“I should’ve brought Hamish,” I mutter.
Alistair chuckles softly. “I’m sure he would’ve been honored to offer moral support.”
His hand settles at the small of my back—warm, steady, dangerously natural—as he guides me toward the door.
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs near my ear. “The worst they’ll do is poison you slowly.”
I shoot him a look. “That’s supposed to reassure me?”
“Of course. Fast poisoning would be far more concerning.”
The door opens before we even reach it.
A woman in her sixties stands there—elegant, composed, with silver threaded through her chestnut hair and eyes sharp enough to strip a person down to their secrets.
“Mother,” Alistair says, a warmth in his voice that catches me off guard. “This is Keira McGregor.”
“Mrs. McKenzie,” I say politely, extending my hand.
She ignores it and pulls me into a brief but firm embrace.
“Mary,” she corrects. “After all, you’re going to marry my son.”
She releases me, her gaze flicking to Alistair with quiet amusement.
“Or so he claims.”
“Mother…”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she says, waving a graceful hand. “I won’t expose your secrets. Not until I’ve determined whether this unlikely union has any chance of surviving.”
Panic spikes through me.How does she know?
“My mother assumes all engagements are doomed until proven otherwise,” Alistair cuts in smoothly. “Isn’t that right?”
“I taught history for twenty-five years,” Mary says as she leads us inside. “I recognize a strategic alliance when I see one.”
The entry hall is breathtaking—polished oak staircase, stern-faced McKenzie ancestors glaring down from oil portraits—but I barely register any of it. Voices spill in from the sitting room.
“It’s time to face the clan,” Alistair murmurs. “Don’t accept drinks from Uncle Ian, and whatever you do, don’t mention the south parcel in front of my father.”
“What else?” I whisper. “No politics? Religion? Sports?”
“Definitely not curling tournaments. Sensitive subject.”
Before I can ask why, Mary opens the doors.
“Here is the young McGregor who succeeded where so many others have failed.”
“Not that many,” Alistair mutters.
Conversation dies instantly. Six pairs of eyes swing toward me—curious, skeptical, openly wary.
A broad-shouldered man with graying hair rises slowly.
“Malcolm McKenzie,” he says, offering a firm hand. “Alistair’s father.”
His grip is crushing. His gaze sharper than Alistair’s—and far more calculating.
