‘Did I hear you say there’s more snow on the way?’ Helen enquired as she entered the dining room.
‘Another foot,’ Dominic confirmed. ‘No wonder I never come up here in winter. Not only is it bloody cold – it never stops snowing. Fucking Scotland.’
‘How did the Probe find out about our wedding?’ Gemma fumed. ‘That’s what I want to know.’
Helen, who’d gone to get herself a cup of coffee from the urn on the sideboard, froze. ‘The Probe, did you say? Not that awful tabloid?’
‘Yes, the bastards. They’ve just posted our plans for a Christmas wedding!’
‘Oh, dear,’ Helen murmured, her thoughts racing. ‘How could they possibly have known?’
Tom. It had to be Tom. He must’ve leaked word to one of the IT chaps. But why would he do that? He knew this was my shot at an exclusive story.
‘Exactly what I want to know,’ Gemma agreed. ‘I certainly didn’t tell them.’
‘They didn’t mention where the wedding’s to take place, did they?’ Helen asked.
If they did, she thought, my scoop will be a scoop no longer. Every entertainment reporter and pap in the UK will make their way to Northton Grange.
‘No. But it won’t take them long to work it out,’ Gemma grumbled. ‘The press already know we’re in Scotland, and they know Dom has a place in Northton Grange. They’ll put two and two together, and our secret wedding will be ruined!’
‘Perhaps not,’ Helen said, and a thoughtful expression settled on her face as she returned to her seat and set her cup down.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t have the wedding at Northton Grange,’ she suggested. ‘Have it here at Draemar instead.’
‘Here?’ Gemma said doubtfully. ‘At the castle? But my gown’s already been shipped to Northton G. And I don’t think the Campbells will want the bother of a wedding. After all, I’m not family.’
‘I’m sure they won’t mind. Draemar will make a truly romantic setting, don’t you think?’ she added, warming to the subject. ‘And if the weather forecast holds, and we get another foot of snow before Christmas, you might have no choice but to have your wedding here.’
Besides which, Helen mused, having the wedding at Draemar would ensure she was here for the nuptials and the exclusive photographs – and would scupper anyone else’s plans to snatch the story away from her.
‘Good morning, everyone!’
Natalie, her face wreathed in smiles, entered the dining room with Rhys.
‘Why are you so bloody cheery?’ Dom asked as he glanced up and scowled. ‘It’s annoying.’
‘Should we tell everyone why I’m so happy, Rhys?’ Natalie enquired as she took the seat he held out for her.
‘Tell everyone what?’ Wren asked with interest as she and Tarquin came in behind them.
‘Yes, what is it?’ Gemma asked as she set her mobile phone aside.
‘What’s up, Natalie?’ Dominic demanded. ‘You’re practically glowing, you’re so happy, and—’ He broke off and his jaw slackened. ‘Shit. Don’t tell me—’
‘Right, then,’ Natalie laughed, ‘I won’t tell you. I won’t tell you,’ she took a deep breath and smiled over at her husband ‘that I’m pregnant. Rhys and I are expecting a baby.’
‘Oh, Nat – that’s wonderful!’ Gemma exclaimed, playing along as if she didn’t already know. She thrust her chair back and threw her arms around her friend. ‘I’m so incredibly happy for you!’ She turned to Rhys. ‘And for you too, Rhys.’
He lifted a brow. ‘Thanks. I’m still adjusting to the idea.’
Amid the squeals of the women and the general furore of excitement that Natalie’s news had unleashed, Wren stood up suddenly. ‘I’m so very pleased for you, Natalie,’ she murmured. ‘So very pleased…’
With a small cry of anguish, she burst into tears and ran, sobbing, out of the dining room, leaving a circle of shocked faces behind.
‘Oh, poor Wren,’ Natalie said in dismay, and pushed herself to her feet. ‘How thoughtless of me. I’ll just go upstairs and see if she’s all right—’
‘No.’ Tarquin was already halfway to the door. Although his face was a study in turmoil, he spoke firmly. ‘I know you mean well, Natalie, but I think it best if you just...leave things, for the moment.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ she murmured, and sank back down in her seat, abashed. ‘I’m so sorry...’
But Tarquin didn’t hear her. He was already gone.
‘I feel awful,’ Natalie confided to Rhys that evening, as she sat with a troubled expression in front of the dressing table in their room. ‘I know Wren’s been trying to get pregnant, she told us so. It was inconsiderate and selfish of me, blurting out my news in front of her like that—’
‘No, it wasn’t,’ Rhys said firmly. ‘You did nothing wrong. You were excited and you wanted to share our news. You meant no harm. Tark knows that. And Wren did ask you.’
‘I know, but I still feel terrible.’ Her voice wobbled in remembered pain at Wren’s anguished expression. ‘She wants a baby so badly.’
‘Well, Mrs Gordon,’ Rhys said as he came up behind her at the dressing table and leant down to encircle her in his arms, ‘I can think of something that might make you feel marginally better. Take your mind off things.’
‘Oh? And what’s that?’ she asked, and frowned. ‘A rousing game of draughts? A cup of tea and a tin of chocolates? A television programme?’
‘Well, you could call what I have in mind rousing, I suppose.’ He nuzzled the sensitive skin behind her ear. ‘Or we could take our time, and make it last.’ His lips made their slow way down her neck to the slope of her shoulder.
She closed her eyes and leant her head back as his mouth warmed her skin, inch by delicious inch, and her breath quickened. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr Gordon,’ she murmured.
He pulled Natalie to her feet and into his arms. ‘Let me give you a demonstration, then.’ He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, very thoroughly, and Natalie soon forgot everything but the irascible, aggravating, and decidedly sexy Scotsman in her arms.
‘Did you leak my story, Tom?’ Helen demanded as she grabbed the pack of cigarettes on the dresser – she had two left ‒ and thrust one between her lips.
At the other end of her mobile phone, there was a sharp intake of breath. ‘Leak your story? No, damn your eyes, I most certainly did not! Why would I do that?’
‘Then tell me how the news of Dom and Gemma’s upcoming wedding ended up in the Probe’s Tweeper feed this morning!’
‘I’ve no bloody idea. Someone else up there in the land of kilts and cold weather must’ve found out. It’s not inconceivable, you know. Someone probably overheard you in the pub, or on the street, blathering away into your mobile phone.’
‘I haven’t been to the pub,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘because we’re still housebound by the snow. And we haven’t seen the Tarmac in a week. And I don’t blather.’
‘Then