“And now, we should return before they assume I’ve locked you in a cupboard.”
At the door, she pauses.
“Oh—and when you play chess with Malcolm… watch for the queen sacrifice.”
I nod, grateful—and unsettled.
Because if Mary sees through us this easily…
Who else does?
And more importantly— why doesn’t the idea of this arrangement becoming real scare her… nearly as much as it should scare me?
CHAPITRE 10
KEIRA
Hamish’s Sanctuary
I need to escape. To breathe. To be alone with my thoughts, far from the inquisitive looks and endless questions from my family.
Two weeks have passed since that infamous tea at the McKenzies’, and the preparations for the engagement party—organized by Maggie, against my will, of course—are suffocating me like a life vest pulled too tight.
The Scottish sun plays hide-and-seek with the clouds as I make my way up the path winding through the hills. A picnic basket swings from my arm, and behind me, Hamish trots along with the enthusiasm of a schoolboy on an outing. For a sheep who spends his time causing chaos, he seems strangely happy to be accompanying me on this improvised escape.
“Pick it up, you walking ball of wool,” I call over my shoulder. “At this rate, we’ll get there by dinner.”
Hamish lets out a bleat that sounds suspiciously like an exasperated sigh, but he quickens his pace nonetheless.
My refuge is a small clearing hidden between two hills, in the valley that separates the McGregor lands from those of the McKenzies. An old weeping willow offers generous shade, and a clear stream babbles peacefully nearby. This is where I used to come as a child when I wanted to escape my parents.
I set down my basket and spread a blanket over the green grass.
“There. That’s better,” I murmur.
I lie back and close my eyes.
Far from the engagement preparations. Far from the constant reminders that I’ve committed myself to the most absurd masquerade in the history of the Highlands.
A shadow passes over my face. I crack one eye open and find Hamish watching me with what I could swear is sympathy before wandering off to graze. I let him go, knowing he won’t stray too far. He has a remarkable sense of direction for an animal whose main concern is deciding which rose bush to destroy next.
I sit up and pull out my sketchbook. I begin sketching ideas for the cultural center. Pencil in hand, I lose myself in lines and shapes, momentarily forgetting the complications of my personal life. Here, it’s just me, the Highland wind, and my dream of creating a place that honors our traditions while making them accessible to future generations.
The sudden silence alerts me. A silent Hamish is usually a Hamish up to something.
“Hamish?” I call, getting to my feet.
No answer. No bleat. Not even the sound of teeth methodically tearing grass.
I slip my sketchbook back into my bag and go looking for him. Knowing him, he could be triggering an avalanche—an impressive feat in summer—or terrorizing a group of unsuspecting hikers.
“Hamish!” I call louder as worry creeps in.
I round a rocky outcrop and stop short at the sight before me.
A few yards away, Hamish stands facing Rosita—the McKenzie sheep. But it’s not their presence that leaves me speechless. It’s what they’ve created.
The clearing has been transformed into something that can only be described as a love nest for sheep. Tufts of grass have been gathered into what looks like a carpet. Wildflowers are scattered all around, some of them clearly freshly picked. And Hamish—that woolly menace—is delicately offering a sprig of heather to Rosita, who accepts it with a flutter of her lashes worthy of a romantic film.
