Some Like It Scot. Donna Kauffman

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      That would be so…fitting…given how ludicrous the whole excursion had been thus far.

      He slowed as he came to the hedge where he’d seen the fluff of bridal gown. Exactly what he thought he was going to say, he had no earthly idea, but so what else was new? As it happened, a steadying breath and a straightening of the shoulders was as far as he got in figuring it out. As he stepped around the corner of the hedge, intent on announcing his presence and inquiring if he could be of any assistance, the bride came barreling around the opposite corner…and plowed directly into his chest.

      “Ooph!” she grunted as she went wheeling back again.

      Graham instinctively reached for her to keep her from going over backwards as she tripped over the long train of her dress. He got a fistful of veil and satin, along with her slender arms, but managed to steady her without crushing the garment—or her—completely. She was a wee thing. Though, compared with his somewhat overly tall and broad frame, most women were. Perhaps it was the voluminous dress and veil, but she was virtually lost amidst the yards of satin and tulle.

      As soon as he felt she was steadied, he gently released her. “I’m very sorry, I only meant to inquire—”

      “Wh-who are you?” she stuttered, her voice raw and thick with tears. He couldn’t get a good look at her face, covered as it was by waves of netting. A sparkle of blue and a slash of red lipstick were the only things he could determine. Being quite a bit shorter than he was, he had to crouch a bit to peer through the netting to get to her face. He couldn’t see her hair, pinned up as it was beneath the cap of the veil. It looked as if the thing were about to swallow her whole.

      “Graham,” he responded automatically. “Graham MacLeod. I—are you okay?” Stupid question since she was clearly not okay, but as an invitation to offer assistance, it was all he knew to say.

      “Are you a friend of Blaine’s?” She looked him up and down, somewhat bewildered. “No, I know everyone Blaine knows. Did he…hire you? Or something?” She looked past him.

      “Hire? For what?” he asked, looking behind him as well, truly baffled, but seeing nothing but the empty garden path.

      “Bagpipes? Riverdancing? I don’t know. My ancestry is Scottish and given the getup…” She gestured to the tartan he wore wrapped around his hips and over one shoulder. A white linen shirt, along with the black knee stockings, though strained a bit over his muscled calves, were properly tied and tasseled. Heavy soled, hand-tooled black leather shoes, with buckles passed down through the generations, as was the sporran he wore strapped to his waist, completed his formal clan attire.

      Life on Kinloch didn’t demand an extensive wardrobe. He only dressed up for weddings and funerals, which meant…pretty much donning exactly what he was wearing right then. He’d never gotten around to purchasing an actual suit. He’d never been in need of one. Even at university, he’d spent all his time in classrooms, or doing course work in the fields. Of course, at home, all the other clansmen would have been similarly garbed at such an event. Other than his size, he’d have hardly stood out. But there was little he could do about that here.

      “I’m afraid I’m no’ a piper. Were ye expectin’ one?”

      “No. Of course not.” She laughed shortly, though there was a bit of an hysterical edge to it. “Although, that would certainly cap things off. They had them at my grandfather’s funeral recently, and I thought they were the saddest sounding things I’ve ever heard. So ethereal and echoing through the mists and all.” She lifted her slender shoulders in a shrug and Graham honestly didn’t know if she was going to laugh or sob. She did a little of both. “Perhaps they’d be even more appropriate today.”

      “I’m terrible on the pipes,” he told her, tugging his handkerchief from his chest pocket and handing it to her. “Never had an affinity for it. I’m sorry, though. About your grandfather.”

      She nodded and he thought he detected a bit of a sniffle. “Thank you,” she said, and somehow managed to get the square of linen under her veil to dab at her eyes and nose. “He was the best. My grandfather. I loved him very much. He was the only one who understood, who encouraged me to…” She trailed off, then shrugged as if unable to continue, sniffling again into his handkerchief.

      “I lost my own grandfather, no’ too long ago,” he confided, not knowing what else to say. “We had pipers there, too. But it was more celebration than dirge.” His mouth curved. “We Scots enjoy any excuse for music and spirits. Auld Ualraig would have enjoyed every minute.”

      He thought he saw a ghost of a smile through the veil. “That would have suited Grandpa far better than the somber affair we had, but God forbid my family do anything that might be taken as unseemly or improper.”

      “You don’t have wakes here?”

      “Oh, we do. But my family would not. Funerals aren’t celebrations, but very serious occasions, with lengthy, self-important soliloquies detailing all the life achievements—which are meant more to impress than to provide any comfort—and, of course, only restrained emotions are allowed, if at all. There will be no weeping or wailing. Breaking down in public would be considered a serious breach of family protocol.”

      “Even at a funeral?”

      “At any event, for any occasion. It was stunning, really, that they allowed the pipes to be played. But my grandfather had that much stipulated in his will. They didn’t want to hang that up in any kind of legal red tape.” She lifted a shoulder. “So, at least he was sent off with the music he wanted most to hear echoing through the air.”

      “Your grandfather, he was of a different stripe? Than your family, I mean. Though no’, perhaps, from you.”

      Her nod was accompanied by another small sniffle. “Different stripe, different drummer. He was that, in spades. He did his best to turn them all on their ear every chance he got. He was the only one who could shake things up. My great-aunt and uncle—his siblings—tried for years—unsuccessfully, thank God—to unseat him from the family board and take away his voting stock. If only he’d been able to control a percentage or two more, he might have really made a difference. At least one that lasted longer than the time it took to bury him.”

      She crossed over to a low, stone bench, and sank down onto it, heedless of her train, miles of satin, and God knew whatever was underneath that made the skirt span out like Little Miss Muffett.

      “I’m sorry,” he said, “for reminding you of a sad thing.” She was clearly already miserable enough.

      She shook her head. “No. He’s exactly who I should be thinking about. He didn’t want us railroaded into this anymore than we did. If he were still here, maybe I’d have the strength to do the right thing.” She followed that with a very unladylike, self-deprecating snort. “I should have the strength regardless.”

      “Us?”

      She lifted her gaze. “What?”

      “You said us. And we. Do you mean your fiancé isn’t happy with the planned nuptials either?”

      She dropped her chin, then shook her head. “No. No, he’s not.”

      Graham didn’t think he’d ever seen a more miserable person. He didn’t know her, but wished there was something he could do to lighten her load. “I’m sorry you’re upset. No bride should be sad on her wedding СКАЧАТЬ