— At least nothing that can’t be faked with a few strategic moans and some well-timed bed shaking, I joke, trying to mask my embarrassment.
Callum flushes slightly, which is unexpectedly adorable on a man usually so composed.
— I’m sure we can convince everyone without… uh… sound effects.
— Too bad. I won Best Fake Orgasm in my acting class.
He nearly chokes on his champagne, and I burst out laughing.
— Jane, he murmurs, glancing nervously around. There are ears everywhere.
— Relax, Callum. No one’s listening. They’re all too busy debating peated whisky and placing bets on how long it’ll take us to produce a little McGregor heir.
This time, I’m the one who blushes, realizing what I just said.
— I mean—not that we’re going to… obviously, it’s just what they think…
— I understand, he cuts in gently. Let’s go tell my grandmother we’re leaving. She’s probably been waiting for this moment.
As expected, Maggie greets our decision to retire with a smile that says far too much.
— Excellent idea, my dears. It’s been a long, emotional day, hasn’t it?
Her sparkling gaze flicks between Callum and me, and I feel my cheeks heat again. This woman has a gift for making me feel like a teenager caught kissing a boy behind the bleachers.
— Very long, I confirm. So many traditions to follow, so many dances to learn.
— And so many more to discover, Maggie adds with a not-at-all subtle wink.
— Grandmother, Callum chides softly. You’re embarrassing Jane.
— Oh, I’m quite sure Jane isn’t easily embarrassed. Are you, my dear?
— It depends on the topic, I answer diplomatically. And how much champagne I’ve had.
Maggie laughs heartily and waves us off.
— Go on, don’t keep your guests waiting. They’re eager to toast your departure.
Sure enough, the announcement of our exit is met with cheerful applause and a few not-so-subtle bawdy jokes from Callum’s friends.
We cross the room under a chorus of cheers, and I can’t help but notice that Hamish has somehow slipped back into the reception, watching us from a corner—his bow tie crooked, but still in place.
— Your loyal sheep came to wish us good night, I whisper to Callum as we climb the grand staircase.
— He’s not my sheep—he’s yours. He’s been following you around like a woolly guard dog ever since you won him over.
— I didn’t win him over—I bribed him with apples. Which, by the way, is basically the same technique I used on you, except with legal clauses instead of fruit.
Callum shoots me a sideways look.
— Did you just admit you bribed me into marrying you?
— Technically, you bribed me, I correct. Which makes you what—my Scottish sugar daddy?
He stops dead in the hallway, horrified.
— Do not ever call me that. Ever.
His expression is so comically outraged that I burst out laughing.
— Okay, I promise. I’ll save it for when I really need to blackmail you.
We reach the door to the master bedroom, and a sudden wave of nerves hits me. It’s ridiculous. We’ve already defined the boundaries of our arrangement, and it’s not even the first night we’ve spent in the same room.
So why do I feel like a blushing nineteenth-century bride?
And yet, when Callum opens the door and steps aside to let me enter, my heart starts racing.
Tonight feels different.
The room is stunning, of course. Large and elegant, with a four-poster bed dominating the space like a centerpiece.
Someone—probably Jamison or an attentive housemaid—has lit a fire in the fireplace and scattered rose petals across the bedspread.
A bottle of champagne sits chilling in an ice bucket beside two crystal flutes.
— Well, I say, slowly turning in place, you can’t say they didn’t go all out for our first night as a married couple.
— It’s a bit excessive, Callum admits, closing the door behind him. I can have it all removed if it makes you uncomfortable.
— No, it’s… it’s fine. Authentic. If anyone walks in, they’ll find exactly what they expect in a bridal suite.
A slightly awkward silence settles between us. Callum clears his throat and gestures toward a side door.
— We’re married, but that doesn’t change our arrangement. I’ll sleep on the couch, of course—
— Callum, I interrupt gently, we’re adults. And more importantly, contractually bound. Sharing a bed without touching is probably the least complicated part of this entire situation.
He nods, visibly relieved.
— In that case, I’ll give you space to change. Unless you need help with your dress?
That innocent question suddenly makes me aware of a very practical problem: my dress fastens up the back with an intricate row of tiny buttons I barely managed to close with the help of two assistants.
— Actually, I begin hesitantly, I might need a little help. If you don’t mind?
— Not at all, Callum replies, his politeness at odds with the flicker in his eyes.
I turn my back to him, gathering my hair to one side to give him access.
— It’s the small buttons all the way down my spine. They’re delicate, so if you could…
My words trail off the moment I feel his fingers brush against my bare skin. His touch is feather-light, methodical as he works on the tiny buttons—but every contact sends a wave of heat down my back.
— This is complicated, he murmurs, his voice rougher than usual. Who designed this? A medieval torture expert?
I try to laugh, but the sound comes out strangely strained.