Chapter 29
JANE
I’ve never really believed in fairy tales.
I mean, I once played a princess in a microscopic-budget Christmas TV movie where my co-star was a model-turned-actor who couldn’t walk and deliver his lines at the same time.
After that experience, stories about Prince Charming always felt like pure fiction to me.
And yet, as I walk beside Callum in the darkness, our fingers intertwined, our clothes still damp and our hair unruly, I feel like I’m living a moment of magic that surpasses every romance I’ve ever portrayed.
—You’re quiet, Callum remarks, glancing at me sideways. Any regrets?
A soft, incredulous laugh slips from my lips.
—Regrets? After what just happened in that cabin? Absolutely not. I was just thinking about how life can sometimes take unexpected turns.
—Like marrying a Scotsman for contractual reasons and ending up falling in love with him?
My heart skips at that fateful word. In love. We haven’t said those words yet, even though what we shared in the cabin went far beyond simple physical desire.
—Exactly, I say, choosing to embrace that truth. Who would have thought an arranged marriage would turn into the most real thing I’ve ever known?
Callum stops, pulling me against him for a kiss that makes me forget we’re standing in the middle of a muddy path, probably being watched by several sheep (Hamish has most likely spread rumors about us in the local ovine community).
—We should hurry back now, he murmurs against my lips. Or I might be tempted to take you back to that cabin.
—That would be tragic, I tease as we start walking again. Especially since we have a very comfortable bed waiting for us at the castle.
—That is indeed a compelling argument.
A shiver runs through me as sensual thoughts flicker through my mind.
We continue walking, the imposing silhouette of McGregor Castle materializing on the horizon. Despite the beauty of the moment, a small thread of anxiety begins to form in my mind.
—Cal?
—Hmm?
—How are we going to explain… this? I ask, gesturing vaguely to our disheveled appearance. I mean, we left for a simple walk and we’re coming back several hours later, soaked, windblown and…
—Satisfied? he suggests, a crooked smile tugging at his lips that makes me want to kiss him again.
—I was going to say visibly different, but yes, very satisfied.
He thinks for a moment.
—We’ll tell the truth, he finally decides. That we were caught in the storm and took shelter in the old guard cabin.
—Just that? Nothing about what happened in said cabin?
—What happened between us belongs only to us, he replies softly. The rest, they can guess if they want.
I nod, reassured by his answer. A part of me is tempted to keep this new evolution of our relationship secret, like a precious treasure to protect.
But another part, bolder, wants the entire world to know that Callum McGregor and I are no longer simply bound by a contract, but by something far deeper.
—In that case, I say, lowering my gaze to my outfit, I should maybe try to look a little less… devastated.
I attempt to smooth my hair and adjust my clothes. My efforts feel futile—no brush, no mirror, and my damp clothes are now wrinkled.
—I think this is a lost cause, Callum concludes after observing me with obvious amusement. But if it reassures you, you’re beautiful even like this.
—Your opinion is biased, I shoot back. You’ve seen what’s under these clothes.
—That’s true, he agrees, his gaze instantly reigniting that heat in my belly. And I can’t wait to see it again.
—Focus, McGregor. We need to survive getting back into the castle first.
We approach the back gardens, and I begin to relax slightly. Maybe we’ll be able to slip inside and head straight to our room without being seen.
That hope vanishes the moment we reach the terrace. The castle is lit up from every angle, and through the large dining room windows, I can see a crowd gathered inside.
—What the… I begin, confused.
—The Highland Games dinner, Callum replies with a grimace. I completely forgot.
—The dinner of what? No one told me about a dinner!
—It’s a tradition, he explains. After the games, participants who have come from far away stay the night, and we organize a formal dinner.
—Formal, I repeat, glancing down at my shipwrecked appearance. As in tuxedo-tie-evening-gown formal?
—Not quite, but certainly not like… this, he answers, gesturing to our current state.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying not to panic.
—Alright, I say finally. New plan. We go around the castle and enter through the east wing. From there, we can sneak into our room, change, and come back down as if we’ve been here the whole time.
—The east wing is closed for renovation, Callum gently reminds me. And the only other entrance is the service door, which leads directly into the kitchens, where about a dozen people are currently preparing dinner.
A desperate groan escapes me.
—So we’re forced to walk through the dining room like this?
—It seems to be our only option, he confirms with a resignation that would make me laugh if I weren’t so mortified. We could wait here until they’ve all finished dinner, but that could take hours, and the temperature is still dropping…
As if to illustrate his point, a shiver runs through me, my damp clothes offering little protection against the cool Scottish evening.
—Alright, I decide, straightening my shoulders. Let’s face this with dignity. After all, I’m a professional actress. I can walk through a room full of people with confidence, even looking like a drowned rat.
Callum bursts out laughing.
—You don’t look like a drowned rat, he assures me, taking my hand. You look like a woman who got caught in a storm and found shelter… with her husband.
The word husband suddenly takes on a new meaning, deeper, truer.
—Fine, I concede. Let’s go.
We cross the terrace and enter through the main door. The entrance hall is miraculously empty, except for Jamison, who appears as if by magic.
—Sir, Madam, he greets us with a slight frown at the sight of our condition. We were concerned about your absence.
—We were caught in the storm, Callum explains. We took shelter in the old guard cabin.
—I see, Jamison replies, his expression perfectly neutral, though his eyes betray a glimmer of understanding. Shall I inform the guests that you will not be joining them for dinner?
A spark of hope flares inside me.
—That would be wonderf—
—No, thank you, Jamison, Callum cuts in. We’re going to change and join our guests. Please inform my mother that we’ll be there shortly.
Jamison nods and walks away. I stare at Callum in disbelief.
—Really? You really want to go down to dinner? I protest in a low voice, even though we’re alone. Wouldn’t it be easier to plead rain-induced illness and hide in our room for the rest of the evening? Preferably naked and under the covers?
His eyes darken at the suggestion, and for a moment, I think I’ve convinced him. Then he shakes his head.
—Believe me, I’d love that, he says with regret. But it’s an important tradition, and our absence would be noticed—and interpreted, rightly so. Let me handle this part of the equation, please. We’ll make an appearance during dinner, and then…
He leaves the rest unsaid, but his look says everything. I let out a resigned sigh.
—Alright. But I’m warning you, I don’t promise to be pleasant company if Heather is still there.
—She probably will be, he confirms, leading me toward the stairs. My mother must have offered for her to stay the night.
I groan. Of course. Isobel McGregor couldn’t help inviting the ex-girlfriend to stay the night. To admire the Scottish stars, no doubt, or some other ridiculous excuse.
—I can’t believe we’re going to have dinner with your ex after having sex for the first time, I grumble as we climb the steps. Shakespeare would have loved this situation.
—Not as much as my grandmother, I fear, Callum replies with a smile.
We reach our bedroom, and I rush into the bathroom, practically tearing off my damp clothes as I go.
—How much time do we have before we need to go back down? I call out while the shower water begins to heat.
—Fifteen minutes, twenty at most, Callum answers, stepping into the bathroom already shirtless, which momentarily sends me into a state of admiring distraction despite the urgency.
—That’s not enough time for both of us to shower, I note with regret.
—Separately, no, he agrees, approaching me with a determined stride.
—Callum McGregor, I begin, recognizing that look in his eyes. Don’t even think about it. If we take that shower together, we’ll never go back downstairs.
—Five minutes, he promises, sliding his hands onto my waist. Just to get clean. Scottish efficiency.
—You are a terrible liar, I shoot back with a laugh, but I let him pull me under the shower anyway.
Twenty-five minutes later—Scottish efficiency clearly has its limits—we hurry down the stairs. I’m wearing a burgundy dress I miraculously found at the back of my closet, and Callum has opted for dark trousers and a white shirt, more relaxed than his usual suit, but still effortlessly elegant.
—You look stunning, he murmurs, watching me as we approach the dining room.
—Don’t try to flatter me, I reply, making sure I’m wearing both earrings. I know I look like someone who got dressed in a rush.
—You did, and yet you’re perfect.
His compliment warms me from the inside, but my anxiety returns full force as we reach the dining room doors. From inside, the sounds of conversation and cutlery are clearly audible.
Callum takes my hand and presses a light kiss to it.
—Ready?
—As ready as one can be when about to have dinner with her husband’s ex and her mother-in-law after fooling around in a cabin, I reply, half cynical, half amused.
—And in the shower, he adds.
—How could I forget? I murmur.
He laughs softly and opens the door, keeping my hand firmly in his.