His Convenient Highland Wedding

by Janice Preston

  But neither would she ever forget what she had seen.

  Chapter One

  October 1848

  The tall, broad-shouldered figure standing before the altar sent shivers crawling up and down her spine. In desperation, Lady Flora McCrieff turned to her father, the Earl of Aberwyld, whose grip around her arm had not relaxed once on the five-minute walk from the castle to the kirk.

  ‘Father...’

  She quailed under that implacable green glare. Then her father bundled Flora none too gently to one side of the porch. Out of sight. Out of hearing.

  ‘Ye’ll not disgrace me again, Flora,’ he hissed. ‘D’ye hear me?’ He shook her arm. ‘Ye’ll do as I bid ye—for the love of your family and your clan. Think of your brother and your sisters. You owe them this.’

  Her stomach roiled so violently she had to swallow several times to prevent herself being physically sick. She mentally scrabbled about for more of the persuasive arguments she had rehearsed in her bedchamber as her maid had prepared her for this wedding. Her wedding. To a man she had never met. To a man whose name she had never heard until Sunday—two days ago—when her father had announced her forthcoming nuptials.

  All her protestations had fallen on deaf ears. The banns had already been read and finally she understood why she had been forbidden to attend church services on the past three Sundays.

  ‘Father...please...’

  Why didn’t I run when I had the chance?

  But where would she have gone? She had nowhere and no one. And the shock of discovering the future had been mapped out for her was only just beginning to wear off. Misery squeezed her heart as her father’s grip tightened painfully.

  ‘No. You will do as you are told, lass, and wed McNeill. Ye will not care to experience my displeasure if you refuse to obey me in this.’

  Tears scalded Flora’s eyes and her father sighed, loosening his grip. He lifted Flora’s veil and brushed a tear from her cheek.

  ‘I need you to do this, Flora. McNeill seeks a well-born wife and he is wealthy enough to take you without a dowry.’ He cleared his throat and glanced apprehensively at the door. ‘He has promised to fund the repairs to the keep roof—you’ve seen how much damage has already been done by the leaks. And he’ll provide dowries for Aileen and Mairi. Surely ye want to see your little sisters make good matches? Ye owe it to us after that business with Galkirk.’

  A seed of hope germinated. Might this finally persuade her family to forgive her for letting them down so badly last year? Would obeying her father mean they would finally stop blaming her? But it still hurt that her own family appeared to view her as a brood mare, expecting her to sacrifice the rest of her life to a man she had never met.

  Lachlan McNeill.

  Her bridegroom. A rich man. A businessman.

  And a plain mister—a poor match for the eldest daughter of an earl...even an impoverished one like her father. Her inner voice taunted her, telling her it was no more than she deserved. She had spoken out against the Duke of Galkirk last year and the consequences had been disastrous. Since then, she had become more accustomed than ever to keeping her opinions locked inside. It was less painful that away.

  She longed to defy her father but, in truth, she had no fight left. She sucked in a deep breath, swallowed past the lump in her throat and nodded. Her father smiled, lowered her veil and—this time—he crooked his arm for her to take rather than grasping her arm. They entered the kirk and began the short walk up the aisle towards Lachlan McNeill.

  Dread churned Flora’s insides. What manner of man would take a bride unseen and even pay money for her? All too quickly, they reached her bridegroom and a swift sideways peek at his profile reassured her in his appearance, at least. His black frock coat was fashionably nipped in at the waist and well-tailored—the attire of a gentleman. His black hair was thick and wavy on the crown, but neatly trimmed to collar length, and his sideburns—not bushy in the fashion favoured by some men—reached to the hinge of his jaw. His profile was stern and slightly forbidding with its straight nose, strong jawline and firm lips, but Flora’s keenly developed sixth sense told her he was not a man to fear even though his dark eyebrows were slashed low.

  Flora wiped her mind of all thought as the marriage ceremony commenced.

  Lachlan McNeill couldn’t quite believe his good fortune when he first saw his bride, Lady Flora McCrieff, walking up the aisle towards him on her father’s arm. Her posture was upright and correct and her figure was...delectable. The tight bodice and sleeves of her wedding gown—her figure tightly laced in accordance with fashion—accentuated her full breasts, slender arms and tiny waist above the wide bell of her skirt. She was tiny, dwarfed by her father’s solid, powerful frame, and she barely reached Lachlan’s shoulder when they stood side by side in front of the minister. True, he had not yet seen his new bride’s face—her figure might be all he could wish for, but was there a nasty surprise lurking yet? Maybe her features were somehow disfigured? Or maybe she was a shrew? Why else had her father refused to let them meet before their wedding day? He’d instead insisted on riding over to Lochmore Castle, Lachlan’s new home, to agree to the marriage settlements.

  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 mo
dernise 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 rugge
d 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.