Page 273 of Depraved Boys

Cormac stepped out of his room, dressed in a smart, charcoal-colored suit with a burgundy waistcoat. “Do you like it? I thought it could double up as something to wear for interviews.”

“Wow.” I smoothed down his lapels. “You look so handsome!”

His cheeks colored. “Thanks. It means so much that you agreed to be my best man.” He smirked. “You know what I mean.”

I looped my arm around his, and we walked down the hallway. “Aren’t you going to wear a flower?”

“Geraldine’s having them all delivered to Gretna Green,” he said. “We can pick them up at the blacksmith’s.”

“Oh.” My brows drew together.

I bit down on my bottom lip and stepped through the doors leading to the stairwell. Two things about what Cormac had said were disturbing. The first was the wedding venue. Historically, runaway couples from England would marry at the blacksmiths. It was world-famous and likely couldn’t accommodate last-minute bookings.

We descended the stairs in silence. The second thing gnawing at me was the flowers. Which bride didn’t want her bouquet delivered to her directly?

I glanced at Cormac, whose cheeks remained flushed with joy. “Are you sure about this?”

He opened the door leading to the ground floor hallway and beamed. “Geraldine is spoiled, attention-seeking, and can be a little catty, but she’s a completely different girl with me. You’ll see.”

Anxiety roiled in the pit of my gut. Cormac was walking into a trap. We both were, and every bit of common sense screamed at me to stop my best friend from hurting himself, but short from tackling him to the ground and holding him hostage, I didn’t know what else to do.

Cormac pushed open the academy’s double doors, letting in a warm, dew-scented breeze. A vintage Aston Martin convertible waited at the bottom of the steps. He clapped his hands together and laughed.

“Whose is this?” I asked.

“Geraldine must have hired it. She talked about driving off in the sunset in a 1970’s Aston Martin Volante, but I didn’t think she’d ever find one.”

“Oh.” I marveled at the wooden steering wheel and vintage, leather interior. Maybe I was wrong. No one would go to such efforts for a pigging.

After we got into our seats, Cormac started the engine and pulled the sports car out from the front of the academy. He launched into a dialogue, explaining that Geraldine had been training the two blonde fifth-years who accompanied her everywhere to walk in step down the aisle and that they would spend two nights in the blacksmith’s cottage before flying off to the Maldives.

“Where are Brunswick and Garraway?” he asked as he steered the car through the academy gates and into the main road. “They follow you everywhere.”

“They drove down to Brighton yesterday. Sebastian’s grandfather is having a heart bypass.”

Cormac grimaced. “Sorry about that.”

I pulled my phone out from my purse and checked for new messages. Nothing so far from either of them. It was six-thirty, and if they’d stayed up all night to hear from the surgeon, they’d probably still be sleeping. Slipping it back into my purse, I raised my head and gasped at the mist rolling in above distant, green mountains.

“Lovely morning, isn’t it?” Cormac slowed the Aston Martin at a sharp, downward bend.

Warm wind whooshed through my ears as he sped up. Clenching my teeth, I clutched at my stomach. This was the first time I’d been through the mountains in a convertible, and I was glad this would be the last.

After a hair-raising drive through the mountains, we reached the highway. Cormac stuck to the slow lane, and I sat back and enjoyed the rolling, green hills of Cumbria. About ninety minutes later, a huge, blue road sign welcomed us to Scotland. Cormac took a right, turning off the highway toward Gretna Green. The signposts directed us through a village of low-rise buildings, some of them looking centuries-old.

“You know the history of Gretna Green?” asked Cormac.

“Only the part about the 1754 Marriage Act in England that stopped people under twenty-one from marrying without the consent of their parents,” I replied.

“Back then, it was legal for girls as young as twelve to marry in Scotland.”

“Twelve?” I blurted.

“Ridiculous, isn’t it? Boys had to be fourteen to marry.” Cormac passed a one-story church with a tall tower. “The first stop over the border was a blacksmith’s shop, where a local priest would conduct the weddings. It’s still in use today.”

“Is that where we’re going?” I glanced at a white, one-story building with a slate roof, situated behind a courtyard decorated by a statue of an embracing couple.

Cormac pulled into its parking lot. “Here were are.”