— Thank you, Maggie, I reply, emotion catching in my voice. For everything. Not just the compliments, but… well, for welcoming me into the family. Even when I was that clumsy American who knew nothing about your traditions.
— Oh, my dear, she says, stepping closer to adjust a strand of my hair. I accepted you the moment I saw the way you looked at Callum. Even when you thought all you felt for him was irritation.
I laugh softly.
— Was it that obvious?
— To an old woman who’s seen more complicated love stories than you’ve seen Hollywood premieres? Absolutely.
A discreet knock at the door interrupts us. It’s Jamison, as impeccable as ever in his suit, though today he wears a small piece of McGregor tartan in his buttonhole, a nod to the occasion.
— Ma’am, everything is ready, he announces with that formal dignity nothing—not even joy—seems capable of shaking. The guests are seated, and Sir is waiting for you.
— Thank you, Jamison, I say with a smile. Tell me, what do you think of the dress? Too Hollywood? Not Scottish enough?
A flicker of amusement crosses his usually impassive face.
— If I may, ma’am, your attire perfectly captures the essence of who you are: neither entirely from here nor completely from elsewhere, but exactly where you’re meant to be.
I blink, surprised by the almost poetic answer.
— Jamison, honestly, you’ve been hiding a philosopher’s soul under that British restraint, I remark, touched.
— A simple observation, ma’am, he replies, what might almost pass for a smile tugging at his lips. Allow me to add that it is an honor to serve you and Sir. You have brought… life to this house.
With that, he inclines his head slightly and leaves the room, rendering me speechless.
— Well, Keira comments, if you managed to move Jamison, you’ve officially won over every member of this household.
I take a deep breath and turn to them, suddenly flooded with emotion.
— I’m ready, I declare. Or at least as ready as one can be when about to renew vows originally spoken rather cynically in front of a disinterested civil officer.
— This time, there’ll be a lot more love in the air, Isobel assures me, handing me my bouquet of Scottish wildflowers mixed with roses grown in the estate’s greenhouses.
My mother-in-law has entered the room without us noticing.
I take the bouquet, and Isobel presses a light kiss to my cheek. Our relationship has changed so much since I decided to stay in Scotland. She’s finally accepted me. I wouldn’t go so far as to say we’re friends, but the disapproving looks are gone—and that’s a huge step forward.
Together, we leave the castle and cross the gardens to the meadow where everything has been set up. Unlike most aristocratic Scottish weddings held in ancient churches or grand ballrooms, Callum and I chose something more intimate, more reflective of our story. A small white marquee has been erectedin the middle of the meadow where Hamish and I had our first philosophical conversations, with a breathtaking view of the hills and the castle.
Only about forty people were invited: close family, a few friends, and of course Hamish, who’s been given a special enclosure near the ceremony, decorated with flowers as if to make up for the fact that he can’t actually attend. I insisted he wear a bow tie, but Callum wisely pointed out that, in all likelihood, Hamish would eat it—and that I probably didn’t want my ovine witness choking mid-ceremony.
As I approach, the small crowd rises. And there, at the end of the makeshift aisle lined with lanterns and wildflowers, stands Callum. My Cal. In his traditional McGregor kilt, his dark jacket perfectly tailored, he’s simply breathtaking. But what moves me most is the expression on his face when he sees me—that mix of awe, love, and pride lighting up features that are usually so reserved.
At his side stands Ewan, his best man, who gives me an encouraging wink. On the other side are Keira—who clearly sprinted ahead of me to take her place—and Savannah. My best friend was probably the most enthusiastic about this wedding 2.0. She arrived weeks early to help with preparations and even briefly considered moving to Scotland… before eight straight days of rain changed her mind.
The music guiding me down the aisle isn’t the traditional wedding march, but a soft Scottish melody played by a string quartet, woven with the clear notes of a lone bagpipe. It’s both solemn and joyful—exactly like this day.
When I reach Callum, I notice his eyes are shining. Callum McGregor—the man who never showed emotion when I first met him—is on the verge of tears… in front of everyone.
— You look absolutely breathtaking, he murmurs, taking my hands in his.
— You’re not so bad in a kilt yourself, I whisper back with a wink.
The village pastor, a jovial man with a white beard who looks suspiciously like Santa Claus, clears his throat to begin the ceremony.
— Dear friends, he begins in a thick Scottish accent, we are gathered here today to celebrate the renewal of Callum and Jane’s vows. Their story is, like many Scottish tales, full of unexpected twists…
