Page 42 of Scotlander

As Shona and her bagpipes squawked out wedding marches with an almost imperceptible hint of Rihanna to them, the group gathered together inside the stone remains of the old chapel just beyond the stables. Finn took advantage of the fact it was too loud to talk and tried to gather his thoughts about Willa. Yes, they’d got off to a false start. She’d struck him as a flibbertigibbet. An ineffectual, too-woke-for-her-own-good, butter-wouldn’t-melt, city slicker. A beautiful one. But someone he’d definitely swipe left if dating was on his agenda. Which it most definitely was not, especially with things at Balcraigie reaching boiling point. But now that he’d had a few glimpses at the real Willa, she was a welcome distraction from the avalanche of problems hanging above him.

Whatever she’d thought this holiday was going to be, finding out her boyfriend was gay obviously hadn’t been on the agenda. Not that openly declaring her intent to fake marry a man who put her teeth on edge was the solution, but something beyond pity had compelled him to go along with it. There was more to her charged, emotional reaction to Gabe’s news than met the eye and if working at the agricultural college with teenagers had taught him anything, he knew that waters didn’t always have to be still to run deep. Even so, it was going to be a long couple of weeks.

As Orla directed everyone to their places, Willa leant in. ‘This is completely surreal, right?’

‘Och, away.’ Finn swiped at the air. ‘We’re always doing this sort of thing up here in the Highlands. Perfectly normal.’

She snorted. ‘Am I the only one to get a groom with six fingers?’

Finn shot her a look. ‘You may laugh now, lass, but you’ll soon find you’ve got the best of a questionable bunch of ruffians.’ He broadened his brogue for effect. ‘And be warned, I’ll no have my bride keeking about for an alternative.’

She crooked her finger and jigged it a few times. ‘Translation, please.’

‘Keeking?’ He turned his hands into a telescope. ‘Looking. Snuffling about for someone who isn’t me.’

‘How very Cro-Magnon of you.’

He was about say something to ensure she knew that he knew they were both doing this under duress, but Willa suddenly stood stock still. He turned and saw Gabe and Lachlan appear in the chapel doorway hand in hand.

The smile dropped from her face.

Before he could ask if she was absolutely certain she wanted to go ahead, a friend of Orla’s from the Balcraigie Players, clearly playing the role of minister, stepped into place with a dramatic, ‘My flock! My ken. My dearly beloved. Who will be the first lucky couple to be joined as one for the rest of their living days? Or, in this case . . . two beautiful weeks in one of Scotland’s finest estates?’

Orla pointed at Finn and Willa. They both recoiled in horror. Finn fought the urge to tell Orla he’d been right, this entire scheme was doomed, then remembered what was at stake and forced on a smile.

He led Willa up to the small pallet stage in front of the straw-bale altar, decked out with fistfuls of late season heather and thistles.

Orla’s am-dram pal raised his hands to the heavens and cried, ‘Are ye prepared to witness two hearts bound together as one?’

The group let out cheers and a couple of whoops. One of the lads from the farm shouted out, ‘Get in there, Jamieson,’ to which Finn shot back, ‘That’s my future wife you’re talking about, mate. I’ll have you showing her respect and nothing less.’

‘Right you are, Finn. Now quit your faffing and get on with it!’

‘Aye. That’s what we’re here for, that’s what we’ll do.’

His nerves knotted in his chest as the am-dram minister began unveiling a rather impressive Scottish-tinted Princess Bride impersonation, bleating on about harmony and bliss and obedience.

He had to admit, even though this entire thing was for show – a fiction – there was something about standing beneath a wedding bough in the remains of the old chapel with Willa’s hands in his that gave him goosebumps. The sun made a rare appearance and filtered through the traditionally decorated tree branch dappling diamond-like speckles of sunlight throughout Willa’s dark hair. Her espresso dark eyes were bright and her expression was a combination of nerves and something unexpected. Hope.

Struth. He hoped she was faking it.

He’d heard the other women in the group talking earlier this morning about how much they were looking forward to wedded life with a rugged, kilted Highland male. Not one of them mentioned hoping to work from dawn to dusk with a sweaty, smelly contractor. Nor had they expressed a desire to physically labour until their bones ached, falling into bed the minute after they’d shovelled down their tea, only to get up a handful of hours later and do it all over again.

Such was the life of a true Highlander.

These poor folk were in for a bit of a shock.

Or . . . said a quiet voice in his head, maybe they’re here for all the right reasons. Perhaps they will enjoy it.

The thought caught him off guard.

Perhaps, continued the quiet voice, this was precisely the immersive experience he needed. A last-ditch chance to throw himself into life at Balcraigie and figure out what it was he did – or more likely didn’t – want from the place. To sell or not to sell. That was the question.

Ranald, their pretend minister, took interwoven strands of green and purple cord and held them up for the ‘congregation’ to see. ‘As I tie this knot, so too will your lives be bound!’

Finn’s pulse accelerated. Stupid, considering he knew it was all fake, but Willa must’ve been feeling it too because her hands began to shake.

He ducked his head, trying to catch her gaze. They really didn’t have to do this if she didn’t want to. She shot him a look that said, Please fuck off with your sympathy looks.