Janice Preston - His Convenient Highland Wedding

‘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?’