Some Like It Scot. Donna Kauffman

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ you.”

      “You’re welcome.” They stared at each other for a beat longer, then another one, before she finally turned her face away, and stared at some unknown point in the garden beyond. He turned his head, too, and gave himself a stern, silent lecture on getting his mind back on the matter at hand…and off the compelling woman sitting next to him. The woman who was about to be married. Unhappily, but that only made the strange, sudden attraction even more impossible. Not to mention he was there to coax another woman entirely into being his bride.

      He made a small sound and she briefly rested her veil-wrapped hand on his wrist, before pulling it back again. “I’m sorry,” she said.

      “For?”

      “You’re clearly no more happy in your stated mission than I am in mine. Seems we’re both here for reasons having to do with duty, rather than heart.”

      “Aye, ’tis true.” He covered her hand with his, and pressed before she could pull it away, though he couldn’t have said what, specifically, compelled him to do it. Perhaps it was simply the need to be in direct contact with the one person who could seemingly comprehend his fiendish dilemma.

      “Is there any other way?” she asked.

      He shook his head. “There is a time frame stipulated in the law.”

      “How much time do you have?”

      “To be lawfully wed? A little more than four weeks hence.”

      He heard her slight intake of breath. “Wow.”

      “Indeed.”

      She slid her hand from beneath his as they sat quietly for a few moments. Then she said, “How long do you have to stay married? I mean, if you’re proposing as a business arrangement, you can’t mean to stay married.”

      “I’ve a friend, back on the island—Kinloch, where I’m from—looking into that very thing. I wouldn’t tie anyone down longer than absolutely necessary. Of course.”

      “Of course,” she echoed.

      Silence once again descended between them—which he broke by abruptly announcing, “To make matters worse, there is another contender to take my place.”

      She looked at him and he could see her eyes widen. “He’s coming here to ask the same thing?”

      “No, no. He’s McAuley—the direct heir to the title from the other side. He’s back home, wooing any single MacLeod lass who might stray ’cross his path. Given his gene pool is quite favorable, as is his job title and the trust fund he landed at birth, not to mention there are far more available MacLeod lasses than there are McAuleys—of which there are none—I’m thinkin’ he willnae face much of a challenge.”

      “Oh.”

      “Indeed.”

      “So…it’s something of a race, then, to the altar.”

      Graham sighed. That sounded so…pathetic. “Aye. I suppose that’s the truth of it.” How in bloody hell had he found himself in that place? It was mortifying. He just wanted to go home. Back to his fields, his crops, his lab.

      Her hand moved to his again, and she squeezed. “I’m rooting for you.”

      For some reason, that depressed him further. “Thank you. I’ll take all the positive support I can get.” He covered her hand with his own again, and met her eyes as best as he could, given the layers of veil between them. “I’ll return the favor.”

      “I don’t know what, exactly, I’d ask you to root for.”

      “Well, I can either escort you inside and see you safely wed…or you could take my rented motor car and make your escape complete.”

      She laughed. “Don’t tempt me.”

      He glanced at the church again. “Will no one come to your aid? You’ve been out here for a wee spell. Surely someone inside is concerned for your welfare.”

      She lifted her gaze to the church and held it steadily. “I warned them not to, or I would bolt. I’m sure they’re watching from one of the windows, stunned I had the temerity to do this much.”

      “Are you such a timid mouse then? Because you don’t seem it.”

      He saw the red lips curve in earnest. “Thank you. I think that’s the nicest thing you could have said to me. I’m not a mouse. At least not in here.” She tapped her head. “Or here.” She laid her veil-wrapped hand against her chest. “I couldn’t do my job well if I was. And, heaven knows, I’m very good at my job.” She sighed, not sounding particularly thrilled about that fact.

      “But ye don’t make a stand when it’s family. Is that it?”

      She looked at him, though what she could see through all that netting, he had no idea. “No,” she said. “I don’t. Can’t. No, that’s not true. I could. But I don’t. It’s…complicated.” She continued holding his gaze. “But something tells me you, of all people, might understand where I’m coming from.”

      “Aye,” he said quietly, thinking they were both idiots for allowing themselves to get into such a quandary. But what else was he to do? Perhaps she was facing the similar lack of options. “I believe I do.” He looked up toward the stained glass arched windows of the church that looked out over the garden. If there were family members inside, watching her…he wondered what they thought of him. His appearance. Not to mention their conversation, complete with hand-holding. Perhaps the fact that they were sitting and talking, which meant she wasn’t running away as yet, was enough to keep them at bay.

      Very abruptly, she slipped her hand from his and stood. “This is silly. Sitting out here being ‘a petulant sulk’ as Cricket so kindly called me, is only delaying the inevitable.”

      He stood. “Who is Cricket?” And why is it inevitable, he wanted to ask. But did not.

      “Blaine’s mother.” The bride gave a small shudder. “Trust me when I say she’s not remotely chirpy, so I don’t know where the nickname came from. I’m just thankful I never got saddled with one. One that stuck.”

      He tilted his head and folded his arms. “Now you have to tell me.”

      “Tell you what?”

      “Which ones didnae stick?” He held up one hand, briefly. “Before you accuse me of mockery, please be aware that we in the U.K. invented the hideously unfortunate nickname.”

      She folded her arms, heedless of the veil she was crushing, her tone amused when she spoke. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

      “I don’t believe I mentioned that I had one. I was speaking on behalf of my countrymen, and all our forebears who bore the brunt of such names as Squibs, Blinker, Duckie. Those are merely in my immediate branch of the auld tree.”

      She couldn’t entirely stifle the snicker.

      “See?” he said. “Your turn.”

      “Mine СКАЧАТЬ