Page 105 of Scotlander

He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid from here on out there won’t be bagpipes until you’re walking down the aisle to me. Or corsets. Or haylofts or pinafores made out of tattie sacks, for that matter.’

‘What will there be?’

‘Whatever we want, lass. The future is ours for the making.’

Chapter Forty-Three

TWO YEARS LATER

‘Lights . . .’

Willa’s eyelashes fluttered against Finn’s hand as he removed it.

‘Camera . . .’

He put his hands on her shoulders and slowly spun her round so that she was facing the stairwell she had been forbidden from climbing for the past year.

‘And action.’

The dozen or so guests who had gathered at the bottom of the swirling spiral stairwell whooped as Finn scooped Willa up, tipped her over his shoulder as he climbed, one hand tucked under her bum, the other holding on to the guide rope that led up to the top.

‘I cannae see!’ he shouted. ‘The woman’s got on one too many petticoats!’

‘Not for long if you’re gonna prove yourself a worthy husband!’ came a voice from below them.

‘Trevor?’ Willa asked her new spouse’s back.

‘Trevor,’ came Finn’s dry response.

In an impressive move straight out of 1-800-ROMANCE, Finn shifted her round in his arms and carried her over the threshold into the room they would occupy as the official caretakers of Balcraigie Castle.

‘That was McSexy.’ She popped a kiss on to his cheek.

‘You’ve not seen anything yet, McWifey. Hold thy horses . . .’ He set her down so that her back was to him, then slipped his arms around her waist. ‘Behold . . . the Laird and Lady’s Suite.’

She’d not been permitted even a tiny glimpse of this upstairs suite – the only room with a proper roof on it – while they’d been renovating. A restriction that had nearly driven her wild with anticipation. But now that she was here in the arms of her shiny new husband, she realised it hadn’t been the room she’d been waiting for at all. It had always and only ever been him.

‘C’mon,’ he encouraged when she kept looking up and over her shoulder to moon at him. ‘Say something appreciative.’

‘You look McFabulous.’ He did as well. He was knee-weakeningly perfect in his formal kilt. He’d chosen the muted purple, green and red Mackintosh tartan, his mother’s. And a kilt pin from his father’s clan that included three tiny little sailing ships that felt like a nod to his overseas wife. He also wore a thistle buttonhole with a twist of ribbon in Duncan’s family tartan. ‘Mmmm.’ She nuzzled into him. ‘You’re McEdible. McYummy.’

‘Not about me, woman. The room!’

‘How can I appreciate a room when my husband is—’

He cupped her head between his hands and turned it so that she was forced to look at it.

Ohhhhh. She could appreciate a room. She could appreciate a room a lot.

The castle was still a massive work in progress. Though it felt like they’d achieved some heroic milestones two years ago during that first immersive Jacobean experience, all of their work had proved to be the first of countless steps yet to come.

Today, there were a handful rooms that were mostly finished – the kitchen, elements of the great hall and a wee snug where guests could gather for private whisky tastings. But it turned out the price of a potato harvester was just a drop in the bucket compared to what it took to renovate a building that had stood open to the elements for over a hundred years.

Castles were expensive. Luckily, they’d learnt early on that the finished product wasn’t so much the goal as the experiences they shared with the specialist craftspeople, as well as the scores of volunteers who’d joined them for the various immersive experiences Orla was now running as a proper business.

Here, in the only room that would be just for them, the ceilings were high, as was frequently the case in Scotland. They’d kept the far walls clean of paint, preferring instead to enjoy the gorgeous grey solid stone that was used throughout the castle. Behind the indulgently large four-poster bed, a sprawl of wallpaper covered with purple, white and green speckles made it look as if the bedroom was in the centre of a field full of heather in bloom. There was a fireplace big enough to stand in. A cosy little bed for their new puppy, Skye. A claw-footed tub that looked so inviting that if there hadn’t been a hundred plus guests outside – including her entire family who’d flown over a week earlier for their own immersive holiday – she would’ve suggested a bubble bath. Immediately.

But they were all here. Everyone who’d played a role in bringing the two of them together. Everyone except her bestie. Willa had decided Val was best symbolised by the Star tarot card and, as such, was tucked in the clutch bag Jennifer had embroidered for her. The bag was a deep midnight blue silk covered in brilliant gold-thread bees and the card was a reminder that change was a choice.