His Convenient Highland Wedding

by Janice Preston

  ‘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.

  Chapter Four

  Muriel helped Flora disrobe, unlaced her stays and removed her petticoats before unpinning her hair as she sat before the mirror on her dressing table. Bandit watched the proceedings from where he was curled on the foot of the bed.

  ‘I can manage now, thank you, Muriel.’

  Muriel dropped a curtsy. ‘If ye’re sure, milady? D’ye want me to take Bandit?’

  At his name, the terrier tilted his head and his droopy ear pricked. Flora scooped him off the bed and hugged him to her chest.

  ‘No. He can...’ Flora scanned the room. Bandit usually slept in her room, but Lachlan surely wouldn’t approve. ‘He will sleep in the boudoir. His cushion is already in there.’

  She ignored the wrinkle of Muriel’s nose at the mention of the cushion. It was a touch smelly, but she was sure the familiar bed would help him to feel more at home.

  ‘You dinna want me to brush out your hair?’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  Muriel took Bandit and shut him in the boudoir before leaving.

  Flora sighed with relief. She needed these few moments alone.
Time to prepare, mentally, for what was to come. Her mother had warned her it would hurt, but had also drummed into her that it was her duty to stay silent and to submit to her husband whenever he wished. She had then refused to answer any of Flora’s questions, her lips pursed tight in distaste, leaving Flora...anxious.

  She knew, from the animals in the fields, what would happen.

  She knew, from overhearing maids whispering and giggling in corners, that the act—copulation—could be pleasurable, but that it was not always so. And she knew some of those maids actively pursued the experience.

  But all that knowledge was overshadowed by the nights she had heard her father loudly grunting and her mother weeping.

  She’d promised herself that her marriage would not mirror that of her parents, but that might be easier said than done when, in the past year, the little confidence she’d had in expressing her views had slowly been leached from her. See what had happened when she had spoken out against the Duke—she’d let down those she loved and made herself an outcast. For certain, had she wed the Duke she would now be fully accepted by those of her own class and her life would be very different. But she would not have been happy. Not with a man such as Galkirk.

  The sound of footsteps followed by Lachlan’s bedchamber door opening and closing jolted her from her thoughts. Her heart thudded as she hurriedly stripped off her chemise and pulled on her plain cotton nightgown, buttoning it up to the neck. She pulled a brush hastily through her hair and loosely plaited it as she did every night. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she coiled the plait around her head and covered her hair with a lace-edged cap. A glance in the mirror changed her mind. She tore the cap from her head but then, as her fingers went to the ribbon binding her plait, she hesitated.

  Would he think her immodest? She knew so little about her husband. What would he expect of her? The murmur of voices from the adjoining room sent her scurrying for the bed. She burrowed beneath the covers, her hair still plaited. And she waited, fretting that she had no prettier nightgown to wear for her wedding night—a lace-trimmed silk nightgown fastened with satin ribbons rather than plain buttons. But she’d had no opportunity to plan her wedding day, let alone the night. It was a far cry from the wedding she had once dreamed of—the magnificent gown she would wear...how beautiful she would look...how her bridegroom’s eyes would light up with love as he watched her walk up the aisle to his side...the splendid trousseau she would bring to her new life—trunk after trunk of fashionable clothes and accessories...the dash she would cut in society, as a nobleman’s wife.