I swallow a nervous laugh. Passion and love. Right. It’s not like those two ingredients are glaringly absent from our marital arrangement.
— Very well, let’s begin, Maggie declares, sitting down in a chair at the edge of the floor. I’ll be observing.
— Why do I feel like a gazelle being watched by a hungry lion? I murmur to Callum.
— Because that’s exactly what you are, he replies under his breath. But don’t worry, I’m right beside you in the savanna.
— That’s supposed to reassure me?
— Not really, he admits. I’ve never been on a safari.
Mr. Murray claps his hands to get our attention.
— Mr. McGregor, Miss Carter, positions please. We’ll begin with the basic step.
The next two hours are a mix of humiliation, frustration, and hilarious moments—well, not for me, but Keira laughs severaltimes, and I even catch a hint of a smile on Maggie’s lips. I learn that Scots take their dancing very seriously; every step, every gesture has meaning and history. I also learn that my sense of rhythm, which I thought was decent, is apparently nonexistent by Highland standards.
— No, Miss Carter, on the downbeat! Murray snaps for the twelfth time. One-TWO-three-four, not one—two-THREE-four!
— She dances like an American, Keira comments from the sidelines, clearly enjoying the show.
— I am American! I protest, out of breath.
— Exactly my point.
Callum turns out to be an excellent dancer. His movements are fluid, precise, and he guides my clumsy steps with surprising patience.
— How are you so good at this? I ask during a break, dabbing my forehead with a handkerchief.
— Eight years of forced lessons under my grandmother’s supervision, he replies with a crooked smile. She said a true Scottish gentleman should dance as well as he runs a business.
— And she was right, Maggie interjects from her observation post. Jane, my dear, you’re improving, but you lack the spirit of the dance.
— The spirit of the dance?
— Yes, the Scottish soul. These dances aren’t just movements—they tell a story, that of our people, our traditions. You must feel them here, she says, tapping her chest.
I bite back a comment about my “Scottish soul” being as developed as a fish’s culinary skills and settle for a polite smile.
— I’ll do my best, Maggie.
— I’m sure you will, she replies, her gaze sharp. After all, a woman truly in love should be able to channel that emotion into the dance, shouldn’t she?
And there it is. Another cleverly disguised test. I’m starting to think this woman in tweed and pearls is more formidable than any Hollywood producer.
Murray has us resume, this time with bagpipes. The sound fills the room, powerful and strangely hypnotic. Callum takes my hand, and we begin the sequence we’ve practiced.
— Let yourself be carried by the rhythm, he whispers. Don’t try to calculate the steps.
I try to follow his advice, letting the music take over instead of frantically counting in my head. To my surprise, it works… for about thirty seconds.
That’s when everything goes wrong.
As we perform a figure where I have to pass under Callum’s arm, my foot catches on something—probably a treacherous floorboard—and I stumble forward. Instinctively, I grab the first thing within reach: Callum’s kilt.
Time seems to stop.
I collapse to the floor with an undignified squeak, dragging a good portion of my future husband’s traditional attire with me. A deafening silence replaces the music, which has abruptly cut off.
