Page 9 of Death at a Highland Wedding

“The asshole husband. Your college friend.”

“Notmy friend,” he says with a hard look. “Classmate and acquaintance only. But, yes, Isla met Lawrence through me, and I did not mind sharing a pint with the man, but I absolutely did not want him marrying my sister. Hugh hated him. He saw dangers that even I missed. But, of course, Hugh was betrothed to Violet, and as Isla grew older, she had begun treating Hugh more as her brother’s friend than her own.”

“Distancing herself.”

“Perhaps. She asked for our parents’ permission to marry Lawrence. Our father was fine with the union, but our mother was not. That was when Hugh broke off his engagement. Again, it was typical Hugh, which means he led with his heart rather than his mind, and he made a hash of it, unintentionally humiliating Violet. Isla had already gone to the coast with a friend, and when she returned… we discovered she had not only been with a friend.”

“She’d eloped with Lawrence.”

“Yes. That left Hugh with a rather spectacularly broken engagement,furious parents, and furious future in-laws. Still, the Cranstons—and Violet—were fond of him. They had overlooked his career choice and they would have overlooked this, too, if he had reversed his decision.”

“He didn’t.”

“Another man would have. After all, Isla was married and beyond his reach. But Hugh is damnably honorable, and I believe he’d realized he could not offer Violet a proper marriage, and so he refused to mend the rift. His parents disowned him. He is not welcome in their home. He has money from his grandfather, who left him a sizable inheritance. Fiona—the bride—still adores him. His parents will not even be staying here because Fiona insisted on inviting Hugh. They will come for the wedding only.”

“And the Cranstons?”

Gray sighs. “While Violet’s parents were fine with a policeman for a son-in-law, after the broken engagement, they tried to use their political leverage to have Hugh removed from his position. You will meet them, unfortunately.”

“And we can run interference between them and Hugh?”

“That is the plan. Isla will want to help, but it’s best if she does not. While Hugh has never said anything about Isla—not even to me—I believe his feelings for her are obvious.”

“To Violet as well?”

He stretches his long legs. “I do not know what Violet suspects, but while I sympathize with Hugh, his treatment of Violet was… unfortunate. He was kind, of course, but she cared for him and expected to marry, and while it has been ten years, she is still hurt by his actions.”

“I could tell.”

His shoulders slump, as if he’d hoped he was mistaken. In a situation like this, the best everyone could hope for is that Violet would emerge better than ever. Find a wonderful man, if that’s what she wanted. Or simply move on and realize she’d dodged a bullet, not spending her life wed to a man who didn’t want her.

I clear my throat. “What about Archie Cranston? I can tell you and Hugh know—” I stop as movement catches my eye. Then, seeing what it is, I smile. “Seems the estate has kitties.”

Gray follows my gaze. Right at the edge of the forest is a brown tabby. I walk to the edge of the garden and crouch lower, carefully with my corset, as I drop my fingers andpsp pspat the cat, who stares in wary confusion.

“Careful,” Gray says, coming up behind me. “You could lose those fingers. That is a Highland tiger.”

My lips twitch. “A man-eating one?”

“Probably not,” he says. “But nor is it a domestic feline. It’s a Scottish wildcat. Otherwise known as a Highland tiger.”

I blink at the cat as I remember a trip north with my nan, when she’d talked about seeing Scottish wildcats as a girl. Hunting and habitat loss had nearly wiped them out, the remaining wildcats interbreeding with domestic ones until, in my time, they’re considered functionally extinct.

If I’d ever seen a photo of a Scottish wildcat, I don’t remember it, and even if I had, I’d pictured something the size of a lynx. This isn’t much bigger than a house cat, with slightly longer limbs and a bigger head.

“That’sa Scottish wildcat?” I say.

“It is.”

“A young one?”

“No, full grown, I would say.”

“Huh.” I maneuver in my skirts to get lower for a better look. “Smaller than I expected, and it really does look like a—Oh!”

Two small heads peek up from the grass.

“Babies!” I say.