Deception and Desire (A MacNaughton Castle Romance Book 1)

by Aubrey Wynne

  “I understand you hold no love for the MacNaughtons. But think of the consequences to your family.” Gideon placated, stalling for time. When his gaze met Lachlan’s, he held up his hands as if in surrender and took a step sideways, out of the direct path of the gun.

  Lachlan stepped out, unsheathing his sword with a hiss. “Stand down, mon. This canna end well for ye.”

  “Och, luck is on my shoulder, here’s the grandiose Lachlan. We’ll take both of ye down, and ye can join yer brother this night.”

  Gideon again spoke softly, taking another sidestep toward Lissie. “It’s your daughter’s wedding. What do you have to gain by killing anyone tonight?”

  “Her da”—he jerked his head at Lissie—“can taint his offspring with the MacNaughtons, but I’ll not be Calum’s toady. I never asked for peace between our clans. I should be head of the Craiggs.”

  “No one would ever follow such a cur,” Lissie hissed.

  “It doesna matter. Nessie’s my property, not the chieftain’s. I decide who my blood mixes with and who marries my daughter.”

  “So ye’ll take the noose rather than see yer daughter married to a MacDunn? Ye’ve lost yer mind, mon.” Lachlan moved his sword slowly back and forth as he crouched in preparation for the fight to come. The man had lost all reason.

  “I’ll no’ take orders from anyone.” Craigg sneered at Lachlan and spit on the ground.

  As he bent his head in disgust, Lachlan lunged forward. The sword sliced Craigg’s hand, and the pistol tumbled to the ground. Craigg drew his own sword and faced Lachlan. From the corner of his eye, he saw Lissie kick backward and knock her captor off balance. Gideon seized the opening and landed a punch to the man’s head, and she broke free.

  “Run, Lissie,” Gideon yelled.

  Craigg lunged at Lachlan, and he ducked and parried. The tip of Lachlan’s blade pierced him in the side. Craigg doubled over and Lachlan advanced, only to have the man grab his dirk and throw it. The knife landed in Lachlan’s leg. With a curse, he grabbed the handle and pulled it out, ignoring the warm spread of blood across his thigh. Craigg staggered up and Lachlan lunged again. The clash of steel against steel reverberated against the pines, then Lachlan found his opening. The blade sliced through flesh, and Craigg howled with pain as his sword fell to the ground.

  A pistol went off, then Calum burst into the opening.

  “Saints and sinners! What the devil is this?”

  Lachlan turned to see his grandfather pick up a lifeless body by the collar and inspect the contorted face.

  With a crack of branches and mumbled oaths, Ross Craigg disappeared into the darkness.

  Lachlan yelled, attempting to limp after the coward. “Run ye feckin’ traitor!” He grimaced and squeezed his thigh, trying to staunch the flow of blood. “Ye canna hide.”

  *

  It was a week before he was able to manage the stairs to the dining room. A week of cursing, of thinking, of missing a woman he wanted to forget. Lissie had come to see him, explaining that his aunt had invited her to England for a visit and companionship. Lissie had accepted, no longer feeling she belonged with the MacNaughtons, yet not wanting to return to her parents. Gideon was stopping at the mill and would inform Colin of Lachlan’s injury and his delayed return.

  Entering the dining room, a pregnant Brownie at his heels, roasted fowl tickled his nostrils. His stomach growled, and he made his way to the table and sat next to his mother.

  “Good to see ye up and moving,” commented Calum. “Wondered if I’d have to carry ye down myself.”

  He grunted in reply, not up for his grandfather’s humor today. He looked across the platter of meat to see Brodie grinning at him and his grandmother scowling at her husband.

  “I told him ye were avoiding work and just wrapped yer leg as an excuse,” his brother said in a loud whisper.

  Lachlan reached for a hunk of bread and concentrated on his meal, tossing his hound a scrap or piece of fat. When dinner was over, his mother pointed to a small hand wagon near the hearth.

  “We need to fix the wagon. Some lads were playing with it, hitching it up to a sow.” She laughed. “It didna end well for the young ones, either.”

  Calum stood and stretched, then ambled over to the broken cart. “We’ll need to replace this,” he said, taking off the splintered axle. “I’ll have one made and fix it tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I’ve already done that.” She went to the mantel and retrieved a long, square bar and handed it to Calum. “Here ye go.”

  He got on one knee and held the bar up to the wagon. “This willna work. The wagon has a round opening and the rod is square.”

  “Try it anyway.”

  “There’s no reason to, lass,” he said patiently. “I’ve fixed enough axles to ken if this will work.”

  “Do as she says, Calum,” said Peigi from across the room.

  With an exasperated sigh, he nodded to his wife, and put the end of the bar to the round opening. “Do ye see now? It’s just common sense, the axle wouldna be sturdy and move as it should. It’s no’ a proper fit.”

  “And this one?” Glynnis took another rod from the mantel and handed it to her father. “Will this one work better?”

  Calum grinned. “Aye, lass.” He grasped the round bar and fit it into the opening. “It’s all about the proper fit, ye see.”

  Lachlan leaned back in his chair, a smirk on his face. His grandfather didn’t realize what he’d just admitted. He gave a sideways glance to Brodie who wore a huge grin.

  “So ye’re saying for something to work right, to be successful, it must be the proper fit?” asked Peigi. “Ye’re sure about such logic?”

  Calum nodded, then blinked. Lachlan crossed his arms as shock, followed by irritation, flitted over his features. His eyes narrowed. “Ye’ve tricked me!”

  “Husband, ye’re a stubborn old fool sometimes but I love ye,” said his wife, with a smile. “Brodie and Lachlan are yer square and round rods. Ye must use each for their correct purpose or it willna work.”

  He rose and brushed off imaginary dust from his knee. With a sigh, he cast his gaze at Lachlan and then Brodie. “Ye’ve made yer point.”

  Glynnis stood on tiptoe and kissed her father’s cheek. “Ye’re a wise mon, Da.”

  “It seems my women are a wee wiser. Though in the end, the clan will decide,” he conceded with a snort. “Shall we have a swallow and toast to Brodie?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Some Scottish Counsel

  Late October 1819

  Glasgow

  Lachlan sprinted up the stairs, several invoices in his hand. It was his first day back, and he was pleased that Colin had found a solution to the problem with the accountant. She would continue to work on the ledgers, but from her home. Colin would bring her the books and documents when he visited Rose and return them when she was finished.

  At the top of the stairs, he froze. In the hall, Fenella sat on a chair, her leather satchel in her lap. Her soft pleading gray eyes latched on to his; he scowled in return.

  “I’ve brought you some shortbread,” she said, holding up a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

  He strode by her and slammed the office door. Inside, he paced the room, fists clenched. What the devil was she doing here? Shortbread. As if that could make everything better. Nor could those full pink lips or creamy skin or… “Aaaaagh!” Throwing open the door, he stomped past her and went down to the docks. Some heavy lifting would do him good.

  “She’s gone. It’s safe to roam the building again,” Sorcha informed him that afternoon with a smirk.

  “I dinna care where she is. It makes no difference to me.” He tossed another heavy sack of wool over his shoulder and piled it onto a growing stack.

  The next day, Fenella was there again. He ignored her and the shortbread. It surprised him that Mrs. Douglas would be part of such a weak conspiracy. He decided he would just sidestep the office. Yet, it didn’t seem to matter what part of the mill he avoided.
Lachlan would turn a corner to find Fenella holding a brown parcel.

  “Ye’re a stubborn dunderhead,” Colin said around a mouthful of shortbread. “But it’s to my advantage.” He finished the last chunk, crumpled up the paper, and tossed it at his cousin’s head.

  Lachlan ducked. “Ye find it amusing, do ye?”

  “Aye, and tasty.”

  “It’s been a week. How long will it take for her to realize I’m no’ speaking to her?” Lachlan wouldn’t admit that he’d begun searching for her around the next corner each day. Her face, the scent of honeysuckle and vanilla, and the memory of her touch would linger in his brain the rest of the day. But the nights… oh the nights. The old dream of a sparkling blue loch, a wet and glistening Fenella touching him, kissing him, sent him into a nocturnal sweat.

  “She’s a stubborn lass, to be sure.” Colin grinned. “We’ll see who wins this contest.”

  “It’s no’ a contest,” he growled.

  It turned out to be a test of endurance, and he was losing. Two weeks of a brief daily encounter with the flaxen beauty, her huge sorrowful eyes imploring him to speak, those velvet lips parted in a watery smile. Sweet Mary! He’d been wronged by her, yet he was the one suffering.

  “Ye really need to give in,” Colin said over a bumper of ale one night at the Pigeon. “I’m growing fat.”

  MacGregor sat with them, his lips twitching in a semblance of a smile. “Pass some on to me, mon. I’m happy to do my part.”

  Lachlan grunted and realized he sounded like the old man across from him. “This has to stop. I’m serious.”

  Colin nodded, his smile fading. “Aye, ye’re right. It’s gone on long enough. We’ve just been waiting for ye to admit it.”

  Finally, someone agreed with him. His mood lightened, and he ordered more ale. Now life would get back to some semblance of order. And maybe, just maybe, those lusty dreams would stop.

  *

  Lachlan studied the invoices as he climbed the stairs. He’d already avoided Fenella earlier, so he knew she’d have left the building.

  “Put these on the desk too, would ye?” asked Colin from the landing.

  He looked up and took the stack of papers from his cousin. Entering the office, he heard a slight movement in the corner behind him. He turned, the door slammed shut with a click, and Fenella stood before him with wide eyes.

  “What the devil is going on?”

  “The two of ye are staying in there until ye talk it out,” yelled Colin from the other side.

  “Do ye think this will work?” He glowered at her.

  Her stormy eyes narrowed. “This isn’t my doing. Colin said you needed to speak with me and to wait here.”

  “It’s true,” boomed the deep voice in the hall. “I’m leaving.”

  “Ye might as well open the door now! This willna work.”

  Silence.

  Fenella sat on a chair and crossed her legs, her toe tapping against the desk, sending the apricot skirt swaying back and forth. The color seemed to bring out the natural glow of her cheeks.

  She wore her hair in long ringlets, and with each bounce of her leg, the silky strands brushed against the nape of her neck. His fingers twitched. She licked her lips and the pounding began, blood rushing to his manhood. Memories of her supple skin, her response to his kisses, flooded him and he grew hard. Then he cursed.

  “I’m sorry. I truly did not know Colin would do this.” She glanced at him then lowered her eyes again, her long lashes shadowed against her cheek. “May I speak?”

  He didn’t trust his voice, or the emotions pounding his heart and brain, so he gave a curt nod.

  “If I had not been so excited to be here—in Glasgow, at the mill—I might have been less of a scatter-brain. I’ve told you why I left London, how I was a misfit and ran away. When I saw the advertisement for this position and bumped into you the same day”—she sucked in a breath—“I thought it was fate.”

  Lachlan snorted. He wasn’t giving in to her. She could say her piece and they’d be finished. Yet his eyes continued to stray to her lips as she spoke, the hands clasping and unclasping in her lap.

  “I had no reason to pretend my father was dead. It was an honest mistake. If you remember, I spoke of him during our conversations. It wasn’t until Ian died and we were together that night, I realized the misunderstanding. But you were full of grief, and I was so surprised… I didn’t know what to do.”

  Lachlan sighed. “It isna that, so much as the fact ye didna trust me with the truth. How can ye say ye love me and no’ tell me of yer mother?”

  “You kept a secret from me,” she whispered.

  His jaw clenched. Colin! “Aye.”

  “Lachlan, I was naïve when I came here. Naïve about men, about love, about myself. You have taught me so much. I believe in myself now, thanks to you. If I had to do it all over again, I would have told you about my mother right away.” She swallowed. “I can only tell you how very sorry I am for not trusting you enough to be truthful. And for hurting you.”

  A tear fell down her cheek. Her lips trembled. His anger melted, like a frozen loch in the spring. A slow thaw that left him hopeful for better times. He held out his hand, and she clutched it, pressing her lips to his skin. Her warmth seeped into him and chased the ice from his heart. Sweet Mary! He loved this woman. His days and nights had been miserable without her.

  *

  Fenella closed her lids, her lips brushing the warm skin, breathing in his musky, male scent. It had been torture, coming to the mill every day and bearing Lachlan’s icy indifference. It willna be easy, her grandmother had said. But she’d been right. Fenella needed to convince this man she would fight for him, that she would not give up on their love. Running away from his anger showed a weakness of character.

  Take the consequences of your actions like a Franklin, her father had scolded.

  Grandmama had come up with the idea for daily visits. She was to look him in the eye every day with a peace offering. Oh, how she’d dreaded each morning, wondering how long she would wait for that frosty glare. When Lachlan avoided the office, Colin would find a new place for the encounter.

  “Fenella.” His voice was rough, and she peered up, holding her breath.

  He squeezed her hand, then she was off her feet, crushed to his chest. Her arms went around his neck and his groan tickled her ear. His lips left a trail of fire across her jaw, the corners of her mouth and finally, finally his lips brushed hers. Gentle at first, then hard and bruising. She opened for him, his tongue delving inside, his hands roaming up and down her back. His hard length pressed against her, and she clung to him, not trusting her legs to hold her up.

  “Lachlan,” she whispered, when he pulled back.

  The pads of his thumbs wiped away the tears; his forehead leaned against hers. “Heaven help us, but I love ye.”

  She nodded. “Can ye forgive me?”

  He kissed her again. This time it was gentle and sweet. “What of yer mother?”

  Fenella shook her head. “You may never be her favorite son-in-law, but she will not deny our marriage.”

  “What changed her mind?” he asked, leaning back but keeping her hips tight against his.

  “My father. He said he’d cut her allowance and keep her locked up in the house if she didn’t adjust her attitude toward Scotland—and Scots.” Fenella looked up at him, suddenly feeling shy. “He’s ready to come to Glasgow if I send word. He wants to meet you.”

  A key sounded in the door. “Weel, if this isna a bonnie sight.” Colin filled the doorway, grinning and dangling the key in his huge paw. “My doaty cousin has found his gooolden angel again.”

  Lachlan released her and stalked over to his cousin. With both hands, he pushed the giant from the doorway, the wood reverberating as the door slammed shut. “And stay out!”

  He turned with a wink, and Fenella launched into his arms.

  *

  November 1819

  Glasgow

  Sir Hor
ace shook Lachlan’s hand. “Congratulations. I hope you enjoy the wedding gift.”

  Lachlan grinned, standing on the threshold of their new home. Fenella’s father had bought the townhouse for them. It was in the most fashionable part of Glasgow, to please Lady Franklin when they visited, and large enough for a growing family and visiting relatives. He had argued at first, but his father-in-law could be as stubborn as a MacNaughton.

  Both families had attended the wedding. Mrs. Douglas had kept everyone’s glass filled, including her daughter’s. After enough mead, it seemed, even Lady Franklin could be affable. She had regaled the guests with the story behind the couple’s unusual choice of shortbread instead of the traditional wedding cake.

  “Thank you, Papa,” Fenella said, as she hugged her father goodbye, “for everything.”

  “Remember our little talk.” He nodded at Lachlan.

  “Aye, I willna forget.” Why the man thought he would ever hurt his daughter… well, perhaps he’d understand when he had his own. Lachlan shut the door and turned to Fenella with a grin.

  “We’re alone.” Fenella gripped the lapels of his navy coat. He’d worn tails with his tartan kilt, hoping to impress Lady Franklin. “Shall we play a game of Spillikins?”

  He scooped her in his arms and headed upstairs. “I have other games I’d prefer to play this evening.”

  She giggled, untying his cravat as they climbed the steps. “I think I had too much champagne.”

  His pulse drummed against his neck. He kicked the door open with one foot and carried his bride into their bedroom. A four-poster walnut bed took a corner of the room. Long sheer curtains tied back at each corner matched a canopy that sloped across the top. He set Fenella on her feet and spun her around, his fingers yanking the laces of the pale rose wedding gown and pulling them loose.

  His lips brushed her bare back, a finger tracing the delicate lace along the neckline. The pins came out, one at a time, thick golden tresses falling against her ivory skin. He tangled his fingers into the silky mass and spread it across her shoulders, his fingers trailing down her arms. She shivered and turned to him.