Silence.
“Really?” Jane lights up. “That’s amazing! Since when? To whom? Why didn’t you tell us?”
“It’s recent,” I say carefully. “Very recent.”
“And the lucky man is…?” she prompts.
I take another sip of wine.
No easing into this.
Rip the bandage off.
“Alistair McKenzie.”
Time freezes.
Callum’s face goes through at least five shades of red, like a particularly aggressive Highland sunset.
“I must have misheard,” he says slowly. “Because I thought you just saidAlistair McKenzie.”
“That is exactly what she said,” Maggie adds calmly, sipping her wine like she’s watching a stage play.
Callum turns back to me.
“Alistair McKenzie.TheMcKenzie. The one whose grandfather tried to buy our land when ours was ill? The one trying to turn our heritage into a tourist theme park? That McKenzie?”
“There aren’t that many of them,” I mutter. “They don’t reproduce like rabbits.”
“This is not funny, Keira!” he snaps, jumping to his feet so abruptly his chair nearly topples. “Tell me this is a joke.”
“Callum,” Jane says gently, placing a hand on his arm. “Sit down. Let her explain.”
“Explain?” he explodes. “How exactly does she justify marrying the enemy?”
“You might be exaggerating slightly,” my mother says mildly. “We haven’t formally declared war. We haven’t had catapults for at least two centuries.”
“Speak for yourself,” Maggie mutters. “I still have one in the north barn.”
“Maggie!”
“It’s for the marmots,” she says defensively. “Those creatures are terrorists.”
I bite back a laugh.
Callum does not.
“You cannot be serious, Keira. This is impossible. He’s a McKenzie.”
“I noticed,” I snap, my patience wearing thin. “And despite his last name, he’s actually a decent human being.”
“Decent? A McKenzie? The only time he behaved decently was at our wedding?—”
“Maybe stop saying his name like it’s a curse,” Jane suggests. “The staff might think we’re summoning something.”
“Oh, we are,” Callum mutters, pacing. “Demons in kilts.”
“You’re being dramatic,” I sigh. “The last poisoning attempt was in 1897.”
