“You’ll be dining with us tonight at seven o’clock, Doctor. The entire family will be delighted to meet you.”
This morning, Maggie McGregor somehow managed to make a simple dinner invitation sound like a court summons.
There was no question in her sentence, no room for a polite refusal, just an order disguised as Scottish politeness.
I should’ve refused.
Or invented a medical emergency.
Anything would’ve been better than facing yet another public tribunal I already know I won’t walk away from unscathed.
But Maggie McGregor isn’t the kind of woman people say no to.
Especially when she’s housing you for free in one of her castle cottages.
I heard myself reply politely:
“You can count on me.”
Then I fled.
Which is how I end up standing in front of the castle doors at six fifty-eight, wearing the only decent sweater I own that’s neither stained nor wrinkled, wondering exactly how I’m supposed to survive this evening.
The rain has finally stopped, replaced by threatening skies.
Even Scottish weather enjoys maintaining suspense.
I knock on the door.
Jamison opens it before I even have time to lower my hand.
“Doctor McLeod. You’re punctual. Mrs. McGregor will appreciate that.”
He says it as though being on time is some rare and precious quality.
Which, in the Highlands, might actually be true.
“Good evening, Jamison.”
He takes my coat with one fluid movement and guides me toward the drawing room, where voices and laughter spill out.
A lot of voices.
And a lot of laughter.
I pause in the doorway long enough to assess the situation.
The room is packed.
Entirely full of McGregors.
Maggie reigns from an armchair near the fireplace, looking like a queen observing her loyal subjects.
To her right sits a couple in their thirties: him tall and dark-haired; her chestnut-haired with a warm smile and several months pregnant.
On the couch sits another couple: fiery auburn hair for her, an impressive build for him.
In an armchair by the window, another couple speaks quietly together.