Bought by her husband...

Bound by secrets of their past!

The start of The Lochmore Legacy—a Scottish castle through the ages! Earl’s daughter Flora McCrieff brought shame on her family once, now she discovers she must wed impossibly rich but lowborn Lachlan McNeill. He’s undeniably handsome, but a man of few words. Despite the attraction that burns between them, can she reach beyond his impeccable clothing to find the emotions he’s locked away for so long?

JANICE PRESTON grew up in Wembley, North London, with a love of reading, writing stories and animals. In the past she has worked as a farmer, a police call-handler and a university administrator. She now lives in the West Midlands, with her husband and two cats, and has a part-time job as a weight management counsellor—vainly trying to control her own weight despite her love of chocolate!

Also by Janice Preston

The Beauchamp Betrothals miniseries

Cinderella and the Duke

Scandal and Miss Markham

Lady Cecily and the Mysterious Mr Gray

The Beauchamp Heirs miniseries

Lady Olivia and the Infamous Rake

The Lochmore Legacy collection

His Convenient Highland Wedding

And look out for the next books:

Unlaced by the Highland Duke

by Lara Temple

A Runaway Bride for the Highlander

by Elisabeth Hobbes

Secrets of a Highland Warrior

by Nicole Locke

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

His Convenient Highland Wedding

Janice Preston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08888-6

HIS CONVENIENT HIGHLAND WEDDING

© 2019 Harlequin Books S.A.

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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To Lara Temple, Elisabeth Hobbes and Nicole Locke.

It’s been great fun working with you all

on The Lochmore Legacy, ladies.

Thank you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue
December 1841—Castle McCrieff,the Highlands of Scotland

‘But... Father... I can help... I can help you to think of ideas—’

‘Out!’

Flora McCrieff flinched at her father’s roar, but he did not raise his hand to her. This time. Her younger brother, Donald, pulled a mocking face from behind their father’s back. Father would listen to Donald’s ideas, no matter how stupid they were, simply because he was a boy and would be clan chief one day. But that didn’t make him wise...his ideas were always foolish, like the time he persuaded their two younger sisters, Aileen and Mairi, to sneak away with him to explore a wreck that had washed up in a nearby cove. He’d not even thought about the tide turning and cutting them off and if Flora hadn’t followed her instinct that something was wrong, and gone in search of them, they would all have been drowned.

Not that her father had ever acknowledged it.

She left her father’s business room without another word, shutting the heavy iron-studded door behind her. It was no use trying to change his mind once it was made up. The air in the room had swirled thick with her father’s anger and she’d sensed he was battling to rein in his temper. Better to leave before he lost control. Financial worries, made worse by the slow but steady loss of tenants—leaving the Highlands to try their luck in America and Canada—had made his temper touchier than ever.

A sense of injustice pounded in Flora’s chest. Her head was full of ideas and she knew, if only he would listen, that she could help Father find new ways to raise money for the clan and to repair Castle McCrieff, their home and the ancestral home of the McCrieffs. But no one ever paid her any attention, unless it was to order her about. It had always been that way. Lasses should be seen and not heard—one of Father’s favourite phrases and Mother never contradicted him. Not about that. Not about anything. Well, Flora knew she had more sense in her little finger than Donald had in his entire brain. At eleven, he was only a year younger than her, but when it came to common sense he was more like five years her junior.

Flora stood irresolute in the hall, which covered much of the ground floor of the keep and where a fire was kept blazing day and night, summer and winter, in the huge fireplace with its carved-stone mantel. The castle remained much the same as when it had been built, centuries ago, with a few additions. She shivered. It might be fanciful, but sometimes she imagined she could feel those people of long ago—their joys and their heartaches; their passions; their rage and their laughter—their emotions absorbed by the massive stone walls that were still hung in places with faded tapestries in the old style.

‘There y’are, Flora, lass.’ Maggie bustled from the direction of the kitchen, a tray in her hands. ‘Will ye no’ take this to your mother and your sisters for me? We’ve a mountain of food to prepare for the evening meal yet.’

Without waiting for a reply, Maggie thrust the tray, with its three bowls of broth and plate of bannocks, into Flora’s hands and hurried away. Flora sighed. She didn’t mind helping Maggie, their cook, but she was so tired of being overlooked by everyone.

When I am married I will be a fine lady. I will rule my household and everyone will pay attention to me and marvel at my ideas and have respect for me.

It was a favourite daydream of hers. Father was an earl and, as the eldest daughter, she would marry a man of her own station, which would mean she would be a countess or even higher. Maybe even a duchess.

She trod carefully up the stairs, heading for her mother’s sitting room, where her little sisters were keeping warm as they recovered from influenza. They were much better now, but lacked the energy to do much other than sit by the fire while Mother read to them.

The bowls of broth safely delivered, Flora left the room and then hesitated. It was bone-chillingly cold outside, with a brisk wind blowing ragged clouds in off the sea. If she went downstairs, for certain Maggie would find something to keep her busy, but that resentment at her father’s dismissal of her still lingered, making her restless. She turned away from the staircase and wandered along the passageway, pausing at a window to gaze out over the hills to the east. It was a majestic view, but a lonely one. She pulled her woollen shawl closer around her shoulders as a shiver coursed across her skin.

A movement from below attracted her attention—Father, clad in his black greatcoat, striding for the stables, followed by Donald, his shorter legs scurrying in an attempt to keep up with Father’s longer stride. Bitterness scoured Flora’s throat. Donald always got to do the interesting things. He was always toadying up to Father and he was always putting Flora down. He was jealous of her, that’s what he was. She flung away from the window and the unfairness of life before running blindly down the passageway.

She rounded a corner and then, slightly breathless, halted in front of the door that led into the Great Tower. It was forbidden. It was always kept locked and, in her memory, only Father—and his father before him—had ever gone inside. It was unsafe, he said, and not even the servants were allowed to enter. But Flora knew where the key was kept, because she had seen her father take it from a wooden chest set in a window embrasure further along the passage. And she had watched as Father had gone inside. That was last year and she had thought nothing of it at the time but, recently, when she had been out riding her pony, she had glimpsed a man at the window right at the top of the tower. Her heart had nigh on stopped in terror, but then he had swept a hand over his head and she had recognised the gesture.

It cannot be so very dangerous if Father went up there.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she hurried along the passageway to the chest and opened the lid. Inside, wrapped in a tartan cloth of the McCrieff colours of brown, lilac and moss green—the colours of the Highlands, Father always said—was a large iron key. She grabbed it, closed the lid and looked all around. There was nobody there. In fact, the castle seemed almost eerily quiet today. At that thought, a shadow swept over her and she started, her heart leaping into her throat as she clutched the key to her chest. A glance out the window showed a huge, black cloud had covered the sun and she laughed at her silly fancy that, somehow, Father knew of her disobedience and was signalling his displeasure. He’d left the castle. He couldn’t possibly know.

Nevertheless, a war waged within her breast. Defiance of her father could result in punishment and yet...that lingering feeling of being constantly overlooked prodded her into doing something that would prove, if only to herself, that she could not so easily be dismissed.

And humming beneath those two opposing emotions of fear and bravado was something else. Something...other. And it was growing stronger. And it was urging her to follow her instinct that this—her fingers tightened around the key—was right. This was what she needed to do...must do. It urged her on. No. That wasn’t quite right. Flora shook her head in frustration...she couldn’t quite grasp the meaning of that compulsion... She concentrated, hard, and then she gasped. And straightened her spine. That gut feeling—her instinct—was not urging her to go into the tower. No. It was drawing her there...beckoning her...

She hesitated no longer. Her instincts had never let her down. She ran to the door, inserted the key into the lock and turned it.

Inside, the windowless room was utterly dark, other than the light admitted by the open door. The room smelled musty and, as her eyes adjusted, she could see it was completely empty apart from a door set at right angles to the outer curved wall. Flora closed the door to the tower behind her and, in the dark, felt her way around the wall—the stone cold and rough against her fingertips—until her questing touch found the roughly hewn frame of the door within the room. It was not locked. She sucked in a deep breath and lifted the latch, the loud grating sound stirring her fears all over again. But the urge to go further...to seek...to, somehow, put things right...was near overwhelming, and she pulled the door open, revealing stone steps spiralling up into the tower.

Light from above lit the way and Flora crept up the stairs, keeping as quiet as she could even though there could be nobody there to hear her. Her breaths sounded harsh in the silence and she fancied she could hear her heart drumming in her chest. At the top of the stairs she halted, disappointed at the empty room that met her gaze. There was no mystery here. She crossed to the window—which at some time had been enlarged from the original arrow slit—and gazed out over the bleak hills and the glens with their pewter-grey lochs to the snow-capped mountains to the north. Then she remembered having seen Father at this very same window and she ducked away in case she, too, might be seen.

She swept the room again and her breath caught in her lungs as she realised it wasn’t quite circular, although the tower itself was definitely so. She frowned, trying to persuade herself she was imagining it, but there was no mistake: the curve of the wall opposite the window was different. And why did a tapestry cover one end of that shallowly curved wall in this deserted tower?

Her feet moved, seemingly of their own volition, to that tapestry. Its faded colours depicted scenes of men doing battle with swords and claymores—a familiar enough sight to one brought up with tales of past ferocious battles between the clans—against the backdrop of a magnificent castle. Without further thought, she pulled the tapestry away from the wall. Dust billowed into the air and she held her nose between finger and thumb and squeezed her eyes shut until the urge to sneeze passed.

She opened her eyes, but they were blurred with tears and, without warning, a wave of sorrow crashed over her. Still holding the tapestry, she rubbed away the tears with her other hand. Behind the tapestry was a simple wooden door. She opened it and slipped behind the tapestry and through the door into a narrow space lit by two tall, narrow windows—arrow slits from which her ancestors had fired upon their enemies, long ago.

Then her eyes dropped and a high scream whistled from her lungs before she clamped her hand over her mouth. She wanted to run, but her legs locked tight. The skeleton gleamed white among the frayed and rotting cloth that had once shrouded it, but had now fallen away to expose the bones. It lay on a stone shelf built out from the wall and Flora could not tear her gaze away as grief, anger and aloneness battered her.

Her gulping breaths sobbed into the silence as she strove to move.

To get away.

To leave that dreadful sense of desolation behind.

The light outside abruptly brightened and a stray sunbeam penetrated one of the arrow slits to touch the skeleton, and a gleam from among the shredded linen caught Flora’s eye.

As if in a dream, she saw her trembling hand reach out. As her fingers closed around a metallic object, she was all at once released from that awful paralysis. She whirled around and ran, never pausing until she reached the sanctuary of her bedchamber. She leapt on to her bed, scrambling back until she was up against the headboard. She bent her legs and clasped her arms around them, resting her forehead on her knees as the tears leaked hot from her eyes and her chest heaved.

A sharp prick in the palm of her right palm finally shook Flora from her terror. Slowly, she released her legs, becoming aware that she clutched something in her right hand. She opened her fingers, hardly daring to look. There, on her palm, rested a brooch fashioned from silver. Her breathing slowed and steadied, and calm gradually overcame her fear. She swung her legs from the bed and crossed to the window to examine the disc-shaped brooch more closely. The surface was decorated with a plant she recognised—a thrift, with its tuft of leaves and its distinctive flowers aloft on slender stems. Two swords crossed at the centre in an X, with the letters R and A at either side.

A drop of blood sat in the centre of Flora’s palm, where the pin of the brooch had pierced her skin. She bent her head to lick it away and, as she did so, her head swam and utter anguish rushed through her. She clutched her hands to her chest until that feeling subsided, then studied the brooch once more, willing it to give her some clue as to what she might do to set everything right. She rubbed the surface with her thumb and felt calm descend as she made a silent vow to take care of it.

She wrapped it in one of her embroidered handkerchiefs and laid it in the bottom of her drawer. Even had she not sworn that vow, she would never dare replace the brooch—the thought of seeing that skeleton again made her quake with terror.

Father must know it is there. Who is it? Why is it in our tower?

On that thought, Flora realised she must go back and lock the tower door before anyone found it open but, after that, she would never, ever venture near the Great Tower again.

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 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?’

‘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 father 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.

Lachlan reached to help. ‘Allow me.’

As their hands touched a distinct tingle chased up his arm, as it had when she had startled him by stroking his hand—a gesture so unexpected he had struggled to know how to react. Was she aware of the intimacy of that touch or had she simply meant to reassure him?

‘The catch has always been stiff.’

He felt the tremble of her fingers before she withdrew them to allow him to fasten the brooch to her cloak. He leaned closer to see what he was doing and her soft breath whispered through his hair, sending shivers racing across his scalp. He fought the urge to haul her against him and plunder her mouth, too aware of her innocence and her gentle upbringing to risk frightening her.

‘Did nobody miss the brooch, or look for it?’

‘No. It had been lost a long time.’

There. It was done. He straightened. ‘How would you know how long it had been lost?’

She slanted him a look from those green eyes. ‘I went exploring in a forbidden part of the castle.’

She bit her lower lip, staring at him. ‘No one but my father was allowed there, but I went anyway. It was thrown aside...discarded among a heap of...’ She paused. Then she tilted her chin. ‘A heap of old rags.’ Her eyes slid from his to Bandit as she fondled his ear.

He really was a disreputable-looking animal—one ear pricked, one drooping; a scruffy, wiry white coat; and those black eye patches that really did give him the look of a bandit. The dog seemed to sense his regard. He raised his head and stared back, almost defiantly, although that seemed almost ridiculously fanciful.

He had enough attitude for himself and his mistress combined. Lachlan broke eye contact first and looked back at Flora, whose attention was still on Bandit. She often seemed wary of speaking her mind, but that tale of defying her father gave him hope she was not as timid as she appeared. He was under no illusions about himself—he’d lived a harsh life, among hard men, and it had shaped the man he had become: self-sufficient and tough. There was no place in his life for a bride easily intimidated, or one who needed to cling to her husband. He had no wish to get too close to anyone, not even his wife.

He had at least diverted her from the subject of his painful, shameful past. Flora need never know about that. He intended to put it firmly behind him. Just as soon as he had tracked down Anna.

* * *

It was late afternoon before the carriage turned off the road on to a track that led steadily upwards through ancient woodland of oaks and birches wearing the russet hues of autumn. To their right the land shelved steeply away from the track and Flora caught glimpses of the blue-green waters of a loch, far below.

‘That is Loch Arris. We are nearly home.’

‘What made you buy Lochmore Castle?’ Flora asked on impulse. ‘Why not a castle linked to the McNeill clan?’

Lachlan shrugged. ‘The McNeills’ seat is Barra in the Outer Hebrides but my father never lived there. Lochmore is near enough to Glasgow for me to see to business and, as I said, there is that rumour of that long-ago link between the Lochmores and my branch of the McNeills. It seemed fitting.’

Ahead, Flora could see a gatehouse built of grey stone, with smoke curling from the chimney, next to a square tower that straddled the carriageway.

‘Who lives there?’

‘Gregor and Brenda Fraser—Gregor is the manager at my distillery. The original outer curtain wall is lower than it once would have been, but I believe the gatehouse and the tower are much as they would have always been.’

The light dimmed as they passed beneath the tower and then brightened as they emerged into what would once, presumably, have been the outer bailey with stables over to the right and what looked like an old chapel to the left. Beyond the stables were a vegetable garden and glasshouses, and the remainder of the ground was grass, dotted with trees and evergreen shrubs.

Craning her neck ahead for a view of her new home, Flora saw another square tower, built of the same grey stone as the gatehouse, but looming four storeys into the sky, its walls punctuated by mullioned windows. They drove through an opening in another low wall.

‘This was the inner bailey,’ said Lachlan, ‘and that is the old keep.’ He pointed at the massive stone tower. ‘And that—’ he gestured out of the opposite carriage window, to their left ‘was the great hall, which was remodelled into a ballroom by the current Duke of Lochmore’s first wife. She also had a modern wing constructed, to link the keep and the ballroom.’

It was not until the carriage came to a standstill in the gravelled forecourt and Lachlan handed her from the carriage that Flora truly appreciated the size of the castle and she gasped out loud. Lochmore would swallow Castle McCrieff twice over. Even Bandit seemed overawed and clung close to her.

Three wide stone steps led up to the imposing front door, protected by a portico supported on fluted columns. The newer wing boasted large windows and the ballroom, jutting forward at a right angle, had been modernised by the addition of three sets of glazed French windows that overlooked a narrow terrace and a knot garden.

She gazed back towards the gatehouse and the inner and outer walls. In days gone by they would have stood firm against attack and siege, she knew, and she shivered, grateful such brutal feuds between warring clans were long past. The clans today lived in peace despite the occasional still-rumbling grudge, but the many castles scattered throughout the Highlands—both occupied and in ruins—bore testament to its troubled history.

She became aware of Lachlan’s scrutiny.

‘Have you never been here before?’

‘I have not. I told you, the McCrieffs and the Lochmores are old foes, even though the Lochmores have tried in the past to cool the bad blood between them.’ Including the attempt to marry Flora’s Aunt Tessa to the current Duke of Lochmore after his first wife died. ‘I am amazed my father came here at all—the McCrieffs’ memories are long and their grudges are deeply held.’

Lachlan’s eyes glinted as he smiled at her. ‘I shall remember that, Flora.’

His smile did funny things to her insides, but she soon forgot them as she realised the size of the task facing her: a husband who was a stranger, but who nevertheless imagined she had enough influence to ease his path in society; a huge castle that would no doubt take a mountain of money and effort to maintain; neighbours and workers who might very well resent a McCrieff becoming mistress of Lochmore.

‘Are the servants members of the Lochmore Clan?’

‘A few are locals who have worked here for years, but I also hired several from Glasgow.’

‘Glasgow? But...what will they know about Highland life? And working in a castle?’

He frowned. ‘Every one of them is a Highlander, from various clans. They, or their parents before them, were forced to move to the city in order to survive when they were turned off their land. They may not have worked in a castle before, but they are keen to learn and to earn their living. Jobs give people self-respect and they are proud people.’ His frown deepened. ‘We talked about the plight of the people earlier—why I need my whisky to succeed, for those who rely on me for their living. Starvation and disease are rife in the Highlands now the potato crop has failed again.’

In truth, Flora hadn’t fully understood his meaning. She had little idea of what had been happening in the rest of Scotland, outside of the area in which she had grown up. Her father did not believe womenfolk should be concerned with politics. All Flora had known was her family’s dwindling fortunes and the loss of several local families as they left to seek a better life elsewhere. She was fortunate. She was not, and never had been, starving.

‘I expect the workers to be treated with respect, even though their backgrounds are not the equal of yours.’

She raised her chin, offended. ‘I always treat the servants well. I am not about to change now.’

His comment stirred her curiosity about his past. She knew nothing about him, other than that his intense stare sometimes made her insides quiver and that his smile was rare but, when it broke, it lit his features and everything around him. A mental image arose of that long-ago day in the tower, when a ray of sun broke through the clouds and glinted off the silver metal of the brooch. She lifted her hand to it, as she had done countless times through the journey, happy that she had managed to keep it safe all these years. As ever, she felt a deep sense of peace as she touched it.

She studied Lachlan, taking in his expensive clothes. His gold fob watch and the signet ring he wore on his right hand. His confidence. He must be very wealthy to afford a place such as Lochmore Castle. And from that thought it was a short hop to realising that her own appearance nowhere near equalled his. In the eyes of the staff she would look nothing like the daughter of a nobleman or the mistress of Lochmore Castle. Her luggage consisted of just one evening gown and one afternoon dress—gowns she’d worn during her brief excursion into Edinburgh society last October. Other than those, she only had her everyday clothing—nothing like the luxurious and lavish trousseau she had once dreamed of. The remainder of her garments from last year were back at home, intended for Aileen who, at seventeen, would soon be expected to catch a suitable husband, with the help of the dowry paid by Lachlan.

‘Are you ready?’

Lachlan’s gaze swept Flora from head to foot, raising a quiver of awareness in her, but reminding her again of her sorry appearance, clad in a worn velvet cloak and bonnet, both of which had seen better days, with a scruffy wire-haired terrier at her heels. Her husband’s expression revealed nothing of his thoughts and she raised her hands to tuck away any stray strands of hair. Did he find her unattractive? Not many men found short, freckled ladies with red hair appealing. If he wasn’t already disappointed by his end of the bargain he had struck with her father, he surely would be once he realised how little help she would be in finding patrons for his whisky. The scandal she had caused had been huge. Her parents had whisked her home and she had not shown her face in society since, although she knew from Donald exactly what the gossips were saying, including their speculation that she was no longer an innocent.

She swallowed. She could not avoid this. She was married now and this was her new home. Her new life. She drew in a steadying breath and nodded.

‘Then come.’ Lachlan swept one arm around. ‘Welcome to Lochmore Castle, Lady Flora McNeill. Welcome to your new home.’

Flora took Lachlan’s arm—her fingers curling around his hard bicep—and they walked up the front steps and through the door into a spacious, bright entrance hall, a still-subdued Bandit at their heels.

Halfway down the hall, just past a tall stone-dressed archway on the right-hand side, a wide, polished wood staircase carpeted in red and gold swept up from the marble-tiled floor. A huge chandelier hung over the stairwell—luxury indeed, thought Flora, as she pictured the stone staircases of Castle McCrieff, still lit by wall sconces at night.

Footsteps echoed and a tall thin female and a short, wiry man with thinning sandy-coloured hair emerged through the stone archway that gave access to the old keep. They were followed by two footmen. The woman’s greying hair was pulled back from her face and a bunch of keys was attached to the belt of her uniform.

‘Ah. Allow me to present my wife, Lady Flora. Mrs Dalgliesh is the Lochmore housekeeper, and Drummond is our butler.’

‘May I offer my congratulations on your marriage, Mr McNeill? And welcome to Lochmore, Lady Flora.’

The housekeeper’s gentle greeting belied the harshness of her features. What Flora had at first taken for lines of disapproval etched into Mrs Dalgliesh’s countenance were, upon closer inspection, lines of sorrow and disappointment. Flora relaxed and smiled at her.

‘Thank you, Mrs Dalgliesh.’

Drummond echoed the housekeeper’s felicitations before sending the footmen to fetch the luggage.

‘I shall leave you to show Lady Flora around the castle and to introduce her to the rest of the staff, Mrs Dalgliesh. I have work to attend to, so I shall be in my study if I am needed.’ Lachlan hesitated, then bowed to Flora with a fleeting smile. ‘I shall see you at dinner, my dear.’

Flora watched her new husband stride across the hall and disappear through another archway directly opposite the first.

My dear.

He had used no endearments until now. She was not fooled—the endearment was for the servants’ edification. She could not help but be disappointed that he chose not to show her around himself.

She stretched her lips into a bright smile.

‘Would you show me to my bedchamber first, please, Mrs Dalgliesh?’

Chapter Three

‘I have already ordered warm water to be sent up, my lady.’ Mrs Dalgliesh spoke over her shoulder as she preceded Flora up the stairs. ‘A maid is waiting to unpack your clothes and to assist you. If she pleases you, you may keep her as your personal maid, or you may wish to appoint your own woman, of course.’

The first flight of the staircase angled oddly to accommodate what was clearly the outer wall of a tower. Flora’s step faltered as she trailed her fingertips around the curved wall, memories rushing in on her of that long-ago day when she had found her brooch.

Mrs Dalgliesh paused. ‘That is Morag’s Tower, a part of the old keep,’ she said.

‘Why is it called Morag’s Tower?’

‘The Duke of Lochmore’s great-aunt Morag lived there, staying on even after the Duke and Duchess moved out. Now, downstairs, the keep consists of the dining room, the morning parlour, the kitchens and it gives access to the new chapel. Not that it’s new, actually. It was built in the sixteenth century, but there is an older chapel in the grounds, too. So, the keep has four storeys, with two of the original four corner towers still standing, whereas the modern wing only has two floors. The ground floor of the modern wing has the drawing room, library, billiards room and the master’s study, and the passageway leads around to give access to the ballroom, which is closed off most of the time.’

The first-floor landing was bright and spacious with a polished wood balustrade that overlooked the stairwell and that magnificent crystal chandelier. On the far side of the landing was a large window through which Flora could see the portico roof and the castle grounds beyond.

Mrs Dalgliesh pointed left, through a similar archway to the one downstairs, beyond which there stretched a wide corridor. There were doors to both right and left, between which several paintings were displayed.

‘The keep end of the gallery leads to guest bedchambers and the back stairs. The second floor has more guest rooms plus a nursery suite and the top floor houses the staff. This way—’ she pointed right ‘—are the master suites.’

‘Mr McNeill told me the Duke’s wife had this wing built,’ said Flora.

‘His first wife, yes. It is much newer than the rest of the Castle, but it was all fully refurbished before Mr McNeill moved in.’

The need to know more of the man she had wed warred in Flora’s breast against her mother’s mantra that one should not encourage servants’ gossip. The need to know won.

‘It must have taken a great deal of work.’

‘It did. The master was fully involved—nothing was too much trouble and he didna stint on expense. If there’s one thing I can say about the master, he’s no’ a stingy man even though he’s a man of few words. He works hard and he works long hours, but there are many folks who depend on him. We all appreciate his efforts.’

‘Where does the Duke of Lochmore live now, Mrs Dalgliesh?’

‘He and the present Duchess live a few miles from here, in a country house not far from Lochmore village. The castle was leased out after Morag died, but the Duke never wanted to move back and decided to sell. I was living in Glasgow when I heard Mr McNeill was hiring.’ A shadow crossed her face. ‘My husband was already sick when we were turned off our farm by the landlord. He wasna strong enough to face an ocean crossing so we went to the city to find work.’

‘Your husband...is he here at Lochmore with you?’

‘Aye, that he is. In the kirkyard down in the village.’

‘Oh! I—I am very sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It was the consumption that did for him, but he died happy, knowing I was here and my future was secure. Glasgow was—’ She shut her lips firmly, then uttered a mirthless laugh. ‘Hark at me, mithering on. You don’t want to hear about our woes when you must be exhausted.’

She led the way from the head of the stairs, pausing outside the second door on the left.

‘This is the master’s bedchamber—his dressing room was the first door we passed,’ she said. ‘The Duchess’s suite is here.’

Mrs Dalgliesh opened the door opposite and flung it wide. Flora stepped over the threshold and gasped. The bedchamber was enormous, the floral wallpaper in shades of green, pale rose and cream, and it was dominated by a large tester bed with rich red hangings that matched the floor-length curtains, but Flora was transfixed by the view of the sea through the trio of tall windows on the wall opposite the door.

‘It is glorious.’

‘It is, but it is not the best of it. Let me show you the rest.’ The housekeeper crossed the bedchamber to a door and ushered Flora through. ‘This was the Duchess’s boudoir—it was designed to take advantage of the sea views.’

Flora crossed to the window as if in a dream. Any detail of the decor or furnishings was lost on her as she drank in the enchanting view. The boudoir was a corner room and, at the outer corner, there was a west-facing bay window, large enough to incorporate a gold and cream upholstered chaise longue and a small side table with a vase of flowers. The sun was just starting to set, painting the sky above the horizon with streaks of fiery red, burnt orange, soft yellows and pinks and the reflected colours of that glorious sunset danced and shimmered among white-topped waves as they broke the surface of the indigo sea.

‘It feels...’ Flora could not put her emotions into words for a moment, she was so overwhelmed. She steadied herself, and gathered her thoughts. ‘It feels almost as though I am on a ship,’ she said breathily, for there was no land to break the view between the castle and the sea.

She leaned forward to peer at the waves as they crashed against jagged rocks below. In the distance, Flora could see land, presumably one of the many islands—both inhabited and uninhabited—that dotted the west coast.

‘It is magnificent.’ She would never tire of this majestic view and it awoke in her the urge for music, to start playing the pianoforte again, a joy that had somehow become lost to her over the past year.

‘I knew you would like it.’ Satisfaction warmed Mrs Dalgliesh’s voice. ‘Come. I will show you your dressing room and introduce you to Muriel, the girl I have assigned to help you, before we tour the rest of the castle. I have instructed the staff to assemble in the hall in one hour in order that you may meet them.’

* * *

By the time the dinner hour came around, Flora’s head was swimming. The sheer size of Lochmore Castle and the luxurious decor near overwhelmed her. Even the servants’ quarters in the attic had been refurbished. They were not richly furnished or decorated, but were clean and comfortable—Lachlan was clearly a man who cared about those who worked for him, unlike her father, who took for granted that servants would serve him and be happy to do so regardless of how much he could pay or how spartan their accommodation.

And I am no better. For when have I ever given the servants’ comforts more than a fleeting thought?

That realisation shamed her.

She wanted to look her best for her wedding night, so she dressed in her sole evening gown, of sea-green satin with lace flounces, the bodice low off the shoulders with a bertha of lace and with a deep point below the waist and a full skirt. She instructed Muriel, a cheery, round-faced girl, how to dress her hair, with a centre parting and simply braided over her ears. Bandit was still subdued and, rather than leave him on his own, Muriel agreed to take him down to the servants’ quarters with her.

Downstairs, Renney, one of the footmen, preceded her to the dining room, in the older part of the castle. Morag’s Tower was accessed from the corner of this room and was the only part of the castle Flora had declined to inspect—the empty room and enclosed, tightly spiralling staircase evoking unnerving memories of the day she had ventured up the Great Tower at Castle McCrieff. As she entered the dining room her attention was drawn to Lachlan, who stood by the hearth.

She had forgotten quite how impressive he was—tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in black frock coat and trousers and a blue and red tartan waistcoat, with a white shirt and black cravat, his black hair gleaming in the light cast by the candelabra set at either end of the mantelshelf. He bowed, his expression so grave her immediate reaction was to wonder what she’d done wrong. He held a glass of wine and, before he said anything, he took a long swallow. Her stomach had churned so with nerves she felt sick, but his failure to greet her stirred a touch of temper deep inside.

Did this man have no idea of good manners?

‘Good evening, Lachlan.’

Her voice rang across the room and she saw his brows twitch into a frown.

‘Good evening, Flora. I trust you are impressed by your new home and situation?’

Impressed? She was, but it was a peculiar question. Boastful, almost. ‘Thank you, yes.’

‘Then we shall eat.’

Lachlan nodded to Renney, who pulled out a chair at one end of the vast table. Her nerves a-jangle, Flora sat and watched as Lachlan took a chair at the opposite end. All her carefully prepared ideas for conversation and for learning about her husband were for nothing. Unless they shouted at one another down the length of the table, there would be no conversation that evening.

* * *

Lachlan hadn’t reckoned on feeling quite so off-kilter in the presence of his new bride. She was a lady, born and bred. What did he know about ladies? About how to treat them? When Flora stepped inside the dining room, his mouth had dried and his heart, already racing, appeared to leap into his throat. His hand had trembled as he raised his wineglass to his lips and took in her beauty—her glorious hair, shimmering strands of copper and gold among the red; her long, elegant neck and the creamy smooth skin of her naked shoulders, framed by the wide neckline of her light blue-green gown. The urge to stroke her bare skin...to caress the slope of her exposed shoulders and to trace her delicate collarbone with his tongue...momentarily robbed him of his voice. He marvelled at her tiny waist and could not help wondering what she might look like unclothed.

Would he ever see her fully naked, or would a modest lady like her expect to remain covered in her nightgown and only make love under the cover of darkness?

Before he could gather his wits and greet her, Flora took the initiative, making him feel even more of an uncultured boor as he responded to her greeting and attempted a pleasantry—which had somehow transformed from the harmless question in his head to a clumsy brag upon his lips.

Impressed! Once the word was spoken, though, he could not unsay it.

He knew better than that, even though his life to date had been a million miles from this. After serving four years of his sentence in New South Wales he’d been granted his ticket of leave—which allowed him to work for himself as long as he didn’t leave the area—and he had worked tirelessly to not only build a fortune, but also to educate himself in a manner fitting a gentleman, driven by his determination to return to his homeland a successful man.

But what use was that when none of the nobles he had met so far would permit more than a nodding acquaintance? He knew damned well that Lord Aberwyld had only accepted his offer for Flora because he was desperate. And now the bride he had paid so handsomely for no doubt viewed him with the same contempt as the rest of her class. And she didn’t even know the worst of him yet. If she ever discovered the truth of his past, she would despise him even more just like any other decent woman would. Just like Jessica. When she had discovered he was an ex-convict she had made no secret of her disdain and had left him the very next day.

They sat, one at each end of the table for their first meal together as man and wife.

Lachlan finished his mock turtle soup, then picked at his roast venison even though it was delicious, as always, and he noticed that Flora appeared to have little appetite either. They could not even converse because he’d insisted on seating Flora at one end of the dining table—which would hold eighteen—while he sat at the other. He had learned that was the correct seating arrangement but, too late, he wondered if it only applied at formal dinners. Was he a fool, to make things even more awkward between them, or was this the norm for a lady of Flora’s class?

She was no doubt nervous of the night to come and, in recollecting that tonight was their wedding night and that his bride was not only a delicate lady but also a virgin, his nerves exploded. He had never thought twice about taking his pleasures before and had even learned a certain skilfulness in increasing his partner’s pleasure, but the thought of a man such as he—an ex-convict—taking such liberties with a lady, even though she was his wife, broke him out in a cold sweat.

He tried to quash his burgeoning nerves by draining his wineglass again. Drummond came forward to replenish his glass and Lachlan drank again before signalling to Renney to clear his plate away. At the far end of the table, Flora folded her napkin, placing it beside her plate. Dessert was served and Lachlan was pleased to see his bride partake of the stewed plums and custard with more enthusiasm.

Finally, the interminable meal was done. Lachlan pushed back his chair and waited as Drummond pulled back Flora’s chair.

‘We will take tea in the drawing room, Drummond.’

He still felt uncomfortable giving orders to servants, but it was important to keep up appearances if he ever hoped to be accepted. He was reconciled to being a master by knowing that without these jobs some, if not all, of his servants would be condemned to scratching a very poor living from the sea—a harsh career for anyone not raised to it—or working up to fourteen hours a day in a noisy, dirty factory in Glasgow.

He paced the length of the table until he reached Flora. Then, quite deliberately, rather than offer his arm, he reached for her hand. It felt dainty and fragile as ever and he felt the quiver of her nerves. He smiled down at her, noting her delicate blush as he folded his fingers around hers.

‘Come.’

In the drawing room the tea was soon served and while Flora poured a cup for each of them, Lachlan poured himself a whisky from a decanter set on a silver salver on a side table. He must, somehow, connect with his bride before they retired to bed.

‘I like your gown—the green suits your colouring.’ And the style accentuated her feminine curves. Desire stirred and blood powered through his veins.

Flora glanced down at herself. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It is my best evening gown, made for me when I attended the Caledonian Rout last year.’

Lachlan knew the annual Rout was taking place now, in Edinburgh, with its races, concerts, balls and other amusements.

‘I fear most of my clothes will look outmoded compared to this one,’ Flora went on, a hint of apology in her tone, not meeting his eyes, ‘but I do have an afternoon dress for if we have visitors.’

He had only meant to compliment her, not remind her of the past. Her father’s debts were no different to those of many landowners in the Highlands, a fact that had first been brought home to Lachlan on his return to Scotland via the undercurrent of resentment and envy from the landed gentry when they had realised Lachlan’s wealth. It was not only his birth and upbringing that stood in the way of him being accepted.

He cast all thought of business from his mind to focus on his bride.

‘Would you care for a dram, Flora?’

He held up his glass and the amber liquid glowed as it swirled, the lead-cut crystal sparkling in the candlelight. Flora looked startled and Lachlan felt his cheeks redden. Had he committed a faux pas? Did fine ladies not drink spirits?

‘It is my own blend,’ he hurried on. ‘The whisky we make at the distillery near Ballinorchy, on the shores of Loch Carnmore. I thought you might like to sample it. After all, if you are to help me find patrons, it is fitting you should know the taste.’

Her eyes lit up. Happy that he had asked her? Maybe she was not offended. Perhaps this might be a success after all, if Flora was keen to help him promote Carnmore whisky. He poured a splash into a tumbler and handed it to her.

‘It will burn your throat at first,’ he warned, ‘but give it time. Allow the flavour to come through.’

She tilted the glass, her eyes on his. She drank. Swallowed. Blinked. Coughed, just a little. And, finally, she smiled. ‘It is nicer than the malt whisky my father drinks.’

‘He gave you whisky to drink?’

Her cheeks dimpled. ‘No. He disapproved of females drinking strong spirits. But that just made me want to try it all the more. I was sixteen years of age—it made my eyes water, and I coughed and spluttered so much my mother heard.’

‘And was she angry? Did she punish you?’

She stared down into her glass, which she held in both hands, cradled to her chest. The play of candlelight over her décolletage, her shoulders and her pale arms stoked his desire, heating his skin.

‘No. She was only scared that he would find out. She never told him.’ She tipped up her chin, capturing Lachlan’s gaze. ‘My father has strong notions of right and wrong. He expects obedience and he can make life unpleasant if his rules are not obeyed.’

‘He beat you?’

Lachlan felt again the sting of the lash on board the prison hulk, the Susan, and again when he first arrived in Australia.

‘At times, yes, but that was only to be expected when we were naughty as children. But if he fell into a rage, the entire household would suffer so we all tried hard not to annoy him. Especially my mother.’

He caught the sudden apprehension in her expression. In time, she would learn that he was not like her father.

‘Carnmore Whisky is a milder spirit than the whiskies distilled from malted grains in the old pot stills,’ he said. ‘We use a Coffey still, mixing malted barley with unmalted grains such as wheat. As it’s a continuous process it is cheaper and quicker to produce, but it is still a fine product. I have been experimenting with blending the two types to improve the flavour.’

His cheeks heated at allowing his enthusiasm to carry him away. ‘I apologise for boring you with business talk.’

‘No!’ She touched his forearm. ‘I’m not bored. I—I like to be involved.’

Now it was her turn to colour and Lachlan felt more comfortable in her presence than at any time since their wedding.

‘From where does your father get his whisky?’

‘A clansman, Sandy McCrieff. He lives up to the north, further into the Highlands.’ Her eyes darkened. ‘At least, he did. He could no longer pay the rent, even in whisky, and he left at the start of the summer.’

A familiar story.

Flora handed Lachlan his teacup and they sat side by side on the sofa as they drank. The silence stretched and, as soon as she had finished, Flora stood up and Lachlan immediately shot to his feet. She cast him a nervous smile, but did not meet his eyes.

‘I believe I shall retire now. It has been a long day.’

Her cup rattled in its saucer as she went to deposit it on the tea tray and Lachlan followed her with hungry eyes, devouring her curves and the sway of her hips as she moved.

His bride. His wedding night. He grew hard. Painfully so.

‘I shall give you time to prepare.’ His voice sounded gravelly and he cleared his throat. ‘I shall see you in a short while.’

Her cheeks were pale, her freckles clearly visible. She nodded before leaving the room.

Time passed slowly, marked by the tick of the mantel clock. Lachlan paced the room a time or two, then paused by the salver and poured himself another whisky as he tried to gag that insistent inner voice that said he was unworthy. He should have gone with her. That would have helped his nerves. He should have just got on with it. Bedded her. Consummated their marriage. Once they’d been intimate...once she was no longer a virgin...they could both concentrate on what was important. Their future lives together.

But he had not wished to shock her and, although the waiting made him more apprehensive, it would be easier for her if she was already in bed when he went to her.

He sighed. Scratched his ear. Drained his glass and, finally, he strode from the room.

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