His Convenient Highland Wedding. Janice Preston
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?’
‘No. It had been lost a long time.’
There. It was done. He straightened. ‘How would you know how long it had been lost?’
She slanted him a look from those green eyes. ‘I went exploring in a forbidden part of the castle.’
She bit her lower lip, staring at him. ‘No one but my father was allowed there, but I went anyway. It was thrown aside...discarded among a heap of...’ She paused. Then she tilted her chin. ‘A heap of old rags.’ Her eyes slid from his to Bandit as she fondled his ear.
He really was a disreputable-looking animal—one ear pricked, one drooping; a scruffy, wiry white coat; and those black eye patches that really did give him the look of a bandit. The dog seemed to sense his regard. He raised his head and stared back, almost defiantly, although that seemed almost ridiculously fanciful.
He had enough attitude for himself and his mistress combined. Lachlan broke eye contact first and looked back at Flora, whose attention was still on Bandit. She often seemed wary of speaking her mind, but that tale of defying her father gave him hope she was not as timid as she appeared. He was under no illusions about himself—he’d lived a harsh life, among hard men, and it had shaped the man he had become: self-sufficient and tough. There was no place in his life for a bride easily intimidated, or one who needed to cling to her husband. He had no wish to get too close to anyone, not even his wife.
He had at least diverted her from the subject of his painful, shameful past. Flora need never know about that. He intended to put it firmly behind him. Just as soon as he had tracked down Anna.
* * *
It was late afternoon before the carriage turned off the road on to a track that led steadily upwards through ancient woodland of oaks and birches wearing the russet hues of autumn. To their right the land shelved steeply away from the track and Flora caught glimpses of the blue-green waters of a loch, far below.
‘That is Loch Arris. We are nearly home.’
‘What made you buy Lochmore Castle?’ Flora asked on impulse. ‘Why not a castle linked to the McNeill clan?’
Lachlan shrugged. ‘The McNeills’ seat is Barra in the Outer Hebrides but my father never lived there. Lochmore is near enough to Glasgow for me to see to business and, as I said, there is that rumour of that long-ago link between the Lochmores and my branch of the McNeills. It seemed fitting.’
Ahead, Flora could see a gatehouse built of grey stone, with smoke curling from the chimney, next to a square tower that straddled the carriageway.
‘Who lives there?’
‘Gregor and Brenda Fraser—Gregor is the manager at my distillery. The original outer curtain wall is lower than it once would have been, but I believe the gatehouse and the tower are much as they would have always been.’
The light dimmed as they passed beneath the tower and then brightened as they emerged into what would once, presumably, have been the outer bailey with stables over to the right and what looked like an old chapel to the left. Beyond the stables were a vegetable garden and glasshouses, and the remainder of the ground was grass, dotted with trees and evergreen shrubs.
Craning her neck ahead for a view of her new home, Flora saw another square tower, built of the same grey stone as the gatehouse, but looming four storeys into the sky, its walls punctuated by mullioned windows. They drove through an opening in another low wall.
‘This