His Convenient Highland Wedding

Their vows exchanged, Lachlan raised Flora’s veil, bracing himself for some kind of abomination. His chest loosened with relief as she stared up at him, her green eyes huge and wary under auburn brows, the freckles that speckled her nose and cheeks stark against the pallor of her skin. His finger caught a loose, silken tendril of coppery-red hair and her face flooded pink, her lower lip trembling, drawing his gaze as the scent of orange blossom wreathed his senses.

She is gorgeous.

Heat sizzled through him, sending blood surging to his loins as he found himself drawn into the green depths of her eyes, his senses in disarray. Then he took her hand to place it on his arm and its delicacy, its softness, its fragility sent waves of doubt crashing through him, sluicing him clean of lustful thoughts as he sucked air into his lungs.

For the first time he doubted this plan of his to wed an aristocratic lady with useful connections in Scottish society—connections he needed to help his fledgling whisky distillery succeed. He had never imagined he’d be faced with one so young...so dainty...so captivating...and her beauty and her purity brought into sharp focus his own dirty, sordid past. Next to her he felt a clumsy, uncultured oaf.

What could he and this pampered young lady ever have in common? She might accept his fortune, but could she ever truly accept the man behind the façade? He’d faced rejection over his past before and he’d already decided that the less his wife ever learned about that past, the better.

He barely noticed the walk back down the aisle. Outside, his new in-laws—Lord and Lady Aberwyld and their three other children—gathered around them and his lordship thrust out his hand, grasping Lachlan’s in a strong grip.

‘Ye’ll join us for a bite to eat to celebrate your nuptials before ye set off?’

‘Thank you. Yes.’

‘It’s only a short step from the kirk. It wasna worth harnessing the carriage.’

They set off walking—Aberwyld and Lachlan, followed by Flora and the rest of the family. Lachlan would by far prefer to walk next to his bride but, with a shake of her head, she had made it clear he should fall in with her father’s wishes. It didn’t take Lachlan long to realise Aberwyld expected his entire family to bend to his demands.

Castle McCrieff was a massive tower house with a flight of stone steps leading up to a heavy wooden door. Inside, although there had been some efforts at modernising, with plastered walls and carpet squares, much of the old stonework was still exposed and the passages and rooms had stone flag floors. The others disappeared into a side room, but Aberwyld stayed Lachlan with a hand to his arm.

‘It looks old-fashioned to your eyes, nae doubt, after Lochmore.’

Lachlan shrugged. ‘You’ll have funds to modernise it now.’

Aberwyld grunted. ‘Aye. I dare say.’

‘And you’ll help me find patrons for Carnmore Whisky?’

It was his only reason for marrying Flora McCrieff—the influence such aristocratic connections would bring him.

‘Aye. I’ll put in a word for ye when I can.’ Aberwyld’s gaze slid shiftily from Lachlan’s, leaving him to doubt his new father-in-law’s words. ‘And ye’ll have Flora to help ye.’ A heavy hand landed on Lachlan’s shoulder. ‘Well, lad...go on in with the others. I’ll join ye in a wee while.’

He left Lachlan to go and find the rest of the family. As he neared the door they had gone through, he heard Lady Aberwyld say, ‘Och, Flora. If only ye hadn’t refused the Duke. You were always too stubborn for your own good and now see what it’s brought ye...a plain mister as your husband.’

Lachlan stalked in, putting an end to the conversation. His bride looked on the verge of tears and her mother—a wishy-washy female—looked flustered. Well, good. How dare she upset her daughter with her spiteful remarks? On her wedding day, too.

The wedding breakfast lacked any sense of celebration or joy. Nobody even raised a glass to toast their marriage or to wish them happiness. Probably they saw nothing to celebrate—an earl’s daughter marrying a man such as Lachlan McNeill.

No. Nothing to celebrate at all.

Aberwyld had joined them soon after Lachlan did and it quickly became apparent that Lachlan’s initial appraisal of him as the sort of dour patriarch who expected unquestioning obedience from his family was correct. He held forth on a variety of subjects, the rest of the family barely speaking unless it was to agree with him. Lachlan had come across his type many times—bullies who threw their weight around until someone had the courage to stand up to them. It was clear none of his family possessed that courage. Except...

Lachlan eyed his bride, sitting quietly at his side, her eyes downcast. She had refused a duke. Maybe she had more courage than her manner suggested?

He was relieved when Aberwyld finally stood, saying, ‘Ye’ll no doubt be in a hurry to get away home before night falls, McNeill.’

They trooped outside to where Lachlan’s carriage waited at the bottom of the steps, Flora’s hand on Lachlan’s arm. Aberwyld beckoned and a woman carrying a wicker basket stepped forward.

‘Maggie’s packed provisions for your journey.’

Lachlan glanced at his coachman. ‘Barclay. Load the basket, please.’

A choked off sob from Flora reached Lachlan and her fingers tightened on his sleeve. Her expression did not change, but a sidelong glance showed him her clenched jaw and the rapid rise and fall of her breasts as she held her emotions at bay. He covered her hand with his and squeezed. She was his now, to protect and to cherish, and he would do so.

He was mystified as he studied Flora’s family. There were tensions here he did not understand. Were they not upset to see her leave? They kissed her goodbye with little show of emotion. Perhaps that was normal for aristocratic families? His own family had been boisterous and loving...until hunger and poverty had ground their spirit.

Lachlan handed Flora into the carriage. She thanked him quietly. She waved to her family and then settled back, staring resolutely out of the window as they drove away from Castle McCrieff.

* * *

‘Why did you not wed that Duke?’

The question had been clawing at Lachlan ever since he had overheard Lady Aberwyld’s words.

His bride visibly started. He couldn’t blame her—they’d not exchanged a single word since they’d set off on the journey home to Lochmore Castle. Their eyes had not even met—she staring from the window on her side of the carriage and he from his. She was a long time answering him...was she already regretting their marriage? Was she disappointed in him? His mouth twisted in a wry smile. Of course she must be. He was a poor lad from the slums of Glasgow—albeit a wealthy one now. Hardly the sort of husband a young girl would dream of, particularly when measured against a duke...

‘Well?’

The demand sounded harsh, but he wouldn’t soften it. Better to wait and see what she had to say for herself.

‘The Duke of Galkirk made me an offer last year. I refused him.’

Her voice was quiet, with the slightest hint of a Scots burr—not the harsh Glaswegian accent from his youth, but softer...like the early morning breeze, redolent with the scent of heather, that whispered down from the hills and out across Loch Arris whenever there was a lull in the onshore winds that so often battered Lochmore Castle. Her green eyes searched his face before dropping to her gloved hands, folded in her lap.

‘Why did you refuse?’

She tucked her bottom lip under her teeth—small, even, white—and gave a tiny shake of her head. ‘Does it matter? We are wed now.’ Again she surveyed his face, her expression revealing nothing of her thoughts, before she resumed her perusal of the passing scenery.

Lachlan took the opportunity to study his new wife.

Wife! How peculiar that sounded. Him, a married man. He, who had always prided himself on needing no one, for hadn’t he proved that over the past fourteen years? He’d had nothing but himself and his wits to rely on, and he’d made a success of his life. Pulled himself out of the swamp of despair that had drowned so many and broken their spirit. No doubt they would find a way to rub along together in this marriage of convenience and, with luck, Flora would soon get with child and her attention would be on family matters while he would have his business interests and his search for Anna to occupy him.

The thought of his one remaining sister twisted his heart with guilt and grief. Where could she be? He had searched and searched for her ever since his return to Scotland. If only he had come home sooner. If only he hadn’t been so determined to prove himself and make a success of his life. If only—

With a silent curse, he wrenched his thoughts from the past. He rarely allowed himself to dwell on it and, if it wasn’t for the constant fear of what had become of Anna, he would have banished all thought of the past fourteen years by now. He hauled in a deep breath, pushing that ball of gnawing worry aside, and returned his attention to his new bride.

She appeared demure enough—docile even—but...it must have taken some spirit to refuse a duke. He frowned. Maybe she had hidden depths? Her mother had called her stubborn—was it that trait keeping her silent? He thrust his conjectures aside. They were two strangers now bound together for life and it was only fair to get to know her better before judging her.

He continued his scrutiny, remembering his body’s reaction to her wide-eyed gaze in the kirk and the doubts that had swamped him. The memory rendered him even more tongue-tied than ever. He had no experience of how to treat a real lady, especially not one who now belonged to him body and soul. The responsibility didn’t set well on his shoulders. He wasn’t a man who developed friendships with ease, let alone a relationship such as this. Husband and wife.

‘Pardon?’

She had spoken. Or he thought she had. But he had been inside his own head and missed her quiet comment.

‘Where are we going?’

Her simple question stole his breath. All this time he’d been wallowing in his own awkwardness and discomfort and yet she—nineteen years of age and married to a man she had never met—did not even know where he was taking her.

‘We are going home.’

She frowned, her smooth forehead wrinkling.

‘How far?’

He glanced out of the window. They had left the coast behind and were now heading south from Loch Machrie through Kilmachrie Glen, bordered to the west by the ocean—currently invisible—and to the east by rugged green hills, moors and glens. They were passing the standing stones he had noticed on the journey to Castle McCrieff, and he knew they would not see the sea again until they turned off this road and headed south-west, towards the rugged promontory on which Lochmore Castle was built.

‘About two hours. Maybe a little more.’

She lowered her head and her hand crept up to touch a brooch pinned to her travelling cloak.

‘Where did you get that brooch?’

Her head snapped round as her hand closed around it. ‘It is mine.’

‘I don’t doubt it. But it was not on your cloak earlier.’

Her face flamed and he recalled the tremble of her hand as he handed her into the carriage. He gentled his voice.

‘I shall not take it from you. It was a harmless enough question, I thought. One that surely deserves an answer?’

He smiled at her, keen to ease this tension that shimmered between them.

‘It was in my pocket. My father said it was unsuitable for my wedding day.’

‘May I see it?’

Lachlan reached for the edge of Flora’s cloak. He withdrew his hand when he saw her flinch.

‘Are you afraid of me?’

Those green eyes sought his. ‘A...a little.’

‘Your father...he is a strict man?’

‘H-he has very strong ideas of correct behaviour.’ Her eyes blazed before her lashes lowered to shield her emotion. ‘I did not always behave as he wished.’

‘You refused a duke. And your father was...what? Angry? He punished you?’

‘They were all angry.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I let them all down.’

‘Well, I tell you this, Lady Flora McNeill. I do not believe in physical punishment—’ he had seen enough of that to last him several lifetimes, on board the convict ship and afterwards at the penal colony in New South Wales ‘—and you need never fear I will raise my hand against you.’ He put his hand on her leg. ‘You have my word.’

She released a quiet sigh. ‘I thank you.’

But her thigh was rigid beneath his hand and he wondered if some of her fear might be of the night to come. She was a maiden and she might not even know what to expect of the marriage bed. Had her mother instructed her? Allayed her fears? He returned his hand to his own lap. There were no reassurances he could offer that would not result in embarrassment for them both—he must hope that once the hurdle of their wedding night was out of the way she would relax in his company.

* * *

Flora’s stomach tied in ever tighter knots the further they travelled from the only home she had ever known. Her throat tightened and the tears that had lurked beneath the surface for the past two days threatened to spill—her family might have been resentful and critical of her over the past year, but at least they were familiar. She gulped, holding back the tears by sheer force of will.

Lachlan’s voice broke into her thoughts.

‘Are you hungry? You ate very little at the wedding breakfast. I can instruct the coachman to halt for a few minutes.’

He was well spoken: his voice deep and melodious with a barely discernible Scottish burr. About to refuse, for she was eager to reach their destination and escape the close confines of the carriage as soon as possible, Flora realised maybe it was he who was hungry.

‘Thank you. Yes, that would be welcomed.’

She couldn’t stomach a thing, but maybe a drink would help moisten her dry mouth and throat. Lachlan rapped on the carriage ceiling and, after a few minutes, the vehicle turned off the road. Lachlan jumped out, lowered the steps and handed Flora from the carriage. She noted once again the strength in his grip. His arm under her hand as they had walked back down the aisle had been rock hard—he had a powerful physique and, despite the anxiety stringing her nerves tight, she couldn’t help but feel a quiver of anticipation at the thought of their wedding night.

The two men on the box climbed down—the coachman checking the horses and the groom hurrying to the rear of the carriage to unstrap the basket Maggie had provided.

‘Would you...er...?’ Lachlan gestured vaguely in the direction of a low clump of bushes some twenty yards from where they stood.

Flora’s cheeks burned. ‘No. Thank you. I... I just need to stretch my legs a little.’

He nodded and she walked back along the road. She cast her gaze around her at the magnificent brooding landscape, the broad glen bordered by rugged hills. There was no sign of human habitation. Nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. And, even if there was, there was nowhere she could go. She belonged to him now.

Her husband.

A stranger.

And she was now Lady Flora McNeill, not the lady of rank she had once imagined in her future.

And whose fault is that?

She quashed that taunt. She had been right to reject the Duke of Galkirk—her instinct had warned her against him even before he proved himself a despicable lecher on the very evening their betrothal was to be announced. And she had publicly denounced him, not realising at the time how great was the financial need of her family and their tenants. Needs that had worsened in the past year after blight hit the local potato crop yet again. The blame, disapproval and disappointment of her parents and her siblings—not to mention other clan members—had worn her down until the burden of shame had grown almost too much to bear. She had retreated into herself—speaking only when spoken to and accepting the chores heaped upon her shoulders without complaint.

And now, that same instinct that had prompted her to refuse Galkirk was telling her that Lachlan McNeill was a good man and she trusted his word that he would never raise his hand to her. The past twelve months, however, had taught her there were worse punishments than the strike of a man’s hand. At least that was over and done with, if painful and humiliating, unlike the consistent drag on her spirits of knowing how she had let her family down.

How much would she see of her family in the future? Her father expected obedience from his wife and children and he’d already demonstrated his ability to cut those who displeased him from his life after his sister, Tessa—having defied their father’s plan to marry her to the Duke of Lochmore—had been sent to live with relations in Glasgow. Neither Grandfather nor Father had ever forgiven her and Flora had never even met her aunt. That incident had added yet another grudge to the ancient feud between the McCrieffs and the Lochmores—a feud that the marriage of Lochmore and Tessa had been intended to heal.

Flora glanced back at Lachlan, who was consulting with the coachman. He was her future and it was up to her to make the best of it and not look back. She slowly retraced her steps. She did not want him to regret marrying her, so she would try hard to make him happy. But did that mean she must obey him blindly in all things, as her mother obeyed her father? She did not think she could bear such a marriage, but she realised her future was in her hands. She would tread softly to begin with, however, until she knew her husband better.

Lachlan met her gaze as she approached. He was so tall—he towered over her—and he was so formidable looking with his stern expression and his brooding dark eyes under straight black eyebrows. She had seen him smile just the once, when he’d asked her about her brooch, but it had been a forced smile that didn’t reach those deeply intense eyes.

And have you smiled at him?

A gust of wind caught at her cloak and she shivered, gathering it around her again. Beneath, she still wore her wedding gown—an old white-silk evening gown of Mother’s, trimmed with Honiton lace—neither as fine nor as romantic as she had once dreamed of for her wedding, but then this union was not romantic, was it? It was a marriage of convenience. A lock of hair fell loose, tumbling across her forehead, and she tucked it beneath her bonnet. She forced herself to smile at Lachlan. His eyes widened, then he strode to her to take her arm. She hid her wince as he touched the painful bruise left by her father.

‘It is cold out here. We will sit in the carriage to eat.’

‘As you wish, sir.’

‘Lachlan.’ The rejoinder came swift and fierce. ‘I do not wish to be “sir” to you.’

‘Very well. Lachlan. It is a good Scottish name. As is McNeill.’

He nodded in acknowledgement, but offered none of his background. As they neared the carriage, the groom was on the roof, handing another basket down to the coachman.

‘What is it, Barclay?’

‘There’s something in it, sir. It moved.’

He unstrapped the lid. It lifted an inch and a black nose emerged, followed by—

‘Bandit!’

Nothing could stem the tears now. Flora fell to her knees and hugged the squirming terrier to her. She had begged her father to allow her to bring Bandit, but he’d forbidden it. So who...?

She set Bandit down and he bounded away before settling to the serious business of nosing the ground to investigate the fascinating smells. Flora pulled the basket to her and rummaged inside. Under a cushion she found a folded piece of paper. Her breath caught as she opened it.

Thought you might need a friend. D. x

Flora scrambled to her feet, clutching the note, joy coursing through her. Donald had defied Father. Through blurred vision she saw Lachlan watching her, a frown creasing his forehead.

‘Bandit?’ One brow lifted.

‘Please say I may keep him.’ If he said no, there would be nothing she could do. ‘He is well behaved, even though he’s only young.’ He would be two in the spring and was a bundle of energy, but how could anyone resist his lopsided ears and the black eye patches that had inspired his name?

Her new husband frowned. ‘There are cats at the castle. And poultry roam freely in the grounds.’

‘Bandit is used to livestock.’ Flora tilted her chin at her white lie. He was getting better at not chasing after other animals.

‘Very well. Watch he doesn’t stray while we eat, Barclay.’

Lachlan handed Flora into the carriage, then followed her inside with the picnic basket. He opened it to reveal bread and cheese and a quart stoneware bottle of ale, but no vessels from which to drink. He appeared momentarily at a loss.

‘I am not so fine that I cannot drink from the bottle,’ Flora said, with a smile. The world had taken on a brighter hue.

Dull red flagged his cheekbones. ‘It is not how I imagined toasting our union.’

His voice was gruff and a muscle ticked in his jaw. Out of nowhere came the urge to comfort him and Flora reached out to touch his hand. They had each removed their gloves in order to eat and the feel of his strong, hair-dusted hand...the heat of his skin...the sight of his neat square fingernails...sent her heart leaping and a tingle up her arm. He started at her touch and raised his gaze from the bottle to capture hers, his dark eyes puzzled. She braced herself against the natural instinct to snatch her hand from his and, instead, she stroked, tracing the solid bones of his hand with her fingertips, learning the feel of him. The air appeared to shimmer between them.

‘We can toast our union when we are home,’ she said softly. ‘Will you tell me a little about it? You called it a castle...have you lived there all your life?’

He tugged his hand from beneath hers. ‘No.’

He offered her bread and cheese and, although still not hungry, she accepted a portion of each, wondering what she had said to cause his abrupt withdrawal. He opened the bottle and offered it first to Flora. She took it and drank gratefully, then nibbled alternately at the bread and the cheese, waiting for him to elaborate.

He tipped his head back, drinking a deep draught, before he continued. ‘I bought it a year ago.’ He looked at her again, his expression a mix of defiance and pride. ‘It is a castle, yes. Lochmore Castle.’

‘Lochmore?’

Chapter Two

Lachlan frowned at Flora’s gasp. ‘Did your father not tell you? He had a good look round when he rode over to discuss the settlements.’

‘No, he did not.’

Father had always claimed nothing would induce him to set foot in the castle of his old enemy, ever since the proposed match between Flora’s Aunt Tessa and the current duke had failed. It was a matter of pride, he had said, and if there was one thing Highlanders possessed in abundance, it was pride.

‘I never imagined...but, how did...? You are a McNeill. Why do you own the ancestral seat of Clan Lochmore?’

Did Father view this as some kind of victory over the Lochmore—a McCrieff to be mistress of Lochmore Castle after all?

‘Clan Lochmore?’ Lachlan raised one dark brow. ‘I thought that feudal structure was banned after the forty-five?’

‘They couldn’t wipe out centuries of history just like that,’ said Flora. ‘Clan is family—no government can control our hearts and minds.’ She’d heard her father raging about it often enough when he’d been imbibing the whisky. ‘So...why Lochmore Castle?’

‘The Duke of Lochmore does not care for the place. He and his family have not lived there for years and his heir spends much of his time travelling and so, rather than continue to spend money on its upkeep, he instructed his agent to sell.’

‘But none of that explains why you bought a castle to live in. Why? And why Lochmore in particular?’