His Convenient Highland Wedding

by Janice Preston

  He could have been cruel, for all Father knew or cared when he sold me off!

  A letter from her mother had arrived that morning—exacerbating Flora’s homesickness—with a few scraps of news from home and, couched in careful terms, her thanks to Flora for helping to restore the family fortunes. But no talk of a visit and no message from her father. Not for the first time since her marriage, self-pitying tears scalded behind Flora’s eyes, blurring her vision. She gazed unseeingly out of the window until she had herself under control.

  What was she to do?

  The ocean was restless, mirroring her tossing, tumbling emotions. She wrapped her arms around her waist and swallowed down her feelings. Then she plastered a bright smile on her face and went to help with the unpacking. The servants were excited by the delivery and there was so little of that in their lives she could not bear to dampen their joy.

  Her dream that she and Lachlan would, in time, grow closer through the marriage bed seemed doomed. He had not visited her since their wedding night and, although she had tried hard to muster the courage to ask him why, fear of what he might say held her back.

  Had she done something wrong? Something to disgust him? There was no one in whom she could confide, no one to ask, even if she dared to speak about such matters. All she knew of the subject was her mother’s warnings, with never even a hint that some parts of lying together might feel...well...nice. Flora tensed, almost expecting a bolt of lightning to strike her down for even thinking such an outrageous thought.

  ‘Milady?’ Drummond stood in the doorway. ‘Mrs Fraser is downstairs, asking to speak to you. Shall I tell her you are engaged?’

  Mrs Fraser? It took Flora a few seconds to place the name. Fraser—he was Lachlan’s manager at the distillery and he and his wife lived in the gatehouse. Mrs Fraser had been away for several days, helping nurse her sick grandson, and Flora had never met her. Lachlan had not even introduced her to Mr Fraser, even though he often called at the castle. Did he imagine Flora would not acknowledge a person of Mr Fraser’s class?

  Hmmph. If she knew nothing about Lachlan, it seemed he knew even less about her.

  She was thrilled to have a caller and she did not give a fig that her neighbour was not her social equal. Flora was lonely and she craved company. A friend.

  ‘Please show her into the drawing room, Drummond. I shall come straight down.’

  Drummond disappeared and Flora crossed to her dressing table to tidy her hair, embarrassed at how her heart pitter-pattered at the thought of a visitor, even if it was only Brenda Fraser. She straightened the light shawl around her shoulders—it was pinned at the front with her brooch, which she wore most days. There was something compelling about it—not only that it was a reminder of home but...somehow...fanciful though it might seem...she felt calmer when she wore it. More...settled, which was daft, because she was unsettled most of the time but, deep inside her, dwelled a feeling of...rightness. It was something in Lochmore itself, she felt.

  Well, it must be, for it is certainly nothing to do with that husband of mine.

  With that final, grumpy thought, she went downstairs.

  The woman standing in the centre of the drawing room, as though she dared not take a seat, was short, plump and motherly, with kind eyes.

  ‘Lady Flora McNeill, this is Mrs Fraser,’ said Drummond.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Fraser. I am pleased to meet you. How is your grandson?’

  Mrs Fraser smiled at the mention of her grandson. ‘Och, he’s on the mend, my lady. I am pleased to meet you, too.’

  ‘Please, sit down. Drummond, please ask Cook to send in refreshments. Will tea suit, Mrs Fraser?’

  The visitor’s brows lifted. ‘That is most gracious of you, my lady.’

  ‘Not at all, Mrs Fraser. I am happy you have visited.’

  A light flush coloured Mrs Fraser’s cheeks and she bit into her bottom lip.

  ‘Is something troubling you?’

  ‘I...well...’ Mrs Fraser shifted in her chair, her hands restless in her lap. ‘I didna know whether Mr McNeill mentioned me, milady?’

  Flora frowned. ‘In what respect, Mrs Fraser? I’m aware you live in the gatehouse, but that is all.’

  ‘Ah.’ Silence prevailed, then Mrs Fraser’s face split into an unexpected grin. ‘Men,’ she said. ‘They dinna care to talk about their feelings and so forth, do they? They prefer to take action and then they are surprised when we fail to guess the reasoning behind what they do.’

  ‘Has Mr McNeill done something that involves you, Mrs Fraser?’ Flora’s thoughts flew straight to the numerous boxes being unpacked upstairs.

  ‘Aye. The gowns. I saw the delivery. Mr McNeill asked if I would make any necessary alterations for you, as well as sew a few additional gowns. I used to be a seamstress, you see.’

  ‘I see.’ Anger still grumbled deep inside Flora, but Lachlan’s failure to apprise his wife of his plan was not Mrs Fraser’s fault. ‘Not only did my husband not tell me of your part in his plan, Mrs Fraser, he also omitted to mention he had ordered anything for me. The entire delivery took me by surprise.’

  Mrs Fraser sipped her tea, eyeing Flora. ‘He’s a man of few words, I ken. But he has a good heart.’

  Flora gave a non-committal response.

  ‘And did he tell you of the invitation?’

  Flora was tempted to lie, to cover her humiliation that Mrs Fraser knew more of their lives than she did. But curiosity—and panic at mention of an invitation—persuaded her to answer truthfully.

  ‘He did not. Will you tell me?’

  Mrs Fraser, to her credit, looked more discomfited than triumphant.

  ‘Mr McNeill only mentioned you will attend a social gathering next week and you will need enough gowns made ready for then. It was Gregor who told me you have been invited to attend Sir Keith Lawrence’s annual weekend gathering.’

  Flora’s stomach plummeted and then clenched violently. Her parents had attended Sir Keith’s gathering at his country mansion near Inveraray in the past. Sir Keith was the grandson of an English earl and had earned his knighthood through his political work. His annual gathering brought together the cream of Highland society, Scottish politicians and various prominent industrialists and businessmen to promote useful connections between those sections of the community. No wonder Lachlan had ordered so many new gowns and accessories. This was what he had married her for. To give him an entrée into society. Little did he realise—

  ‘Are ye quite well, my lady? You’ve gone verra pale.’

  It took effort, but Flora pulled herself together. This was not a subject to discuss with Mrs Fraser, no matter how friendly she was and no matter how much Flora yearned for friendly conversation. She stood up and placed her cup and saucer on the tray.

  ‘If this gathering is next week, then it seems we have no time to waste, Mrs Fraser. Shall we go up and see what needs to be done to prepare me for our visit?’

  She would not shirk this duty even though she feared it would be to no avail. Her rejection of Galkirk had created scandal last year and she doubted her peers had forgotten.

  Should I warn Lachlan his plans are likely to fail?

  She would not.

  He did not see fit to warn me about this gathering. I shall go and I shall do my best and at least he will not be able to accuse me of not trying my hardest.

  Chapter Eight

  On Thursday afternoon, Flora gazed from the carriage window at Sir Keith Lawrence’s country estate, Dalbride Castle—a beautiful tower house that blended into the surrounding landscape as though it had been there for centuries, even though she knew it had been built barely fifty years before. Her insides had been a coil of dread ever since Mrs Fraser had told her of Lachlan’s plans and now they wound even tighter. The time had come. She intended to try her best and do everything she could to help Lachlan find patrons
for Carnmore Whisky because she desperately did not want him to regret marrying her, but she feared he would soon realise the huge error he had made.

  He sat by her side, stern and remote, starkly handsome. And a stranger still. She had tried hard to muster the courage to talk to him about this weekend...about his expectations of her...but time and again her courage failed her. The opportunities to exchange any sort of private word with her husband were few and far between—he had been away in Glasgow until Monday and, when he returned, the distillery commanded his attention during the day and at night he poured over the ledgers in his study, checking the estate accounts—urgently completing his week’s work before they left for Dalbride.

  She was naught but an irrelevance in his life.

  Until now.

  Bitterness scoured her throat and left a sour taste in her mouth. The only exchange of words about this weekend had been as Lachlan was rushing out to the distillery on Tuesday morning.

  ‘Mrs Fraser has told you about this weekend, I understand?’

  Flora had nodded as resentment burned inside her. So he’d spoken to his distillery manager’s wife about it since his return from Glasgow, but not to his own wife?

  ‘Good. Good.’ He glanced out of the open door, clearly impatient to be gone. ‘Are you pleased with your gowns? Have you everything you need?’

  She’d wanted to scream at him then. To fly at him and rake her nails down his face. To force him to see her as a person, not just as a wife to parade upon his arm. But she’d merely nodded again.

  ‘Thank you,’ she’d said, because that was what he seemed to expect. He’d nodded, looking pleased with himself, before hurrying out to mount his horse.

  Thank you! What an utterly pathetic response! But the habit of biting back her true thoughts and feelings was ingrained and nothing so far in her marriage had helped her find the confidence or the courage to fight that habit.

  Nausea crowded her throat and she swallowed hard to keep it down. She’d thought they’d have a chance to talk on the journey today, but her courage had failed her again on the ferry as it sailed Loch Fyne—she had convinced herself that anything she said would prompt a row between them—and now Muriel and Murray, Lachlan’s valet, were seated with them in the carriage Sir Keith had sent to transport them to the Castle. She fingered the brooch she had pinned to her new mantle of spring-green satin, taking comfort from its familiar shape. She had seen Lachlan’s raised brow when he saw it—for in among his purchases for her had been brooches and bracelets, necklaces and earrings—but he said nothing, for which Flora was grateful. Silly for such a simple thing as a brooch to give her comfort, but it did.

  They’d arrived and Lachlan—looking virile and handsome in traditional Highland dress of kilt, sporran, waistcoat and jacket—stepped out and handed Flora from the carriage. As Flora went to take his arm, however, he stayed her. One finger beneath her chin, he tilted her face to him, his expression...yes, serious as ever, but was that a hint of concern?

  ‘Are you well, Flora? You are pale and you have been very quiet.’

  I have been quiet? She bit back a sudden urge to laugh. Then, amazingly, Lachlan smiled. A rueful smile. Flora stared in wonder.

  ‘I am a fine one to talk.’ A muscle leapt in his jaw and a groove appeared between his dark brows. ‘I do not know how to talk to you.’ His voice was gruff. ‘Or what to say. You are a lady. And I...’ He tipped his head back a moment, then captured her gaze again, nostrils flaring as he breathed in deeply. ‘I have not made our first weeks of marriage easy for you. I shall try to do better.’ Then a smile stretched his lips and lit those sombre eyes. ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘I might try by asking what it is you want?’

  She realised then that Mrs Fraser had spoken to him about her and about their marriage because she had said something similar to Flora after she recoiled in horror at one of the fabrics Lachlan had chosen, knowing that the huge pattern in garish colours would swamp her small, curvy frame were it to be made up into a gown.

  I dinna ken why the daft man didna simply ask what you’d like, instead of doing it all himself.

  ‘Maybe, another time, I might come shopping with you?’ she suggested, feeling very bold.

  ‘I should like that.’ He smiled down at her, his gaze sweeping from her head—with her bonnet of dark green crepe decorated with a curled white ostrich feather—to her feet, clad in black satin half-boots with elastic sides. ‘Although I must say that shade of green suits you very well. It matches your eyes.’

  A blush warmed Flora’s cheeks and happiness fluttered in her tummy. ‘Thank you.’

  Her nerves about this weekend gathering calmed a little—just a few simple, friendly words from her husband and she already felt less alone.

  ‘Come. Let us go in.’ Lachlan took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm.

  * * *

  Lachlan cursed himself for being all kinds of a stubborn, blind fool. He’d thought he was helping Flora...allowing her the space and time to become accustomed to him, to Lochmore and to her new circumstances. It had taken a few brisk words from Brenda Fraser this morning to make him realise that, far from helping Flora to settle, he had unintentionally made her feel less at home. And now he had brought her here, to parade her in front of all these people, expecting her to act the part of the perfect wife. They were no nearer to actually understanding each other than they had been on their wedding night and he’d realised—but not until they were seated in the carriage and he could not talk to her because Muriel and Murray were sitting right there—that they would no doubt share a bedchamber tonight.

  It was a poor excuse, but he’d been so distracted by business and by his worries about Anna that he’d barely even spoken to Flora, let alone begun to bridge the gap between them. He vowed to make more of an effort with her in the future. Perhaps it was good they were to be thrust together without a choice...left to his own devices, how long would it have taken him to pluck up the courage to bed his own wife again? And what kind of a man did that make him?

  A coward, that’s what.

  He continued to be wary of bedding her if she was in any way reluctant but, still, anticipation sent his blood pounding through his veins. But he would never force himself on a woman, wife or not—he’d seen enough of that kind of behaviour on the ship and in the Colonies. He could only hope that the discovery they must share a bed would not come as too much of a shock to Flora, but at least he’d now smoothed things over a little and they would see what the coming night would bring.

  A maid showed them to their bedchamber, where there was warm water for them to freshen up.

  ‘Oh!’ Flora stopped just over the threshold of the room. ‘I—’

  Anxious green eyes sought Lachlan’s. He smiled reassuringly and a blush washed her cheeks.

  ‘Is everything in order, milady?’ asked the maid. ‘D’ye not care for your room?’

  ‘Oh. No. It is not that. It is a lovely room. Thank you.’

  Muriel and Murray appeared then and, in the kerfuffle, the maid disappeared. A small dressing room led directly off the bedchamber and Lachlan directed Murray to take his bags in there.

  ‘I shall leave you to change your gown,’ he said to Flora. ‘Let me know when you are ready to go downstairs.’

  Lachlan had only his linen to change—Sir Keith had specified traditional Highland dress for the weekend, for the benefit of the English nobles who would be in attendance. Since the Queen and Prince Albert had discovered the delights of Scotland through the novels of Sir Walter Scott, Scotland and all things Scottish had become all the rage with the English upper classes.

  Lachlan waited in the dressing room until Muriel knocked. ‘Lady Flora is ready, sir.’

  Lachlan stopped short at his first sight of Flora—feminine, charming and respectable in a primrose-satin gown with long sleeves and a high neck. She looked gorgeous, but the
sheer uncertainty in her eyes wrenched at his heartstrings.

  ‘You look beautiful.’

  Her relief was palpable. Her smile tremulous. ‘You approve?’

  ‘I do. Very much.’

  Their gazes fused. Her huge green eyes appeared to hold a promise...or was that just wishful thinking? His nerves rolled and bucked like a ship in a storm. Would...could...Flora accept his past if he were to tell her the truth? Jessica’s expression arose in his mind’s eye. Not her face—he had long forgotten what she looked like—but he would never forget her scornful expression once she’d discovered the truth.

  He swallowed. Hard. Could he ever risk Flora rejecting him like that?

  He offered Flora his arm and covered her hand with his, squeezing it gently as her delicate floral scent played havoc with his senses.

  Downstairs, the butler showed them into a huge salon, where people sat and stood around, the noise of their chatter deafening. Sir Keith emerged from among his guests, his cheeks ruddy and his eyes bright.

  ‘McNeill! Glad you could make it.’ He thrust out his hand and shook Lachlan’s with vigour as the smell of whisky curled around them. Sir Keith had already warned Lachlan that the weekend was for indulgence as well as for business. ‘And Lady Flora. I don’t believe we’ve met before, have we? I know your father well, of course. Unfortunately, he and your mother could not attend this year.’ He bowed and Flora curtsied. ‘I had every hope Her Majesty and the Prince might attend, but they have remained in London. Such disquiet, all over Europe, this year.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Revolution, my dear. The old order under threat. Discord everywhere—the people rising up... France, Germany, Hungary, Poland, not to mention the Chartists—it is of great concern, is it not, McNeill? Business does not thrive where there is uncertainty and we are, first and foremost, businessmen.’

  ‘It is a concern, sir.’

  The old order... Lachlan stifled his urge to tell Sir Keith exactly what the ‘old order’ meant to most people—unfairness, injustice, deprivation, starvation. It was going on all around them, yet so many of that same ‘old order’ appeared oblivious to the reality of it. But he stifled his true feelings. He needed acceptance by these people. He needed their patronage and their help to make a success of his business and to enable him to use his influence to make life better for the poor wretches who had no hope of escaping squalor. Not by revolution—that, he was convinced, merely replaced one over-privileged order with another—but by education and through political debate. He truly believed that to be the only way for long-lasting reform.