Jilting The Kilt
“…publish the banns of marriage between Connor MacKean and Afton Lennox, both of this parish. If any of you know cause of just impediment why these two persons should not be joining together in holy matrimony, you are to declare it.”
I’m not in love with him.
But Afton didn’t give voice to the declaration. Not during the first reading of the banns weeks ago. Not after the second. This was the third and final reading. And still, she stayed silent in her seat on the hard wooden pew a few respectful inches away from her groom, hands folded neatly in her lap as she stared unseeing at the vicar.
Love had nothing to do with her marriage to Connor.
The clearing of a throat jerked her attention to the other side of the aisle. Hamish Colquhoun shifted in his seat, looking grim and resolute, like he wished he were anywhere but here. But as Connor’s best mate, there was nowhere else he’d be. Not when he’d devoted much of his legal career to finding a loophole to free them from the marriage pact that had been struck between their families centuries before to put an end to generations of feuding and bloodshed. Their ancestors had believed so much in the necessity of the pact that they’d put both family estates and all the lands that went with them up as collateral with the Crown. A failsafe to see that neither side backed out. Which would have been all well and good if the damned thing had been executed in the early eighteenth century, as intended.
But, as fate or curse would have it, by way of illnesses and accidents and multiple generations of births of all boys or all girls, three hundred years had passed without eligible heirs to fulfill the pact. Afton and Connor had been born into the hot seat, as it were, and raised that this was their duty. Never mind that it was the twenty-first century and such things simply shouldn’t be done. Without it, ownership of the only homes they’d ever known would revert to the Crown, because the powers that be weren’t particularly interested in amending an agreement that might see thousands of acres of prime Highland forests and glens reclaimed for the government if it wasn’t upheld.
Despite years of effort, Hamish hadn’t found that loophole.
Well, there was the obvious solution of marrying and promptly divorcing, but her intended didn’t actually believe in the institution of divorce. He planned to marry once and once only. Oh, she could flout his wishes. Scotland had means of granting divorces to those whose partners didn’t agree. But she did truly care for Connor, and she didn’t want to damage a lifelong friendship by hurting him like that.
So she and her intended were here for the observance of yet another outdated formality to satisfy the terms of the pact. They’d head down the street to The Stag’s Head for an informal ceilidh/engagement party once the service was wrapped. Not that Connor was any more inclined to celebrate than she, but neither of them had the heart to say no to his great uncle, Angus, and it seemed everyone in the village was excited by the prospect of next week’s wedding and wanted to pay their respects.
At least there’d be whisky.
Afton traced a thumb along the band of the ring that weighed heavy on her left hand. It had been passed down in the MacKean family and ultimately resized for her. Connor had presented it before the first reading of the banns, and it still felt alien. Wrong.
There’d been no proposal. None of the usual trappings that went along with merging two lives. They’d never dated, never even kissed beyond one tipsy effort when she’d turned eighteen. It hadn’t been terrible, but it hadn’t set her on fire either. Given his approach to being bound for an arranged marriage had been to sow his oats as widely and often as possible until being legally bound in matrimony, presumably he’d developed skill in that arena since then that she’d benefit from.
She hadn’t seen the point in dating other people. Why risk catching feelings for someone when she wasn’t free to be with them long-term? The idea that it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all struck her as pure shite. And, in truth, intimacy hadn’t been required for catching those feelings, after all. Not that they’d ever mattered.
Hamish had always been off-limits, even before he’d married Dayna straight out of university. He’d never looked at Afton as anything other than a friend caught up in the same bind as Connor. Maybe that was part of the appeal. He was the only one who’d truly sought to find them a way out. If her naïve teenaged heart had swooned at that and imagined he’d harbored some secret motivation to free her for himself, well, that was hardly surprising. She’d certainly never shared that fantasy with anyone. No reason to expose her foolish, romantic heart to ridicule.
A light hand on Afton’s shoulder made her jolt.
Connor flashed a wry smile. “The service is over. Time to go.”
“I cannae decide if that’s better or worse.”
“Well, if we stay here, our arses are certain to stay completely dead. At least at the pub there’s Laphroaig.”
“You make a fair point.” Gathering her bag, she rose and edged out into the aisle, mustering a polite smile and nod to the other parishioners. As Connor eased out behind her, she murmured, “Are you buying the first round?”
“Seems the least a groom can do.”
“That’s true enough.” She slid her arm through his, grateful that, despite the lack of love, there was lifelong friendship and some affection.
It wasn’t the same as marrying a total stranger who didn’t know her at all. She knew what she was getting. Connor was a playboy and a flirt, but he was good-natured about it. He kept his conquests short-term and not local. Everyone he got tangled with knew the score. And he’d long ago sworn to her that, arranged marriage or not, he intended to be faithful once they said their vows.
They hadn’t discussed the reality of that yet. In truth, they hadn’t discussed a lot of things, as each of them had hoped beyond hope that something would stop this farce. And now the wedding was in one week, and the whole thing was starting to feel real. She really wasn’t up to explaining to her husband-to-be that, while he had explored all the flavors of female companionship he could find, she hadn’t taken the same freedom. Ever. It wasn’t as if she were completely untouched, but she hadn’t cultivated that ultimate intimacy with anyone. Least of all him. Hence her urgent need for a half of her favorite whisky.
The walk to the pub took twenty minutes, not because it was far, but because of all those who stopped them to offer congratulations. Every well-wish caused Afton’s chest to tighten as person after person added to the already monumental pressure of the duty she’d been born to. By the time they made it through the door of The Stag’s Head, she was trembling with the effort to stay composed. A rousing cheer rang out as they were spotted, and only pride and propriety stopped her from turning to flee.
Connor squeezed the hand she had looped through the crook of his arm. “I’ll get that whisky. Find a corner to catch your breath. I’ll bring it to you.”
She made some noise of assent. Then he was diving into the crowd, hailing his cousin, Ewan, where he stood scowling behind the bar, even as he shook hands and accepted handshakes from every person he passed.
Gaze scanning the teeming mass of people, she edged into the building, keeping to the periphery. It seemed every blessed resident of Glenlaig had decided to stop in for a pint or lunch after church today. She spotted Connor’s elder sister, Kyla, in conversation with her long-term partner, David Murray. Afton didn’t see the appeal of the banker from Edinburgh, but at least Kyla was free to choose for herself. The two of them stood laughing with Angus, who was, per usual, holding court from his favorite stool at the bar. Watching them together, Afton felt a pang.