A Bride for a Day Read online

  But it wasn’t just that. She was used to seeing Michael in his football uniform, or when he was working out in the gym, or going out with Tatiana. In all those situations where they interacted it was easy to keep her focus on business. That he was good-looking was an understatement. For starters, although the rest of the wedding party wore tuxedos, Michael wore a kilt, with his clan colors of dark green and black tartan with yellow and white contrasting threads. What was it about men in kilts? He looked even handsomer, which she hadn’t thought possible. But he was the client and treated her like one of the guys. The perfect arrangement.

  Even more puzzling than her jumbled emotions was that she’d felt a shift in how Michael was looking at her.

  Her face warmed as she tore her gaze from his and focused on the actor who was portraying the priest. The slender man introduced himself as Father John, and raised his voice to ask everyone, except the bride and groom, of course, to be seated.

  There was a shuffling of chairs as everyone took their seats, with a little added whispering amongst themselves. When everyone settled down, the priest opened his book.

  ****

  The ceremony was a blur. They’d opted out of a mass, going straight to the reciting of the vows. The next words after, “I now pronounce you husband and wife,” brought C.C. crashing back to the present.

  “Michael Campbell,” Father John said, “you may kiss the bride.”

  C.C. cast a sidelong glance toward her groom. Correction. Pretend husband. He looked as stunned as she felt. Neither of them had discussed this part with anyone. If they had been friends, they might have been able to fake it, or at least giggle their way through. But they had a professional relationship and, except for the one time, they had never even been alone together. If they kissed, everyone, most importantly the press, would sense how awkward they were around each other.

  Father John cleared his throat and whispered, “Everyone is watching.”

  Michael nodded to the priest, and the man stepped back, giving them space. Then Michael turned to face her, leaning forward and whispering so low she knew only she could hear. His breath was warm and feather soft against her skin. “I can tell them we don’t kiss in public.”

  She tilted her head to meet his gaze. “Seriously? When have public displays of affection ever stopped you?”

  He winced. “Point taken.”

  “And if we don’t tell them something like that,” she continued, “they’ll know this is a sham marriage the moment we try to kiss each other.”

  He paused. “I have an idea. When was the last time someone’s kiss made your toes curl?”

  She moistened her lips. “Eighth grade,” she said without hesitation. “I had a huge crush on Tommy Shepard. He, of course, didn’t know I existed. We were at a party together, in a large group playing spin the bottle. When it was my turn, I spun the bottle and it pointed to Tommy. I was really surprised. He didn’t hesitate. He came over and kissed me.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  The priest cleared his throat and stepped toward them, an eyebrow raised. “Is there a problem?”

  Michael shook his head and reached for both of C.C.’s hands. “Pretend I’m Tommy.”

  “Will you pretend I’m Tatiana?”

  He leaned in closer. “I have someone else in mind.”

  His mouth pressed against hers. The sudden contact had a domino effect, setting every nerve in her body tingling. His hands moved up her bare arms. Tommy’s had been a boy’s kiss. Michael’s was a man’s. Her lips parted as she leaned in and the kiss deepened.

  Tatiana slammed open the double doors to the ballroom. They banged against the walls. C.C. pulled away from Michael, but he kept hold of her hands as Tatiana stormed down the aisle.

  Tatiana’s raven-dark hair floated around her shoulders, her makeup was flawless, and the skin-tight crimson designer dress was worthy of the red carpet. The entrance scene of the jilted lover couldn’t have been scripted better. In her wake, a man with puffy red cheeks and a wide-lens camera scurried behind her, snapping pictures of the startled guests. He looked like the stereotypical over-zealous paparazzi.

  True to character, Tatiana paused halfway down, giving everyone in the ballroom ample time for a clear view. She pointed toward Michael and C.C. and shouted, “I object!”

  “Wrong storyline,” Michael said under his breath. “This is not a courtroom. What was Harold thinking?”

  Tatiana’s four-inch heels clattered on the wood floor, drowning out the rapid beat of C.C.’s heart. Harold had briefed her that this might happen, but Tatiana’s performance seemed over the top, even for her. Despite Michael trying to make light of the situation, C.C. knew Tatiana could ruin everything.

  She reached Michael and C.C. and curled her manicured fingers into talons. “How long has this been going on behind my back? I will scratch out your eyes! See if he likes you then!”

  The first thing that registered to C.C. was that Tatiana didn’t look as though she were acting. The second was that Michael still held her hands. Was it for show?

  Michael stepped between C.C. and Tatiana. “That’s enough. We talked about this.”

  Tatiana drew closer, bringing with her the sharp smell of her perfume. Her long lashes lowered over her eyes and when they rose, her gaze was piercing. Her voice low so only those just in front of her could hear, she warned, “You’d better keep your promise. I know all your secrets.”

  The paparazzi snapped a series of pictures as the hum of conversation rose over the guests. He rushed toward the wedding couple and shoved a mic toward Michael.

  “Is it true that your deceased father was an accused felon?”

  Fiona, Bridget, and Lady Roselyn stepped in and led Michael and C.C. out a side door. “We need to get you as far away from here as possible,” Fiona said.

  Chapter Twelve

  Michael could run but he couldn’t hide.

  His grandmother had repeated that saying over and over that first year when he’d learned the identity of his parents. He’d disagreed with her then, and until now he’d done a pretty good job of staying at least two steps ahead of the mountain of secrets and half-truths.

  Lady Roselyn and her two sisters led him, C.C., and Harold into a strange room that was wall-to-wall doors of every size, shape, design, and color. Some were modern, but most of them looked as though they’d been plucked from the pages of history books.

  “That went well,” Harold said with a sarcastic tone in his voice as he loosened his tie. “Tatiana won’t like that the reporters turned the spotlight on your past and ignored her performance. My guess is that she and her mother are attempting to regain control of the story.”

  “It won’t work.”

  “Not so sure. What I do know is that we need more time. We can’t let you make a statement until news of your marriage has had a chance to reach your fans and the studio heads. People love a wedding story. Especially one that catches them by surprise. Unfortunately, we’re dealing with a time change. It’s three in the morning in the States. If I’d thought this through, I’d have planned a fake honeymoon and hired a helicopter to whisk the two of you away tonight. But even if I had, the weather has turned too dangerous to fly.”

  “Excuse me,” Fiona said. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but if you need a place to escape for a while, we may have a solution.”

  Bridget frowned. “Fiona. We can’t… Lady Roselyn, please tell her what she’s suggesting is not possible. We’re not ready.”

  Fiona crossed her arms over her chest. “When did you become so afraid to take chances?”

  Lady Roselyn stepped between the two women. “Ladies, please. I’m sure Harold has it under control.”

  “I wish it were under control,” Harold said. “They smell a story, and they won’t stop until they have an interview. I’m guessing they have the whole town, the train station, and even this mansion under surveillance. No one is going anywhere. So, unless you have a black hole that can transport Mic
hael and C.C. to another dimension in time and space, our only hope is to try and give Tatiana a chance to distract them while we prepare a statement.”

  “Or,” Fiona began, “we can send C.C. and Michael someplace where no one will be able to follow them, let alone guess where they’ve gone. It might give you the time you need.”

  “I know you’re trying to help,” Harold said, “but like I said, the reporters have the town locked up.” He checked his watch. “Everyone stay here. I’ll go to work preparing a statement.”

  When he’d left the room, Lady Roselyn turned to Fiona. “Absolutely not.”

  “But it is the perfect solution. Bridget! A little help. You have to agree this solution is the best way to keep them safe from the reporters.”

  Bridget nodded. “Fiona has a point.”

  Lady Roselyn threw up her hands. “When the two of you start agreeing on anything, that’s when I start to worry. We did not discuss this. All we agreed to was hosting a wedding. Which we did. There was no discussion of…of…” She lowered her voice. “You know.”

  “I don’t know why you’re so resistant,” Fiona said. “It’s the perfect solution. Harold said he needed more time to develop a statement and allow Michael’s fans to learn of the wedding. And since most of his fans are in the United States, and right now it’s about nine o’clock in the morning on the East Coast, and even earlier in the rest of the country, my option is not only perfect, it may be the only one we have.”

  “You planned this from the beginning,” Lady Roselyn said.

  Fiona was the picture of innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Then it’s decided,” Bridget said.

  “I’m lost,” C.C. said. “What is everyone talking about?”

  “Go ahead, Fiona,” Lady Roselyn said. “Tell them. After all, this was your idea. I suppose you’ve chosen a date.”

  “December 31, seventeen hundred forty-five.”

  “Excellent choice,” Bridget said. “Inverness in that century, particularly around the Scottish New Year of Hogmanay, is magical. Speaking of magic, I’d better make sure our New Year’s celebration in this century meets our guests’ expectations.”

  Lady Roselyn rubbed the bridge of her nose. “The two of you have lost your minds.”

  Fiona ignored her and turned to C.C. and Michael. “While Bridget tends to our guests, I’ll fill you in on a few details. Have the two of you ever wanted to time travel?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  While Fiona sat down with C.C. and Michael to explain what would happen to them, Lady Roselyn decided it best to stay out of the way.

  The room Lady Roselyn referred to as the Door Room was the size of a basketball gymnasium. Green velvet drapes, trimmed in gold, shrouded the windows looking out on the riverside, while doors covered the other three walls. The first thing a person might notice was that there seemed to be more doors than normal, as though you had dropped down Alice in Wonderland’s rabbit hole. There were dozens of doors in various sizes and shapes. And just as in Alice’s story, it mattered which door you chose. One door could lead to a leisurely walk in Victorian England, while another might lead you to the battlefields of Napoleon’s Waterloo.

  Lady Roselyn and Fiona had told Michael and C.C. they would send them some place safe from the reporters, and sending them back in time would certainly accomplish that promise.

  William had installed an ample supply of doors in case couples attending the New Year’s Eve party wanted to sample some of the adventures the sisters offered. The matchmakers were responsible for uniting many of the happy couples in attendance, so this was more than just a New Year’s Eve party: it was a reunion. Lady Roselyn liked to imagine that she and her sisters were like Rick Steves, the travel guide who had introduced thousands of Americans to Europe through his European tours, whereas the sisters used their adventures to awaken couples to the possibility of love.

  Fiona was briefing Michael and Bridget on what to expect. If the reaction of couples they’d dealt with in the past was any indication, Michael and C.C. wouldn’t believe they’d traveled back in time until they experienced it for themselves.

  Lady Roselyn had tried to stay upset with Fiona, but she couldn’t. In fact, if she were honest, a big part of her was pleased. She doubted few guests at the wedding had missed the way C.C. and Michael had looked at each other, or the sparks that had flown when they kissed. All the couple needed was the time to realize what most people already suspected: C.C. and Michael were falling in love. No, she wasn’t upset with her sister. How could she be? After all, Fiona was doing what they’d been born to do. She was playing matchmaker.

  William had finished installing the door marked with the year seventeen hundred forty-five, and he turned to join her. He cast a dashing figure, as the Victorians would say, and for some reason he looked much younger. It struck her that she wished he hadn’t cut off his beard, or that his shoulders didn’t look so broad in his tux, or that he could always sense when she needed a good laugh or a kind word. Most of all, she wished she did not look forward to seeing him every day and felt bereft when he was away on business.

  She glanced away before William could read the naked expression in her eyes. Their relationship had to remain professional. She concentrated on C.C. and Michael. Michael was glancing out the window, his hands laced behind his back. C.C. was seated next to Fiona, alternating between nodding her head and shaking it from side to side. The couple was processing the information, most likely believing that Fiona was delusional. Good. At least they weren’t hysterical. That reaction was the hardest to deal with.

  Too soon she turned back to William. He smiled, and she felt the heat of a blush betray her. She willed her voice not to give any more of her emotions away. The matchmaker code they lived by was unyielding. It was modeled after Queen Victoria. Marriages were arranged. The one departure from the Queen’s dictum was that affairs before marriage were allowed. If a spouse died, however, the surviving widow or widower could never remarry. It was no wonder there was a shortage of matchmakers these days.

  William bowed, as though sensing her inner turmoil. Most considered his old-fashioned way of greeting, although romantic and gallant, part of the matchmaker experience. The truth was far more complicated.

  He motioned to the door he’d installed. “Fiona said to use the door marked Inverness, Scotland, December thirty-first, seventeen hundred forty-five. As soon as you give us the word, Fiona and I will go through, followed by C.C. and Michael. I’ll drive them by coach from Urquhart Castle to Inverness and the rendezvous location. Fiona will meet them there, introduce them to the city, and stress the importance of returning to the rendezvous spot at the appropriate time. There’s a large New Year’s Eve celebration, or Hogmanay, as the Scots say, which should keep Michael and C.C. entertained while you, Bridget, and Harold keep the reporters distracted.”

  “Curious. When exactly did Fiona ask you to install this particular door?”

  “This morning, shortly after Michael proposed the fake marriage to C.C.”

  Lady Roselyn looked over at her sister. Fiona’s gift was sensing a couple’s attraction to one another, long before they realized it themselves. “New Year’s Eve in Inverness will be a magical time,” she said to William. “The perfect setting for love to bloom. My sister has uncanny instincts.”

  “That she does.”

  What went unspoken was the turmoil in Fiona’s own love life.

  But Lady Roselyn knew that her sister understood Scotland’s history, its pleasures as well as its dangers, and for C.C. and Michael it must be like listening to a tour guide who had actually been present at the events Fiona described. Lady Roselyn edged closer to listen.

  “A large swath of Scotland’s history,” Fiona was saying, “has been plagued by the Jacobite rebellion. The effort to return the Stuarts to the throne of England tore Scotland and England apart. That France harbored King James and his descendants only increased the tensions betwee
n the two countries. But in December of seventeen hundred forty-five, there was a lull in the fighting, and Bonnie Prince Charlie used that time in Inverness to plan his next—and what was to be his last—battle, the one on the bloody field of Culloden.”

  At the mentioned of that battle, Lady Roselyn walked over to the door that was a match for one that had been on a cottage on the site of Culloden. The door was handcarved and pitted with bullet holes and burn marks. It was always the first door William installed. She pressed her hand against the wood, remembering the fallen men, before returning to the door that C.C. and Michael would use. Unlike the Culloden door, this wood door was more finely made and had the image of a Scottish thistle painted on its surface. Its mirror likeness hung in one of the few towers that remained at Urquhart Castle.

  She unhooked a set of keys from the belt loop at her waist. “Our adventures don’t always work,” she said to William.

  William was silent, perhaps remembering the same incident she had. “Should I tell Fiona that we’ve changed our minds?”

  Lady Roselyn shook her head, banishing her concerns. She didn’t doubt her sister’s instincts. That was never in question. Fiona had taken an interest in this couple, which could be a sign that she respected her commitment to the matchmakers’ family business. Another positive. But what to do about Liam? If Fiona didn’t honor her betrothal to him…

  “Are you sure Fiona insisted we use the door at the castle? The one in the Water Horse, er, the Matchmaker Café in Inverness has easier access. There must be a match between the door in our time and the one in the past for the enchantment to work.”

  “Your sister was most insistent,” William said. “Fiona wouldn’t even let me install another door as a backup in case the one at the castle couldn’t be reached in time. The closest one we have installed to Inverness is the cottage door at Culloden.”