I shake his hand, surprised by the lack of real hostility behind his words.
“The pleasure is mine,” I reply cautiously.
“Lachlan and Keira have been inseparable since childhood,” Isobel explains as she approaches. “Their colorful exchanges are their rather peculiar way of showing affection.”
“We call it ‘McGregor love,’” Jane adds with an encouraging wink. “You get used to it… eventually.”
Maggie claps her hands, drawing everyone’s attention back to her.
“Good! Now that everyone is here, let us begin. The first Scottish engagement tradition is the washing of the suitor’s hands.”
I expect something harmless—perhaps dipping my hands into a basin of water. But when Jamison returns carrying a large wooden bowl filled with a dark, thick, muddy liquid, I begin to understand Keira’s earlier sympathetic look.
“Last time, the poor guy had frostbite until June,” Lachlan comments loudly enough for me to hear.
I frown, about to ask Keira if she has previously been engaged, but Maggie explains with exaggerated solemnity:
“The washing of the hands tests the future husband’s endurance against Scottish winters and his adaptation to the family land. The water comes from the estate loch, mixed with Highland peat.”
I glance at Keira. She gives a slight shrug that clearly saysyou’re on your own. Callum, meanwhile, watches the scene with poorly concealed amusement.
“How long?” I ask, resigned.
“Until you can no longer feel your fingers—or you beg us to stop,” Lachlan replies, already pulling out his phone. “Taking bets!”
I turn my attention back to the bowl.
It’s disgusting. And freezing. Inhumanly freezing. The kind of cold that makes you reconsider every life decision that led you to this exact moment.
But a McKenzie doesn’t back down from a challenge.
As I stoically plunge my hands into what feels more like medieval torture than a romantic tradition, I suddenly feel something under the table—Keira’s hand, discreetly pressing against my knee in silent support.
I meet her gaze and find a mix of amusement and admiration that, strangely, makes the ordeal more bearable.
Lachlan notices and makes an exaggerated gagging motion.
“For the love of—overcooked beet head, keep your hands where we can see them! There are innocent souls in this room!”
“Jealous, shriveled cucumber head?” Keira shoots back instantly.
Their exchange makes me smile despite everything.
After what feels like an eternity—though it’s probably only five minutes—Maggie declares the trial complete. I pull my hands out, now bright red and completely numb.
“Impressive,” Callum admits reluctantly. “They had to drag me to the bowl…”
I frown, about to question whether he actually went through this “trial,” but I don’t get the chance.
“On to the next tradition!” Maggie announces. “The tartan procession!”
Before I can ask what that entails, Callum steps forward holding what looks like a neatly folded kilt.
A McGregor kilt.
Oh no.
“The suitor must wear the colors of his future family to prove his commitment to honoring their heritage,” Maggie explains with a mischievous smile.
