His Convenient Highland Wedding

by Janice Preston

  * * *

  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 voic
e 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?’

  ‘Have you finished eating?’

  Flora nodded. Lachlan packed up the basket before setting it on the seat opposite them.

  ‘You’d better call your dog,’ he said.

  Flora opened the door. ‘Bandit! Here, boy.’

  He streaked across the turf, his short legs pumping, tongue lolling. A flying leap at the doorway and he skidded across the carriage floor like he was on ice before tumbling head over heels to land in a heap at Lachlan’s feet. Her husband’s mouth thinned. He rapped on the ceiling and the carriage lurched into motion.

  ‘That is well behaved?’ he commented as Bandit leapt on to Flora’s lap, propped his front paws on her chest and licked her ear.

  ‘He is happy to see me.’ Flora hugged her pet as he wriggled in ecstasy. ‘He’ll soon settle down.’

  Lachlan raised one brow as Flora persuaded Bandit to curl up on the seat between them.

  He leaned back against the squabs and sighed. ‘To answer your question, I bought Lochmore because I thought it might gain me acceptance with the Scottish nobility. I was wrong.’

  He turned his penetrating gaze upon Flora and a warning shiver trickled down her spine.

  ‘And that is where I come in?’ Her voice was barely a whisper.

  ‘It is. With a well-born wife I shall find doors opened to me that would otherwise remain closed.’

  Foreboding twisted her stomach as she fondled Bandit’s ear, her mind racing. Her one consolation in marrying Mr McNeill had been that she would never again have to face society after the scandal of her almost-betrothal to the Duke of Galkirk. Now, in an awful twist of fate, it seemed the only reason Lachlan had married her was to provide him with an entrée into that society.

  ‘Why do you wish to be accepted by the nobility? Why not socialise with the business classes? These days, many of them are richer than the aristocracy, especially here in Scotland.’

  ‘I seek not only investment, but patronage.’ Lachlan leaned forward, propping his forearms on his knees, linking his hands together as he stared at the floor. ‘I bought a whisky distillery and invested in new equipment. My whisky is good—a new blend of malt and grain. The business has potential, but I’ve struggled to get the name accepted. I need influential backers and that’s why I need you.’

  He twisted his head, his dark eyes intense as he stared at Flora, before lowering his gaze once more to the floor.

  ‘But why buy a castle if you need money for your business? You could afford to sell it for less, perhaps, to gain customers. Or advertise it in the newspapers.’

  ‘It’s not that simple. I need introductions to the gentlemen’s clubs and hotels in cities such as London, Edinburgh and Glasgow to allow me to increase production, but for that I need patronage. Those establishments are so set in their ways, they need to be persuaded to even try a new supplier, let alone make a permanent change.’ He shook his head. ‘I know I can do better.’ The words burst from him. ‘I know we can produce enough fine-quality whisky to expand the distillery and to supply many more customers, but I just need the opportunity. I need the right doors to open for me.’

  Flora frowned at his sudden intensity. ‘You make it sound as though it is a matter of life and death.’

  ‘It may be exactly that, for the men and women who rely upon me for work.’

  * * *

  How could Flora possibly understand? She was nineteen years old and even though her family’s fortunes had declined over the past years she could still have no concept of what it was like to grow up in absolute poverty, with no choice but to steal to try to ensure your family’s survival.

  He wanted no further questions. The past was too personal. Too shameful. It belonged in the past. ‘As to why Lochmore Castle in particular—it is family legend that there is McNeill blood running in the veins of the Lochmore chiefs. It felt right to have a home with which I share some history, however ancient that link might be.’

  And it felt good to put down roots.

  ‘Your clan is linked to the Lochmores? You do know that the McCrieffs and the Lochmores are old enemies?’ Her look was almost accusatory.

  ‘Why should that make any difference?’

  She huffed in irritation. ‘This land we are driving through used to be McCrieff territory until King John Balliol granted possession of it to the Laird of Lochmore.’

  ‘King John Balliol? Never heard of him. How long ago was this?’

  ‘I think...in the thirteenth century. It may have been long ago, but there was enmity between our clans even before that time. Grudges live long in the Highlands and this grudge has never been forgotten. Or forgiven.’

  Lachlan suppressed his snort of derision.

  ‘I do not set stock in those ancient feuds and grudges, Flora. I am more troubled by what is happening today...the clearances...the vast injustices in society...the people living in poverty now.’

  ‘Well, and so am I.’ Her forehead wrinkled. ‘I know Highlanders have been forced off their land to make way for sheep, but there are some clan chiefs—my fa
ther for one—who’ve worked hard to support their tenants. But then the blight hit again and some tenants emigrated anyway—to America or Canada and a better life.’

  Some had gone to Australia, too, and he had seen the poor wretches as they had disembarked after the four-month voyage—lost and confused in a land so far different from their homeland that they might just as well have landed on the moon.

  ‘And those who did not, or could not, take passage went to the cities to search for work, driving down wages and needing shelter where there are already too few houses to go round,’ said Lachlan. Glasgow and Edinburgh were already heaving with Irish immigrants following mass starvation and disease in Ireland, caused by the same potato blight now creating havoc in Scotland. ‘I do not believe—nay, I know for a fact—that they have not gone to a better life.’

  And they were right back on the topic he did not wish to discuss. His past. He rubbed his temples.

  ‘Tell me about your brooch, Flora. Why does your father dislike it?’

  It helped distract Flora. She touched the brooch again and then she unfastened it and held it out to him.

  ‘He did not dislike it, other than as a wedding ornament. I found it, seven years ago, and...and I like to wear it.’

  It sounded like half a tale. Or even less. Lachlan examined the brooch. The workmanship was a little crude to modern eyes—a disc of silver, decorated with the moulded form of a thrift plant, the letters R and A, and a pair of swords that crossed over the centre.

  ‘It looks old—I should have thought a lady such as yourself would wear finer jewellery.’ He handed back the brooch.

  She bent her head, tutting in exasperation as she struggled to fasten it.