His Convenient Highland Wedding

by Janice Preston

  Flora nodded and headed next for the stableyard, where she stroked the horses, before wandering along the muddy paths of the vegetable garden, where a few chickens pecked and scratched. They scattered with loud squawks when Bandit tried to make friends. Flora called him to heel, looking around guiltily in case anyone had seen and might report back to Lachlan, but there was nobody there.

  Bandit at her heels and keeping one eye on the weather, she hurried across to the opposite side of the outer bailey to the old chapel, as Rab had called it. The door creaked as she opened it and she wrinkled her nose at the dust inside. It was clearly a store, piled high with heavy old-fashioned furniture, and she backed out, closing the door behind her and then, spying a narrow gate, she opened it and saw that it did, indeed, lead to a path down to the beach.

  Rain spattered her face. She called Bandit back through the gate, then they ran together for home. By the time they reached shelter, the hem of Flora’s gown and her cloak were wet and mud-splattered and she hurried upstairs to her bedchamber where huge raindrops were being blasted against the window by the wind barrelling in from the sea. She hung her gown over a chair, hoping that once the hem was dry the mud would brush out.

  It was noon—a whole six hours to fill until Lachlan returned and, even then, would he tell her about his day or was he another such as Father, who believed no woman needed to know about men’s business? She sighed and pulled an old gown of apricot striped with dark green from the wardrobe and then rummaged in the chest at the end of the bed for her plaid shawl, the splattering of raindrops on the window making her shivery.

  She held the soft wool of the shawl to her cheek as she stared unseeingly at the rain-washed windowpane, the longing for her childhood home—despite the tensions of the past year—welling up inside her, making her throat ache. At least at Castle McCrieff she had been lonely among people she knew. People she had grown up with. Here she was among strangers. She shook out the shawl—the soft greens and blues conjuring the lichen on the stone walls of McCrieff and the blue of the sea on a cloudless winter day—and then swung it around her shoulders, hugging it close. A knock, followed by the door opening, shook her from her reverie. She spun round, alive with the sudden hope that it was Lachlan, returned early from the distillery. Muriel’s round, rosy face met Flora’s disappointed gaze.

  ‘Luncheon is served, milady.’ She bustled across to snatch Flora’s discarded gown from the back of the chair. ‘Och, this is wet. I’ll take it to the kitchen to dry out and then I’ll brush it for ye. It’s lucky you came inside when you did or it’d be in a worse state still.’

  ‘Thank you, Muriel. I shall come downstairs now. Is...shall I be expected to eat my luncheon in the dining room?’

  The thought of eating alone at that huge table made Flora shiver even more. How had Lachlan borne it, night after night, dining alone in that room? Sympathy stirred even though he did not appear to want her companionship. They’d been as isolated at the dinner table last night as though each of them dined alone.

  ‘Och, no. Mrs Dalgliesh said to serve you in the morning parlour. D’ye ken where that is, or shall I show you?’

  ‘No, I know where it is, thank you. Will you take Bandit to the kitchens and give him something to eat?’

  They walked together to the head of the stairs and then Muriel disappeared in the direction of the back stairs, carrying both Flora’s gown and a protesting Bandit. The morning parlour was in the old keep, a pleasant south-east–facing room with the ceiling, cornice and frieze and all the woodwork painted white. The walls were papered in lilac and white stripes and the window in its deep embrasure was framed by plain dark green curtains. A maid was waiting to serve her luncheon.

  ‘Thank you, Dolly, but I am content to serve myself. You may go about your duties.’

  Dolly curtsied and left the room, leaving Flora to eat in solitary splendour at a round table set before the window, the view across the rainswept forecourt as gloomy as her mood. Was this to be her future? Rattling around this huge castle on her own, with no one to talk to, no one to laugh with, afraid to speak out in case she upset her new husband, about whom she still knew nothing other than he was wealthy and obsessed by his work. The only bright spot on the horizon was the thought of having children. They, surely, would bring light and laughter into her life?

  Her hope that she would soon get with child, however, was dashed within hours.

  * * *

  Dinner that evening was, if possible, even more stilted and awkward than the night before. Lachlan said very little and Flora followed his cue.

  Dinner over, Lachlan walked Flora to the drawing room, which stood opposite the library. At the end of the corridor between the two was the door to the billiard room, with its comfortable chairs clustered around a fireplace at one end and a billiard table at the other. The corridor then turned a corner beyond which was Lachlan’s study and, at the very end, the former great hall, now the ballroom.

  Lachlan paused outside the drawing-room door and bowed. ‘I have business to attend to in my study. I shall bid you goodnight, Flora.’

  He strode off down the corridor and disappeared around the corner in the direction of his study.

  * * *

  Later, before she went upstairs to bed, Flora—her heart beating rapidly—tiptoed along the corridor to the door of Lachlan’s study where she hesitated, trying to pluck up the courage to disturb her gruff spouse. But as she paused, holding her breath, she heard the distinct click of billiard balls colliding and the murmur of male voices from the door she had just passed. Fury spiralled through her. She spun on her heel and marched back along the corridor to the stairs.

  Muriel was waiting to help her prepare for bed and Flora strove to keep her emotions lashed down. It would not do for the servants to be told that the mistress was vibrating with fury when she retired to her bed. Bandit seemed to sense her mood, though, for he stayed out of her way. When she was finally alone, Flora worked off some of her energy by pacing the room as Bandit kept one wary eye on her. Gradually she grew calmer.

  Calmer, but not calm.

  She could not fool herself that Lachlan even liked her very much...he had demonstrated only too clearly that he could not wait to be out of her presence.

  She was half-tempted to allow Bandit to sleep on her bed, but she did not want an argument about that to divert her from what she wished to say to her husband.

  ‘Come, Bandit.’

  He trotted into the boudoir without a fuss and Flora praised and petted him before closing the door, pleased at how quietly he had accepted his new sleeping arrangements. Then she climbed into her bed and drew the covers up to her chin. No matter how fearful it made her, she would challenge Lachlan when he came to her and ask why he was avoiding her company.

  The clock on the mantel ticked quietly on into the night as she waited.

  Chapter Six

  Gregor Fraser sighted along his cue and hit the white ball. It cannoned first in to Lachlan’s cue ball and then into the red which ricocheted off the cushion and arrowed into a corner pocket. He grunted in satisfaction and straightened, eyeing Lachlan.

  ‘Five points. And d’ye care to tell me why you’re in here playing billiards with me instead of upstairs with your new bride?’ Astute blue eyes peered at Lachlan from beneath shaggy grey brows.

  ‘She needs the time to get used to all this change in her life.’ Lachlan turned to a side table and refilled his glass from the decanter. ‘I may as well be in here with you as puzzling over those damned ledgers.’

  ‘Those damned ledgers, as ye call them, are the key to making a success of Carnmore Whisky, laddie.’ Gregor retrieved the ball from the pocket and replaced it on the table. ‘That is your ambition, no?’

  Lachlan glared at Gregor, who had already been the manager at the distillery when Lachlan had bought it. They had formed a close bond at their shared ambition for the busines
s and they’d made grand plans, both keen to see the business grow and succeed.

  ‘You know it is,’ he growled, at which Gregor cocked an amused brow. Lachlan bit back his irritation. ‘Yes, the ledgers are important, but they fail to command my attention tonight.’

  The truth was his mind kept wandering to Flora. What on earth had she made of his boorish behaviour at the dinner table, lost in his own thoughts instead of making light, interesting conversation with his bride?

  She will think it is typical of me, after last night.

  He cringed at the memory. She had not enjoyed their wedding night, lying under him rigid and unresponsive. When he looked at her, she had been biting her lip with her eyes screwed tight shut. He had closed his own eyes then and simply got on with it.

  She is a lady. Why should she enjoy a rutting common ex-convict like me ploughing into her?

  ‘I took you for an intelligent man, Lachlan. Pig-headed, but intelligent. Stubbornness is a useful trait, at times, in business, but not when it comes to women, my friend.’ Gregor shot again and missed. He smiled ruefully. ‘And I should know what I’m talking about. I’ve been married to my Brenda nigh on thirty years now and I’ve learned problems are never solved by ignoring them. They only get bigger. And ye canna solve a problem when ye are in different rooms.’

  Lachlan scowled. At least in business he knew what he was doing, his dogged determination and, yes, stubbornness having brought him success in Australia. He’d kept his head down and worked hard, rising higher than he’d thought possible, and had returned to Scotland a rich man. He rounded the table, making a show of lining up his shot, his mind racing. Had he given Flora enough of a chance? He had kissed her with his lips closed, wary of shocking her even though he knew other women liked to be kissed more passionately. He had so far forgotten himself as to touch her nipple through her nightgown, but at her first squeak he had whisked his hand away. Had that squeak been a protest, though, or an indication of pleasure? It was easy to be wise with hindsight. At the time he had been too afraid of offending her to relax enough to simply do what came naturally.

  Gregor might have a point, but the time to close that gap between them had been at dinner when that physical and mental gulf yawned between them at the table. All day long he had fantasised about Flora—longing to bed her again and to make it better for her, to stroke her silken skin, to breathe in her scent, to decipher the tiny sounds that would escape her lips, to find out if they were signs of pleasure rather than of distaste.

  To forget she was a lady born and bred and to make love to her as a woman.

  But the minute he saw her again the conviction that he wasn’t good enough had gripped him, rendering him clumsy and clueless as they ate in near silence. What did he know of conversation to interest a lady such as Flora? He had spent too much of his life working in the company of rough men, toiling for long, hard hours. He might be a wealthy man now and have no need to labour in the physical sense, but he was no wiser about women—ladies—and how to treat them. Women had been part of his life, but not part of his actual world and, until his pathetic attempt at courtship with Jessica, they had merely provided a service, whether it be sex, or food, or laundry or, as now, as servants and therefore members of his household.

  He took his shot and the red object ball dropped into the pocket.

  ‘Three points. And you’re wrong, Gregor.’ He retrieved the ball and replaced it on the table. ‘Flora needs time to settle and to get used to her new situation. I am granting her that time.’

  He wanted so badly for Flora to be content. Happy, even. She was a beautiful, desirable woman and his wife, but that very fact made him even more hesitant to bed her simply because he had that right. It might be an impossible dream for a man like him but, deep down, he longed for their lovemaking to be more than lust on his part and obedience on hers. He wanted them to be friends. To understand one another.

  Gregor shrugged. ‘Well, ’tis your life, laddie. Now, this must be our last game. My Brenda’s staying over at our Annie’s tonight—her little one is poorly—and she’s left me a list of chores to do before I go to bed.’

  Gregor and his wife had moved to live in the gatehouse after Lachlan bought the castle. It suited them as their daughter lived with her husband in the nearby village of Lochmore and it was bigger than the cottage near the distillery where they’d lived before.

  ‘I ken better than to risk her displeasure,’ Gregor added with a wink.

  Lachlan laughed although, truthfully, he didn’t feel one bit like laughing as he continued to puzzle over how best to connect with a lady who had been brought up with so much and with so many advantages. If she had experienced one-tenth of the hardships of his childhood he would know better how to talk to her.

  The only women he had ever really known intimately—in a non-physical sense—had been his mother and his sisters. His heart constricted at the memory. All gone now—Mam, Rose, Taggie, Jenny—losing the battle against poverty one by one, too weak from lack of food to fight the simplest of diseases, until only he and Anna were left. He had returned to Scotland to find his mother had been dead nine years. Anna would have been just fifteen. The shock was still raw, and his guilt at having stayed away for so much longer than he needed to still gnawed at him. He’d searched for Anna ever since, but each and every lead had ended in failure and he still didn’t know if she was alive or dead. He refused to give up until he knew for certain and, in sheer desperation before his wedding, he had hired a man to try to track her down.

  After Gregor left, having won the game, Lachlan returned to his ledgers until the small hours, still battling the desire to go and bed his new wife despite his best intentions. But he knew that to do so now, after those awkward silences at dinner and after he had clumsily dismissed her in favour of attending to business, would be perilously close to merely slaking his lust.

  Flora deserved better than that.

  He rotated his shoulders.

  Better he concentrate on business and on tracking down Anna until he and Flora got to know one another better.

  * * *

  Dark shadows bruised his wife’s eyes the next morning when she entered the morning parlour. Lachlan rose to his feet.

  ‘Good morning, Flora. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’

  Dolly filled Flora’s cup from the coffee pot and, while Flora was distracted, Lachlan frowned into his own cup. She was lying. She looked as though she hadn’t slept a wink. Had she been apprehensive about him coming to her bed? Should he have reassured her that he wouldn’t be demanding his conjugal rights for a while?

  He, too, had spent a restless night, but he hadn’t been able to escape the self-imposed conviction that—if he went to Flora—he would be using her. Although he was unused to close relationships, he truly wanted them to be friends within their marriage. He wasn’t convinced he knew how to build such a partnership, but he hoped spending an hour or so together this morning might help bridge the gap between them.

  ‘As promised, I’ve set aside a couple of hours to show you around outside the castle grounds,’ said Lachlan. ‘It is cold, though, so you should wrap up warm.’

  She nodded. ‘Thank you. I will.’

  * * *

  They met later, in the entrance hall. Her dog was there, bouncing around him, yapping excitedly as though he’d discovered a long-lost friend.

  ‘He likes you,’ Flora said, prompting Lachlan to smile at her and a warm feeling to glow inside him.

  ‘Come.’ He headed down the inner hallway that led to the ballroom, Bandit trotting ahead.

  ‘Wait!’ Flora hurried to his side. ‘I thought we were going outside?’

  Lachlan grinned. ‘We are. It’s a secret way down to the beach. I thought you might enjoy going this way rather than using the path down the cliff.’

  Her smile was puzzled, but she put h
er hand in his and followed him through the huge double doors into the ballroom.

  ‘You see the minstrels’ gallery in the corner?’ He pointed to the quarter-moon balcony high up in one corner.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, through that door beneath the gallery is a spiral stair to the original kitchens, cellars and tunnels.’ He studied her doubtful expression. ‘You are not afraid of tunnels, are you, Flora?’

  ‘N-no. I am not keen on spiral stairs, though.’

  Her hand trembled in his and his grip tightened.

  ‘I will look after you. Nothing can happen. Come.’ He opened the door and felt for the candlestick, matches and sandpaper block that were kept on a ledge just inside. ‘There is nothing to fear.’

  The candle flame flickered wildly as they descended the tightly spiralling dark stairs to the cellars, Bandit scampering ahead. Lachlan loved the feeling of being needed as Flora clung to his hand.

  ‘Along there...’ Lachlan held the candle high, illuminating the wide passage ‘...are the old kitchens and store rooms. We can explore them another time, perhaps when it is raining. Now. Through here—’ he indicated a doorway ‘—are the tunnels.’

  Flora stepped through ahead of Lachlan.

  ‘Can you see that pale light down there?’ He shielded the candle flame so she could see.

  ‘I can. Is that daylight?’

  ‘Yes. The tunnel leads to the Sea Gate and the Path to the Sea, where goods used to be delivered by boat. And it was an escape route, should the castle ever fall to a siege in the past. There would have been doors along here once upon a time, to keep attackers at bay, but they have all rotted away by now. I intend to have them replaced, in time.’

  He led her by the hand towards that faint patch of daylight. ‘We keep straight on.’ He indicated a tunnel that branched off. ‘Along there, the tunnels lead to the Old Keep. There were dungeons and so forth there in the olden days.’