“I’m making my usual rounds, Miss. I might ask you the same.”
“Oh, you know me—I always have trouble sleeping. I was just looking for… a book! For my research. On… Scottish heritage preservation.”
Her acting is impressively terrible. I bite back a laugh.
“At this hour? In the east wing?” he asks, clearly skeptical.
“I’m so tired I’m not thinking clearly, Jamison.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. And does that also explain why you have… is that charcoal on your face?”
“Oh! It’s… a traditional Scottish facial mask. To… purify the pores. An old recipe from Grandma Maggie.”
I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“Of course,” he replies, unfazed. “May I suggest you conclude your research before midnight? Your mother worries when you wander the castle at such hours.”
“Absolutely, Jamison. I’ll be as quiet as a Highland mouse.”
“A creature renowned for its discretion, no doubt. Good evening, Miss.”
“Good evening, Jamison!”
He walks away. Keira waits until he’s gone, then turns to me, an embarrassed smile tugging at her lips.
“A traditional Scottish facial mask?” I repeat.
“Shut up, McKenzie. I was improvising under pressure.”
“And that’s clearly your strong suit. If interior design doesn’t work out, you’ve got a bright future in improv theater.”
She elbows me.
“Mock all you want—Jamison left, didn’t he? Mission accomplished.”
“If that’s your definition of success, I’d hate to see your failures.”
We move on, winding through a maze of corridors until we reach a narrow spiral staircase that supposedly leads straight to the archives.
As we approach a large oak door with intricate ironwork, a sudden noise freezes us—creaking, then murmuring, from the far end of the hall.
“Someone’s coming,” Keira whispers, grabbing my arm.
Almost in sync, we press ourselves into a dark alcove barely big enough for one person—definitely not two. The result is a level of closeness well beyond what’s appropriate for fake fiancés.
Her body is pressed against mine, her face inches from my own. In the dim light, her eyes seem deeper, more mysterious. I notice, for the first time, the constellation of freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose like tiny stars against her pale skin.
The noise continues—probably a staff member or family member—but my attention is no longer on our precarious situation. Instead, I’m hypnotized by the curve of her lips, the stray lock brushing her cheek, the slight quickening of her breath against my chest.
“Alistair?” she whispers, her eyes wide.
I don’t know if it’s the tension, the adrenaline, or something that’s been building longer than I want to admit—but I find myself leaning toward her, my intentions suddenly crystal clear.
Her gaze flickers between my eyes and my lips. Something unreadable crosses her face.
She doesn’t pull away.
Time slows. The world fades. No castle. No centuries-old feud. No fake engagement contract. Just Keira and me—on the edge of something that could change everything.
