— But I do know this—I’m sorry for doubting you. And I really want you to still be my bride tomorrow.
My heart stumbles at his words. It’s ridiculous… it shouldn’t matter…
And yet, it does.
— And the photo? The scandal? I ask, carefully sidestepping the deeper issue.
— Dougal’s handling it. We identified the source—and it’s not what I thought. One of the temporary servers hired for the wedding recognized you and took the photos discreetly.
— So it was someone on the inside…
— Yes. But not you. I should’ve known. I should’ve trusted you.
His eyes search mine.
— I trust you, Jane. More than I thought possible in such a short time.
— I trust you too, I say softly. Even when you act like an emotionally stunted idiot obsessed with your precious empire.
A smile tugs at his lips.
— I deserve that.
— Completely.
He stands and offers me his hand.
— Ready to face the chaos waiting for us?
I look at his hand, then at his face. In his eyes, there’s something new—something that wasn’t there when we signed that contract in Los Angeles.
Something that scares me… and thrills me.
I take his hand and stand.
— As long as we face it together, I think I can handle just about anything. Even a swarm of paparazzi—or another Scottish dance lesson.
— Even your mother-in-law? he teases, not letting go of my hand as we start walking back toward the castle.
— Let’s not get carried away, I say with a shiver. I think facing a herd of enraged Hamishes would be easier than winning over your mother…
As if on cue, Hamish follows us at a distance, like a fluffy guardian angel watching over us.
And strangely… his presence comforts me. Maybe I’m starting to like him a little.
Despite my completely irrational fear of sheep.
CHAPTER 14
JANE
— At this point, I don’t even know if I’m a bride or a mannequin, I grumble as Mrs. Gordon adjusts the bodice of my dress for the umpteenth time.
— Stand up straight, Miss Carter, the seamstress scolds, a mouthful of pins making her words slightly muffled. The most beautiful day of your life deserves a posture worthy of the name.
I swallow a sarcastic remark about how this isn’t really “the most beautiful day of my life,” but more like a business transaction wrapped in lace and tulle. Still, Mrs. Gordon—with her nimble fingers and near-religious devotion to sartorial perfection—doesn’t deserve my cynicism.
— How is our bride doing? Keira exclaims as she bursts into the room, a glass of champagne in each hand. You look like you could use this.
