His Convenient Highland Wedding. Janice Preston
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‘Are you afraid of me?’
Those green eyes sought his. ‘A...a little.’
‘Your father...he is a strict man?’
‘H-he has very strong ideas of correct behaviour.’ Her eyes blazed before her lashes lowered to shield her emotion. ‘I did not always behave as he wished.’
‘You refused a duke. And your father was...what? Angry? He punished you?’
‘They were all angry.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I let them all down.’
‘Well, I tell you this, Lady Flora McNeill. I do not believe in physical punishment—’ he had seen enough of that to last him several lifetimes, on board the convict ship and afterwards at the penal colony in New South Wales ‘—and you need never fear I will raise my hand against you.’ He put his hand on her leg. ‘You have my word.’
She released a quiet sigh. ‘I thank you.’
But her thigh was rigid beneath his hand and he wondered if some of her fear might be of the night to come. She was a maiden and she might not even know what to expect of the marriage bed. Had her mother instructed her? Allayed her fears? He returned his hand to his own lap. There were no reassurances he could offer that would not result in embarrassment for them both—he must hope that once the hurdle of their wedding night was out of the way she would relax in his company.
* * *
Flora’s stomach tied in ever tighter knots the further they travelled from the only home she had ever known. Her throat tightened and the tears that had lurked beneath the surface for the past two days threatened to spill—her family might have been resentful and critical of her over the past year, but at least they were familiar. She gulped, holding back the tears by sheer force of will.
Lachlan’s voice broke into her thoughts.
‘Are you hungry? You ate very little at the wedding breakfast. I can instruct the coachman to halt for a few minutes.’
He was well spoken: his voice deep and melodious with a barely discernible Scottish burr. About to refuse, for she was eager to reach their destination and escape the close confines of the carriage as soon as possible, Flora realised maybe it was he who was hungry.
‘Thank you. Yes, that would be welcomed.’
She couldn’t stomach a thing, but maybe a drink would help moisten her dry mouth and throat. Lachlan rapped on the carriage ceiling and, after a few minutes, the vehicle turned off the road. Lachlan jumped out, lowered the steps and handed Flora from the carriage. She noted once again the strength in his grip. His arm under her hand as they had walked back down the aisle had been rock hard—he had a powerful physique and, despite the anxiety stringing her nerves tight, she couldn’t help but feel a quiver of anticipation at the thought of their wedding night.
The two men on the box climbed down—the coachman checking the horses and the groom hurrying to the rear of the carriage to unstrap the basket Maggie had provided.
‘Would you...er...?’ Lachlan gestured vaguely in the direction of a low clump of bushes some twenty yards from where they stood.
Flora’s cheeks burned. ‘No. Thank you. I... I just need to stretch my legs a little.’
He nodded and she walked back along the road. She cast her gaze around her at the magnificent brooding landscape, the broad glen bordered by rugged hills. There was no sign of human habitation. Nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. And, even if there was, there was nowhere she could go. She belonged to him now.
Her husband.
A stranger.
And she was now Lady Flora McNeill, not the lady of rank she had once imagined in her future.
And whose fault is that?
She quashed that taunt. She had been right to reject the Duke of Galkirk—her instinct had warned her against him even before he proved himself a despicable lecher on the very evening their betrothal was to be announced. And she had publicly denounced him, not realising at the time how great was the financial need of her family and their tenants. Needs that had worsened in the past year after blight hit the local potato crop yet again. The blame, disapproval and disappointment of her parents and her siblings—not to mention other clan members—had worn her down until the burden of shame had grown almost too much to bear. She had retreated into herself—speaking only when spoken to and accepting the chores heaped upon her shoulders without complaint.
And now, that same instinct that had prompted her to refuse Galkirk was telling her that Lachlan McNeill was a good man and she trusted his word that he would never raise his hand to her. The past twelve months, however, had taught her there were worse punishments than the strike of a man’s hand. At least that was over and done with, if painful and humiliating, unlike the consistent drag on her spirits of knowing how she had let her family down.
How much would she see of her family in the future? Her father expected obedience from his wife and children and he’d already demonstrated his ability to cut those who displeased him from his life after his sister, Tessa—having defied their father’s plan to marry her to the Duke of Lochmore—had been sent to live with relations in Glasgow. Neither Grandfather nor Father had ever forgiven her and Flora had never even met her aunt. That incident had added yet another grudge to the ancient feud between the McCrieffs and the Lochmores—a feud that the marriage of Lochmore and Tessa had been intended to heal.
Flora glanced back at Lachlan, who was consulting with the coachman. He was her future and it was up to her to make the best of it and not look back. She slowly retraced her steps. She did not want him to regret marrying her, so she would try hard to make him happy. But did that mean she must obey him blindly in all things, as her mother obeyed her father? She did not think she could bear such a marriage, but she realised her future was in her hands. She would tread softly to begin with, however, until she knew her husband better.
Lachlan met her gaze as she approached. He was so tall—he towered over her—and he was so formidable looking with his stern expression and his brooding dark eyes under straight black eyebrows. She had seen him smile just the once, when he’d asked her about her brooch, but it had been a forced smile that didn’t reach those deeply intense eyes.
And have you smiled at him?
A gust of wind caught at her cloak and she shivered, gathering it around her again. Beneath, she still wore her wedding gown—an old white-silk evening gown of Mother’s, trimmed with Honiton lace—neither as fine nor as romantic as she had once dreamed of for her wedding, but then this union was not romantic, was it? It was a marriage of convenience. A lock of hair fell loose, tumbling across her forehead, and she tucked it beneath her bonnet. She forced herself to smile at Lachlan. His eyes widened, then he strode to her to take her arm. She hid her wince as he touched the painful bruise left by her father.
‘It is cold out here. We will sit in the carriage to eat.’
‘As you wish, sir.’
‘Lachlan.’ The rejoinder came swift and fierce. ‘I do not wish to be “sir” to you.’
‘Very well. Lachlan. It is a good Scottish name. As is McNeill.’
He nodded in acknowledgement, but offered none of his background. As they neared the carriage, the groom was on the roof, handing another basket down to the coachman.
‘What is it, Barclay?’
‘There’s something in it, sir. It moved.’
He unstrapped the lid. It lifted an inch and a black nose emerged, followed by—
‘Bandit!’
Nothing could stem the tears now. Flora fell to her knees and hugged the squirming terrier to her. She had begged her father to allow her to bring Bandit, but he’d forbidden it. So who...?
She set Bandit down and he