The Scottish Lord’s Secret Bride. Raven McAllan

she dreamed. Of a red-haired man, who held her hand, who looked at her closely and spoke with sincerity. “Morven, you are mine…”

      That dream woke her up, hot, bothered and wondering “what if” on more than one occasion, and each time the feelings, the emotions intensified. Then she had to be alert and unconcerned each morning when it was an effort to keep her eyes open.

      ‘After all, you keep insisting you aren’t interested in any of the men who want to marry you, so this is an ideal opportunity.’ Her mama paused and looked at both Morven and her younger sister, Murren. ‘Has no one ever interested you, Morven?’

      Dare she say “not recently, and the only one who did didn’t care enough to take me with him”? Perhaps not. Morven shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but it is a fact of life, Mama. I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to you.’

      Her mama patted her cheek. ‘That is perhaps doing it too brown, my dear. But sometimes I did wonder if…’ Her voice trailed off and she sighed. ‘Ah well perhaps things will…’ She coughed. ‘Anyway enough of that.’ She once more looked hard at Morven. ‘It is the ideal time to go.’

      Morven wondered why she felt like a specimen about to be dissected.

      ‘So we will travel north before Murren comes out,’ the duchess finished emphatically.

      Murren groaned. ‘I’m not old enough.’

      ‘Perhaps not, but you will be soon.’

      No more was said by her mama, but even so, Morven was still somewhat surprised, when, three weeks later, she, Murren and her mama were in her late father’s best carriage, and moving steadily northwards. She’d voiced her objections and had been overruled. Now all she could do was make the best of things.

      It was a scary thought.

      ****

      After a brief sojourn in Edinburgh, that satisfied his banker and his body, but sadly not his mind, Fraser Napier, Laird of Kintrain to his people, the Lord of Kintrain to those south of the border, rode up the pass that led to his beloved Castle Kintrain. Highland cows grazed in the fields and ignored the lone rider. Workers near the track he rode on—a shortcut not available to coaches—did the opposite. They waved as he passed by.

      Each salutation he returned. This was his land, his people, and his future. Now his father was gone Fraser was the laird and all it entailed. The laird was home again, and all was well in the world. At least he hoped so.

      If he thought of glittering dark blue eyes and long hair, the colour of a raven’s wing, he did his best to banish it. Now was not the time or the place. It probably never would be again.

      ’Tis better to have loved than never felt those heady delights… Fanciful, but oh so true.

       If she truly loved me why did she not come to me?

      Fraser rode over the drawbridge—that didn’t move and hadn’t in living memory—and into the courtyard. As he dismounted, the large wooden doors of the castle opened and dogs and people spilled out.

      Immediately there was mayhem and the cacophony was overwhelming. His mama, Lady Senga Napier, the Mistress of Kintrain, hugged him, and bombarded him with questions. The dogs jumped up yelping with excitement and a large long-haired cat wound between his legs and purred loud enough to be heard over the racket.

      Servants beamed and a footman undid his saddlebags and took them into the castle. Two dogs began to fight and one of the kennel men separated them.

      Home.

      Fraser counted to ten, prised his mama off him, picked up the cat and scratched it behind its ears. ‘Enough now. Let me draw breath, wash and eat, and then we can talk.’ He turned to the groom standing patiently next to Misneachail, Fraser’s horse. He gave it a stroke and turned to the groom. ‘If you’d do the honours for me this time, Rabbie, I’d be thankful.’

      Rabbie nodded and led the weary horse away. Fraser watched for a second—he was loath to pass what he should do himself over to anyone else, but this time, needs must. Then he turned to his parent. ‘Now, Mama, give me half an hour and I’ll join you in the wee parlour.’

      His mother smiled. ‘Tea and sandwiches?’

      Fraser grimaced. ‘I’d thought more like some whisky and shortbread. Oh and black bun if Effie’s made any.’

      Senga shook her head and laughed. ‘There’s some whisky waiting. The new batch is exceptional. Since the news came from down the glen you were on the last leg of your journey, Effie’s been baking like there was no tomorrow. The black bun is warm from the oven.’ She sighed and patted his cheek. ‘Ah, Fraser, will I ever get you to drink tea?’

      ‘Probably not.’ Fraser kissed her warmly, turned on his heels and took the stairs two at a time.

      His room was the same as when he’d left it. Well why should it not be? This time he’d only been gone a few weeks—not several years. In fact, he mused as he stripped and washed briskly in the warm water someone had left for him, he could probably be away half a lifetime and come back to everything in the same place. It was a sobering thought. Why couldn’t things move on? Each time he opened the door memories flooded into him.

      Of a raven-haired lady, her soft moans and sighs. The way she stretched out and looked at him as if he were her holy grail. Her soft voice, as she lifted her arms and murmured, “Come to me.” The way… Stop it now. No more. Not if he wanted to get through these next weeks sane.

       If she truly loved me why did she not come to me?

      Fraser understood he needed not to look back, not to remember. And that was going to be as easy as persuading the Prince Regent not to spend money.

      The only way he could possibly do that—move forward, he could do nothing about the prince—was to change rooms. Even then he had no control over his dreams. Dreams that had kept him warm at nights all these years. Dreams that had him penning letters—why did you ignore my letter? Was it not all true?—only to burn them. Sometimes he thought all that he had to keep him going was his pride. He daren’t dissect his hopes and thoughts and stay sane. However, move rooms he would. To the other tower. He made a note to see to it immediately. After the black bun.

      Why did he have to come back just because his father died? Stupid question. He was no longer the Master of Kintrain, but the laird, and responsible for everything, not just a tobacco plantation.

      Fraser had loved Barbados. The people, the climate, his work. Everything. After… Do not go there. Sufficient to say, he rather thought Barbados had saved him.

      ****

      ‘This journey seems to have gone on for ever,’ Morven muttered out of the corner of her mouth as she shut the door on their mama and sagged against its wooden panels. It was their last stop before they reached Kintrain, and even though she wasn’t sure what waited for them at the castle Morven was heartily pleased. ‘My rear is flattened in all the wrong places, and aches accordingly.’ She rolled her eyes and rubbed the afflicted part of her body.

      The duchess had never been renowned for travelling with speed, but the snail’s pace she had chosen for their journey north had tried Morven severely. ‘I swear if I’m told one more time that no man wants a bluestocking as a wife, put the book away, I might go shout hallelujah and go and live in a study.’

      Murren giggled, and then sobered immediately. ‘You know, Morven, I’m not looking forward to this visit at all. Mama…’ She hesitated and nibbled her lip. ‘Mama seems to think I should be thinking about getting married once I am eighteen. My birthday is not for another month. You’re in your twenties. She doesn’t plague you over marriage. Why me?’

      Why indeed?

      Morven shrugged. ‘I think perhaps that at last she realises I am a lost cause. Too many gentlemen have been sent on their way before they have had a chance to declare themselves. I’ve reiterated