hold much weight.”
Had the auld woman had her ear to the door the entire time? “But—”
“But perhaps I should introduce the young man waiting patiently in the outer office. He might be the one to change your mind.”
“We don’t have time right now to—”
“Oh, but ye’ll make the time for this.” Eliza had already shifted back and a moment later a tall, blond-haired, nattily dressed, rather dashing-looking fellow entered the room in such a way as to say that he was quite used to making an entrance, and equally confident that folks would react favorably when he did.
“I say,” he said, skimming his gaze past each of theirs, then sticking his hand out. “Which of you is Graham MacLeod?”
“That would be me,” Graham said, stepping forward. “What can I do for you, Mr….”
The man chuckled, displaying a marquee poster set of teeth a blinding shade of white not often seen on that side of the pond, and extended his hand for a brisk, firm shake. “Iain. Iain McAuley, and I’ve come to claim my island. And my bride.” His grin widened, revealing two perfectly formed dimples. “I daresay, not in that particular order.”
Chapter 2
Forty-eight hours later
Graham shifted gears with his right hand as he jerked the steering wheel with his left, guiding his vehicle wildly back to the right side of the road. Which was the wrong side of the road, as far as he was concerned. It had been tricky enough getting the hang of shifting gears wrong-handed, while operating the pedals correctly, sitting on the wrong side of the car, and driving at high speeds on the wrong side of the road. Not a single roundabout to be found, either. The Yanks had been there several hundred years, and still had no idea how to manage traffic in an orderly fashion.
Of course, the traffic he was generally used to navigating through had four stubby legs and a rather sturdy bleat for a horn.
He crossed over a stone and white fence bridge and drove into the historic, older section of Annapolis, Maryland. Though delighted to finally enter a roundabout, with what appeared to be cobblestone streets extending out in key points around it, he counted wrong and exited down Main instead of Duke of Gloucester. He found himself at the waterfront moments later.
As a village, Annapolis was picturesque, and he certainly appreciated the view of the bay. It didn’t make him feel entirely at home, what with all the gleaming yachts and soaring schooners moored about. Kinloch didn’t favor too many of those. None, actually. But Annapolis was a seafaring village nonetheless and both the layout and the buildings reminded him of home. Certainly the only time he’d been reminded of it since landing at the chaotic airport in Baltimore earlier. So Graham tried to embrace what good there was to be found.
It was a sincerely positive way to look at things, considering his chances of embracing anything—or anyone—else in the near future, were unlikely in the extreme. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortably warm and not a little itchy in his formal wear. Given the lack of planning time, he hadn’t many flight options and had known the window for making it to the church before the ceremony would be brief. Hence the quick change in the airport bathroom and the unfortunate substitution of a small, standard transmission economy rental over the larger utility vehicle Roan had promised he’d reserved. There’d been no time to argue, however, so he’d crammed his broad frame into the tiny piece of tin and barreled off.
He’d arrived, mercifully if not surprisingly, still in one piece after the harrowing journey along the highway. The likelihood of a successful mission seemed even more far-fetched than it had when he’d boarded the ferry in Kinloch. He was there to convince a complete stranger to not only leave with him and go to Scotland, but to bind herself to him in matrimony. What sane person would do that?
What had he been thinking, allowing Roan and Shay to convince him to do this?
Iain McAuley’s smug, impossibly perfect visage swam through his mind. Again. Graham renewed his efforts. He had to do his best to find a workable solution. Everyone was counting on him and he couldn’t let them down. He definitely couldn’t return home to face that imposter who would call himself a clan laird as anything other than the rightful successor himself.
And, to do that…he needed a bride.
Bloody hell.
He miraculously discovered a connecting street that put him back on the right path, and there, looming straight ahead, was the tall spire of St. Agnes parish, accurately resembling the one in the picture Roan had printed off the Internet. There were only two other like-size churches in the historic section and he’d passed them both going through the roundabout and getting lost on the waterfront. So it had to be the one. The massive, redbrick building butted right up against the road, leaving no room for parking, although he did spy a sleek black town car, idling at the curb at the far end of the building. He assumed, given the flowers and ribbons tied to the back, that it was the car the newly wedded couple would get in upon exiting the chapel, and though he was tempted to park in front of it in order to get inside the church as quickly as possible, he couldn’t risk coming out later to find his car had been towed away.
There wasn’t a soul outside the church, which meant the ceremony had probably already started. If he stationed himself in one of the rear pews, he would have a good opportunity to scan all the guests as they filed out behind the bride and groom, and hopefully gain the attention of Miss Katie McAuley.
He turned into a small alleyway just before the church, hoping to find parking, and, to his relief, there was a car park just beyond the stonewalled prayer garden situated at the rear of the church. He managed to make the turn without careening into anything, although an older woman walking a very small bundle of fluff had looked quite alarmed for a moment. She’d all but yanked her little lap rat clear across the road when he’d turned a bit wildly at the last moment. He would have waved an apology, but he was using all his available appendages to maneuver the vehicle safely through the narrow alley and into the car park. He crawled through each and every row of the sizable lot looking for the first available space—which wasn’t to be found.
“Who’s marrying here, royalty?” he muttered, then finally spied a wee area at a vee in the rows. Grateful for the size of his car for the first time, he managed to nudge the tin can into the narrow slot and exit without doing any further damage to himself or the cars on either side.
He winced a little as he straightened out his limbs and spine, and adjusted what needed adjusting. He patted his sporran, which contained his wallet, passport, and the picture of Miss McAuley, then locked the thing up before heading across the paved lot at a fast lope.
He thought about slipping in through a rear door, but not being familiar with the church, with his luck he’d pop in right at the pulpit, or something equally unfortunate. So, after a glimpse up the path that led into the beautifully sculpted prayer garden, he opted to take a fast jog along the cobblestone walkway that led around to the front entrance of the main chapel. But his plan faltered before he could take off—when he heard the swearing.
It was coming from…the prayer garden? He took several steps along the hand-laid stone pathway. Weeping he could understand in such a place…but swearing? An argument perhaps? Either with God himself or someone mortal, he didn’t know. Either way, it wasn’t his concern, but he didn’t turn back right away. The voice grew louder. Just one. A woman. A very unhappy woman from the sound of it.
He’d never been one to turn his back on another person’s troubles. If there was a broken-down car along the lane, he stopped to help get it back up and running. If a visitor to the island got lost out on one of the trails, or…anywhere, really, he guided them back to the familiar. Of course, given the entire loop around the island was just shy of ten kilometers, perhaps that wouldn’t exactly earn him sainthood, but ignoring a plea for help went against his grain. Only…the woman in question wasn’t pleading so much as…ranting. In fact, he couldn’t recall ever hearing a member of the opposite sex use such an…inventive string of invectives such as was being issued forth.