Janice Preston - His Convenient Highland Wedding

‘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.