His Convenient Highland Wedding

by Janice Preston

  When Lachlan had bought the castle, he had found old record books and plans—fascinating documents that had satisfied his curiosity about the castle’s past. They walked on until they reached a place where their tunnel met another. To their right the brighter aspect showed the way to the Sea Gate.

  ‘Where does that lead?’

  Flora pointed to the left, where the tunnel curved away from them into the dark. She shivered, tugging her collar up around her neck. Lachlan put his arm around her and hugged her close.

  ‘Thank you.’ She tipped her head back to look up at him and his pulse quickened as he wondered whether he might kiss her. Would she welcome a kiss? ‘It’s dank and cold down here, isn’t it?’ she went on before he found the nerve to act on that thought. ‘Can you imagine being imprisoned in such a place?’

  The memories flooded in, sweeping away any notion of romance.

  ‘What is it? What did I say wrong?’ Worry rang in Flora’s voice.

  ‘Nothing. You said nothing wrong.’ Suddenly, he could not wait to get out of there. ‘There’s no need to bother with that other tunnel. It’s walled off now, but I believe it once led to the crypt under the old chapel. This is the way we go.’

  Lachlan turned her to the right, towards the light. The tang of salt air now alleviated the dank smell and their footsteps rang on the rock as the tunnel climbed slightly uphill.

  ‘Careful.’

  Flora slipped on the damp, uneven rock underfoot and Lachlan wrapped his arm around her waist. She felt safe, tucked into his side like that. Protected. The tunnel turned a sharp corner and emerged out of the cliff face. The tunnel opening was shielded from prying eyes by a pinnacle of rock jutting up in front. They rounded that pinnacle and stepped on to a path that zigzagged down and around the headland to a low platform of rock just above the surface of the sea.

  ‘That is the Landing Point,’ Lachlan said. ‘It’s where the boats used to land the supplies. And still could, if we had need of it. Was there anything similar at Castle McCrieff?’

  ‘Not like this, although we do have a jetty. Are we going down there?’

  ‘Not today. I thought you would prefer to go on the beach.’

  Lachlan pointed to a set of steps that were cut into the rock, providing an easy route to the beach below. Bandit had already reached the sand and was racing around, barking as he ran.

  ‘It looks lovely,’ said Flora.

  The little bay and its beach were sheltered on one side by a protruding outcrop of rock and, on the far side, by a jumbled pile of boulders.

  Flora stared at the pile, then gazed at the cliff above it. ‘That must have been quite some event, when the cliff gave way.’

  ‘There is a beach beyond the rockfall, too, but you need to take care not to get caught by the tide. The only way back is over the Devil’s Seat...’ he pointed to the top of the heap, at a huge flat-topped rock. ‘...and it is an almost impossible climb from the far side, so I’m told, although it is easy enough from this direction.’

  He turned to her, tipped her chin up and captured her gaze, his dark eyes intense.

  ‘That is why I did not want you to explore alone, Flora. I know you are familiar with the coast, but there have been accidents and deaths in the past.’

  She willed him to kiss her. To give her some sign that he found her attractive. But he released her almost immediately and she was left feeling a failure. Her new husband couldn’t even summon enough interest to come to her on their second night of marriage...why would he kiss her in broad daylight?

  ‘Follow me.’

  He descended the steps and, although he frequently paused to make sure she was coping with the path, he gave no sign that his care was any more than a polite regard for her welfare. Flora followed, her heart heavy.

  On the beach, Lachlan dropped Flora’s hand and they ploughed through the soft sand side by side, not speaking. For the life of her, Flora could not think what to say or how to draw him out. Better to follow his lead and remain silent, she decided, as they reached the damp sand near the water’s edge. To take her mind off her awkwardness, Flora scoured the shoreline for pretty shells and pebbles and anything else washed up by the tide while Bandit splashed in the surf.

  ‘Bandit!’

  Her head jerked around at Lachlan’s call, in time to see him throw a stick for the terrier. He bounded after it, picked it up, gave it a vigorous shake to kill it and then hared around them in a circle. Lachlan watched Bandit, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  It will be all right. We will be all right. It will just take time.

  ‘It is time we returned,’ said Lachlan. ‘I’m expected at the distillery.’

  They plodded back up the beach to the cliff and to the start of the path, Flora sneaking occasional glances at Lachlan, who kept his eyes on the ground in front of them. Then he slid a sideways look at her and his cheeks reddened as their eyes met. He snatched his gaze from hers and returned to contemplating the sand again. Flora took heart from that shared moment. Lachlan seemed as uncomfortable and lost as she did and maybe, therefore, it was as much her responsibility to improve their relationship as his. If only she could be braver about speaking out.

  I will work on it, she vowed as they continued to trudge through the soft sand, her hand on Lachlan’s arm until they reached the path up the cliff.

  ‘We shall return through the chapel gate,’ said Lachlan. ‘There is no need to face those tunnels or the spiral stairs again.’

  He said it with the tone of one doing her a favour.

  ‘I really do not mind going that way,’ said Flora. His lips tightened by the merest fraction, but she knew instantly it was the wrong thing to say. She recalled his sudden tension down in the tunnel—maybe he disliked dark, enclosed places? ‘But I’m sure Bandit will prefer to stay outdoors and I confess I should like to see where exactly the gate opens into the grounds.’

  He didn’t need to know she had seen the gate yesterday.

  ‘The steps are wider, too.’ He took her hand. ‘We can climb them side by side.’

  They did so but, again, the uncomfortable silence stretched. She simply had no idea what Lachlan was thinking. Did he begrudge wasting his time with her when he could be working? They entered the castle grounds through the chapel gate and followed the wall around to the inner gate, which was—these days—simply a gap. The carriageway crunched under their feet as they approached the front steps.

  ‘Thank you for showing me the beach, Lachlan.’ They were indoors now and Flora refused to part from her husband in this continuing silence. ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘It was the least I could do after leaving you to your own devices yesterday.’ His chest swelled as he drew in a deep breath. One long finger brushed Flora’s cheek as his dark gaze fused with hers. ‘I—’

  He fell silent, stepping back as Renney came to relieve them of their outdoor garments, and Flora cursed the interruption.

  ‘Will you remain for luncheon?’ She tried to keep the pleading note from her voice.

  ‘No. I am sorry. I must go.’

  He did sound regretful, though. If only she knew more about him, surely their conversations would flow with more ease? She vowed to redouble her efforts to discover more about his past.

  Chapter Seven

  A week later, a ferry boat docked at the Broomielaw and Lachlan hurried up the gangplank and to the roadside where he hailed a hackney cab. In Argyll Street he pushed open a door beside a bootmaker’s and took the stairs two at a time to Tom Delaney’s apartment over the shop, where the investigator he had hired both lived and worked. At the top, he rapped on the office door.

  ‘Enter.’

  He did. ‘Well? What news?’

  Delaney’s feet were propped up on his desk, crossed at the ankle, his boots immaculately polished. His chair rocked back, balancing on the back legs
, and his hands were linked behind his head as he eyed Lachlan.

  ‘I am well aware of the importance of this matter to you, Mr McNeill, but I urge you not to forget the common courtesies in your hurry to get straight to the point.’

  Lachlan’s face heated. ‘I pay you to find my sister, Delaney, not to correct my behaviour.’

  ‘Sure, and don’t manners maketh the man?’

  Lachlan held the Irishman’s gaze, irritated that his red hair and green eyes only reminded him of Flora. Hell—he snatched off his hat and thrust his fingers through his own hair—everything these days brought her to mind and he was at a loss to know how to bridge the chasm that still gaped between them. Her efforts—and he could tell she was trying hard to get to know him—all centred on finding out about his past. A past he was not ready to share with her. He could not believe a lady like Flora could ever accept a man like him—Jessica had only been a farmer’s daughter and she had rejected him in a flash.

  The only other way he could think to improve his marriage was to take her into his arms and make love to her until she melted in his arms. But the idea he would be using her and the belief she had found their wedding night distasteful had taken hold in his brain and now the longer he stayed away from her bed the harder that short walk between his bedchamber and hers had become. So he ended up doing what he always did—burying himself in his work and ignoring his emotions.

  ‘I’ve no time for the niceties. What news have you?’

  Delaney sighed, shook his head and removed his boots from the desk. His chair tipped forward with a thump on to the square of carpet centred under his desk. Lachlan sat opposite him, his foot tapping out his frustration, gripped by the fear that time was running out.

  ‘If only I’d returned sooner,’ he muttered.

  ‘As my old mam used to say, “If ifs and ands were pots and pans we’d all be tinkers”.’

  Lachlan switched his gaze to Delaney, to find he was being watched by a pair of twinkling green eyes.

  ‘Save me your homespun philosophy, Delaney, and get on with it.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Delaney perched a pair of spectacles upon his nose and consulted a document in front of him, his demeanour now one of utter seriousness. Lachlan perked up. For all the lack of progress in tracking down Anna, he was aware there was a shrewd operator beneath the jovial Irish façade. If he had doubted that, he would never have hired him in the first place. The man knew how to get Lachlan’s dander up, however, and he rarely failed to do so.

  ‘I have discovered your sister married a...’ he consulted the document again ‘... David McKenzie in June 1843. You have been searching for the wrong name.’

  ‘Married?’ Why had he never considered that possibility? Anna was...what? Four and twenty by now? Five years his junior. But he still saw her as a child, the ten-year-old she had been when he last saw her. ‘Have you traced them?’

  Delaney frowned. ‘Yes and no.’

  Lachlan quashed his irritation.

  ‘McKenzie was foreman at the cotton factory where Anna worked, but he died under a coal wagon in January forty-six. Your sister worked on at the factory for a few months, but left when she had the baby.’

  ‘A baby?’

  He felt like he’d been socked on the jaw. I am an uncle? This made it even more imperative he found Anna quickly.

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘That’s just it. No one seems to know. But I’m sure she’s no longer in Glasgow.’

  ‘Why would she leave? She was only a year old when my father brought us to Glasgow—it’s the only home she’s ever known.’

  Delaney shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. All I do know is she fell into debt but, when I probe further, people are quick to clam up. Very quick.’ He raised his brows to emphasise his point.

  Lachlan shot to his feet, shoving his chair aside. ‘Take me to them. I’ll make them give me answers.’

  ‘And how do you plan to do that?’ Delaney pointed at Lachlan, then to the chair. ‘Force won’t work when folk are scared to talk. Sit down, big fella. I’ve a plan, but I need your go-ahead.’

  Lachlan subsided on to the chair. ‘Tell me.’

  Delaney raised his hand off the desk and rubbed his fingers and thumb together. ‘Money. Sure, and does my old mam not always say it makes the world go round? People are scared to talk, but every man has his price. It won’t be cheap, mind you, and I’ll need compensation for neglecting my other cases—’

  ‘What other cases?’ Lachlan eyed the Irishman to whom he paid a weekly retainer. ‘Our deal was that you work for me exclusively—’

  ‘And so I do, Mr McNeill. So I do. But, on the days when there is no new information to follow up, why—I’d be a fool to turn down the occasional additional case.’ His eyes glinted. ‘They’re solved in a jiffy. Easy cases, to be sure. Easy money.’

  Lachlan sucked in a breath. However reluctant, he knew he must accept Delaney’s plan. The man had connections everywhere in Glasgow—both within the vast Irish immigrant community and beyond. He could get answers far more quickly than Lachlan ever could and, besides, he could not afford to neglect his business, or Flora, for the time it would take to get those answers.

  ‘Very well. I shall pay your reasonable expenses,’ he said. ‘Here’s one pound to be going on with—’ Delaney reached for the proffered banknote, but Lachlan whisked it out of reach. He cocked his head to one side. ‘I shall expect a fully itemised list, mind you, Delaney. And regular reports.’

  Delaney’s green eyes widened. ‘But of course, Mr McNeill, sir. I am a businessman. I conduct my affairs with honour.’

  ‘When will you start?’

  Delaney shoved back his chair and stood. ‘No time like the present, as my old mam used to say.’

  They shook hands. Lachlan retained his grip on the other man’s hand as he looked him in the eye. ‘You write to me the minute you find her, do you hear? I’ll come immediately.’

  The creases around Delaney’s eyes and mouth—the lines that made it appear that he was constantly laughing at Lachlan—softened. ‘You have my word, sir. You have my word.’

  Lachlan left Delaney’s office and took a folded sheet of paper from his inside pocket. Before leaving Lochmore he’d consulted with Gregor’s wife, Brenda, about a surprise for Flora. Didn’t every woman love to dress well? Brenda helped him compile a list of ready-made gowns, undergarments, fabrics and accessories necessary to provide a complete, up-to-date wardrobe for Flora. That, surely, would make her happy and help reconcile her to her new circumstances? Brenda was a skilled seamstress and would alter any gowns as necessary and make up some new ones.

  Flora had been raised in an earl’s household and although Lachlan could not yet offer her the status she was used to, he could offer her the appearance of status. And he would restore her to her rightful place, just as soon as he found—with her help—acceptance among the higher echelons of society.

  His campaign would start next weekend, at a house party to which they—along with many in the world of Glasgow commerce and several notable noble families—had been invited. He scanned the addresses written down for him by Brenda and he hailed a hackney cab.

  * * *

  After several hours consulting with various warehouse and shop assistants—and making arrangement for his purchases to be delivered to Lochmore Castle as soon as possible—Lachlan finally concluded his shopping trip and retired to the hotel where he was to spend the next few nights. He had various meetings scheduled in the coming days, as well as distillery business to attend to, before he could return home on Monday.

  Home. The word, even now, sent a thrill through him. That he had a place of his own to call his home seemed something of a miracle, given his past. He finally had a place in the world where he could truly belong. And, with luck, raise a family. He frowned, staring down into the glass of whis
ky he held—whisky that was far inferior to his own distilled in Carnmore—as he admitted to himself that final ambition might prove hardest of all. He could only hope his gifts for Flora—the proof he wanted her to be happy—would help them, somehow, to connect.

  Connect? That word sent a shudder right through him.

  Connection meant closeness, meant sharing. Which meant revealing thoughts. Revealing feelings.

  The past fourteen years had taught him that to reveal emotion was to show weakness. To court danger. To risk downfall.

  The thought of being completely honest with his wife—an earl’s daughter and a lady—and of sharing his past and his innermost feelings terrified him far more than the prospect of seven years’ transportation had at the age of fifteen. How could Flora ever accept or understand his past? No. Some things were better left secret. Nobody back here in Scotland—apart from Anna—knew the truth about his background and that’s the way he wanted it to stay.

  * * *

  Well! If he thinks he can buy me like this, he has a lot to learn!

  Flora stood, hands on hips, watching with clenched jaw as the footmen carried boxes and packages into her bedchamber and Muriel, with the help of Mrs Dalgliesh and Dolly, opened them, exclaiming in delight as each new garment emerged from the tissue paper in which it had been wrapped.

  He did buy you, though.

  She batted aside that voice of reason. She did not want to be reasonable. First he virtually ignored her for a whole week after their wedding, other than that morning when they went down to the beach. He barely spoke to her unless it was about mundane, everyday issues like the weather or the food they had eaten at dinner or some titbit of society gossip he had gleaned from the newspapers. As if she could care less about society gossip. She wanted to know about her husband. About the man she had married. But he was as much an enigma as he had been the day they met at the altar.

  At least he is not a cruel man.

  There was that dratted voice of reason again, trying to make excuses for the pathetic man.