His Convenient Highland Wedding. Janice Preston

roof—you’ve seen how much damage has already been done by the leaks. And he’ll provide dowries for Aileen and Mairi. Surely ye want to see your little sisters make good matches? Ye owe it to us after that business with Galkirk.’

      A seed of hope germinated. Might this finally persuade her family to forgive her for letting them down so badly last year? Would obeying her father mean they would finally stop blaming her? But it still hurt that her own family appeared to view her as a brood mare, expecting her to sacrifice the rest of her life to a man she had never met.

      Lachlan McNeill.

      Her bridegroom. A rich man. A businessman.

      And a plain mister—a poor match for the eldest daughter of an earl...even an impoverished one like her father. Her inner voice taunted her, telling her it was no more than she deserved. She had spoken out against the Duke of Galkirk last year and the consequences had been disastrous. Since then, she had become more accustomed than ever to keeping her opinions locked inside. It was less painful that away.

      She longed to defy her father but, in truth, she had no fight left. She sucked in a deep breath, swallowed past the lump in her throat and nodded. Her father smiled, lowered her veil and—this time—he crooked his arm for her to take rather than grasping her arm. They entered the kirk and began the short walk up the aisle towards Lachlan McNeill.

      Dread churned Flora’s insides. What manner of man would take a bride unseen and even pay money for her? All too quickly, they reached her bridegroom and a swift sideways peek at his profile reassured her in his appearance, at least. His black frock coat was fashionably nipped in at the waist and well-tailored—the attire of a gentleman. His black hair was thick and wavy on the crown, but neatly trimmed to collar length, and his sideburns—not bushy in the fashion favoured by some men—reached to the hinge of his jaw. His profile was stern and slightly forbidding with its straight nose, strong jawline and firm lips, but Flora’s keenly developed sixth sense told her he was not a man to fear even though his dark eyebrows were slashed low.

      Flora wiped her mind of all thought as the marriage ceremony commenced.

      Lachlan McNeill couldn’t quite believe his good fortune when he first saw his bride, Lady Flora McCrieff, walking up the aisle towards him on her father’s arm. Her posture was upright and correct and her figure was...delectable. The tight bodice and sleeves of her wedding gown—her figure tightly laced in accordance with fashion—accentuated her full breasts, slender arms and tiny waist above the wide bell of her skirt. She was tiny, dwarfed by her father’s solid, powerful frame, and she barely reached Lachlan’s shoulder when they stood side by side in front of the minister. True, he had not yet seen his new bride’s face—her figure might be all he could wish for, but was there a nasty surprise lurking yet? Maybe her features were somehow disfigured? Or maybe she was a shrew? Why else had her father refused to let them meet before their wedding day? He’d instead insisted on riding over to Lochmore Castle, Lachlan’s new home, to agree to the marriage settlements.

      Their vows exchanged, Lachlan raised Flora’s veil, bracing himself for some kind of abomination. His chest loosened with relief as she stared up at him, her green eyes huge and wary under auburn brows, the freckles that speckled her nose and cheeks stark against the pallor of her skin. His finger caught a loose, silken tendril of coppery-red hair and her face flooded pink, her lower lip trembling, drawing his gaze as the scent of orange blossom wreathed his senses.

       She is gorgeous.

      Heat sizzled through him, sending blood surging to his loins as he found himself drawn into the green depths of her eyes, his senses in disarray. Then he took her hand to place it on his arm and its delicacy, its softness, its fragility sent waves of doubt crashing through him, sluicing him clean of lustful thoughts as he sucked air into his lungs.

      For the first time he doubted this plan of his to wed an aristocratic lady with useful connections in Scottish society—connections he needed to help his fledgling whisky distillery succeed. He had never imagined he’d be faced with one so young...so dainty...so captivating...and her beauty and her purity brought into sharp focus his own dirty, sordid past. Next to her he felt a clumsy, uncultured oaf.

      What could he and this pampered young lady ever have in common? She might accept his fortune, but could she ever truly accept the man behind the façade? He’d faced rejection over his past before and he’d already decided that the less his wife ever learned about that past, the better.

      He barely noticed the walk back down the aisle. Outside, his new in-laws—Lord and Lady Aberwyld and their three other children—gathered around them and his lordship thrust out his hand, grasping Lachlan’s in a strong grip.

      ‘Ye’ll join us for a bite to eat to celebrate your nuptials before ye set off?’

      ‘Thank you. Yes.’

      ‘It’s only a short step from the kirk. It wasna worth harnessing the carriage.’

      They set off walking—Aberwyld and Lachlan, followed by Flora and the rest of the family. Lachlan would by far prefer to walk next to his bride but, with a shake of her head, she had made it clear he should fall in with her father’s wishes. It didn’t take Lachlan long to realise Aberwyld expected his entire family to bend to his demands.

      Castle McCrieff was a massive tower house with a flight of stone steps leading up to a heavy wooden door. Inside, although there had been some efforts at modernising, with plastered walls and carpet squares, much of the old stonework was still exposed and the passages and rooms had stone flag floors. The others disappeared into a side room, but Aberwyld stayed Lachlan with a hand to his arm.

      ‘It looks old-fashioned to your eyes, nae doubt, after Lochmore.’

      Lachlan shrugged. ‘You’ll have funds to modernise it now.’

      Aberwyld grunted. ‘Aye. I dare say.’

      ‘And you’ll help me find patrons for Carnmore Whisky?’

      It was his only reason for marrying Flora McCrieff—the influence such aristocratic connections would bring him.

      ‘Aye. I’ll put in a word for ye when I can.’ Aberwyld’s gaze slid shiftily from Lachlan’s, leaving him to doubt his new father-in-law’s words. ‘And ye’ll have Flora to help ye.’ A heavy hand landed on Lachlan’s shoulder. ‘Well, lad...go on in with the others. I’ll join ye in a wee while.’

      He left Lachlan to go and find the rest of the family. As he neared the door they had gone through, he heard Lady Aberwyld say, ‘Och, Flora. If only ye hadn’t refused the Duke. You were always too stubborn for your own good and now see what it’s brought ye...a plain mister as your husband.’

      Lachlan stalked in, putting an end to the conversation. His bride looked on the verge of tears and her mother—a wishy-washy female—looked flustered. Well, good. How dare she upset her daughter with her spiteful remarks? On her wedding day, too.

      The wedding breakfast lacked any sense of celebration or joy. Nobody even raised a glass to toast their marriage or to wish them happiness. Probably they saw nothing to celebrate—an earl’s daughter marrying a man such as Lachlan McNeill.

      No. Nothing to celebrate at all.

      Aberwyld had joined them soon after Lachlan did and it quickly became apparent that Lachlan’s initial appraisal of him as the sort of dour patriarch who expected unquestioning obedience from his family was correct. He held forth on a variety of subjects, the rest of the family barely speaking unless it was to agree with him. Lachlan had come across his type many times—bullies who threw their weight around until someone had the courage to stand up to them. It was clear none of his family possessed that courage. Except...

      Lachlan eyed his bride, sitting quietly at his side, her eyes downcast. She had refused a duke. Maybe she had more courage than her manner suggested?

      He was relieved when Aberwyld finally stood, saying, ‘Ye’ll no doubt be in a hurry to get away home before night falls, McNeill.’

      They trooped outside to