His Convenient Highland Wedding. Janice Preston

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 where Lachlan’s carriage waited at the bottom of the steps, Flora’s hand on Lachlan’s arm. Aberwyld beckoned and a woman carrying a wicker basket stepped forward.

      ‘Maggie’s packed provisions for your journey.’

      Lachlan glanced at his coachman. ‘Barclay. Load the basket, please.’

      A choked off sob from Flora reached Lachlan and her fingers tightened on his sleeve. Her expression did not change, but a sidelong glance showed him her clenched jaw and the rapid rise and fall of her breasts as she held her emotions at bay. He covered her hand with his and squeezed. She was his now, to protect and to cherish, and he would do so.

      He was mystified as he studied Flora’s family. There were tensions here he did not understand. Were they not upset to see her leave? They kissed her goodbye with little show of emotion. Perhaps that was normal for aristocratic families? His own family had been boisterous and loving...until hunger and poverty had ground their spirit.

      Lachlan handed Flora into the carriage. She thanked him quietly. She waved to her family and then settled back, staring resolutely out of the window as they drove away from Castle McCrieff.

      * * *

      ‘Why did you not wed that Duke?’

      The question had been clawing at Lachlan ever since he had overheard Lady Aberwyld’s words.

      His bride visibly started. He couldn’t blame her—they’d not exchanged a single word since they’d set off on the journey home to Lochmore Castle. Their eyes had not even met—she staring from the window on her side of the carriage and he from his. She was a long time answering him...was she already regretting their marriage? Was she disappointed in him? His mouth twisted in a wry smile. Of course she must be. He was a poor lad from the slums of Glasgow—albeit a wealthy one now. Hardly the sort of husband a young girl would dream of, particularly when measured against a duke...

      ‘Well?’

      The demand sounded harsh, but he wouldn’t soften it. Better to wait and see what she had to say for herself.

      ‘The Duke of Galkirk made me an offer last year. I refused him.’

      Her voice was quiet, with the slightest hint of a Scots burr—not the harsh Glaswegian accent from his youth, but softer...like the early morning breeze, redolent with the scent of heather, that whispered down from the hills and out across Loch Arris whenever there was a lull in the onshore winds that so often battered Lochmore Castle. Her green eyes searched his face before dropping to her gloved hands, folded in her lap.

      ‘Why did you refuse?’

      She tucked her bottom lip under her teeth—small, even, white—and gave a tiny shake of her head. ‘Does it matter? We are wed now.’ Again she surveyed his face, her expression revealing nothing of her thoughts, before she resumed her perusal of the passing scenery.

      Lachlan took the opportunity to study his new wife.

      Wife! How peculiar that sounded. Him, a married man. He, who had always prided himself on needing no one, for hadn’t he proved that over the past fourteen years? He’d had nothing but himself and his wits to rely on, and he’d made a success of his life. Pulled himself out of the swamp of despair that had drowned so many and broken their spirit. No doubt they would find a way to rub along together in this marriage of convenience and, with luck, Flora would soon get with child and her attention would be on family matters while he would have his business interests and his search for Anna to occupy him.

      The thought of his one remaining sister twisted his heart with guilt and grief. Where could she be? He had searched and searched for her ever since his return to Scotland. If only he had come home sooner. If only he hadn’t been so determined to prove himself and make a success of his life. If only—

      With a silent curse, he wrenched his thoughts from the past. He rarely allowed himself to dwell on it and, if it wasn’t for the constant fear of what had become of Anna, he would have banished all thought of the past fourteen years by now. He hauled in a deep breath, pushing that ball of gnawing worry aside, and returned his attention to his new bride.

      She appeared demure enough—docile even—but...it must have taken some spirit to refuse a duke. He frowned. Maybe she had hidden depths? Her mother had called her stubborn—was it that trait keeping her silent? He thrust his conjectures aside. They were two strangers now bound together for life and it was only fair to get to know her better before judging her.

      He continued his scrutiny, remembering his body’s reaction to her wide-eyed gaze in the kirk and the doubts that had swamped him. The memory rendered him even more tongue-tied than ever. He had no experience of how to treat a real lady, especially not one who now belonged to him body and soul. The responsibility didn’t set well on his shoulders. He wasn’t a man who developed friendships with ease, let alone a relationship such as this. Husband and wife.

      ‘Pardon?’

      She had spoken. Or he thought she had. But he had been inside his own head and missed her quiet comment.

      ‘Where are we going?’

      Her simple question stole his breath. All this time he’d been wallowing in his own awkwardness and discomfort and yet she—nineteen years of age and married to a man she had never met—did not even know where he was taking her.

      ‘We are going home.’

      She frowned, her smooth forehead wrinkling.

      ‘How far?’

      He glanced out of the window. They had left the coast behind and were now heading south from Loch Machrie through Kilmachrie Glen, bordered to the west by the ocean—currently invisible—and to the east by rugged green hills, moors and glens. They were passing the standing stones he had noticed on the journey to Castle McCrieff, and he knew they would not see the sea again until they turned off this road and headed south-west, towards the rugged promontory on which Lochmore Castle was built.

      ‘About two hours. Maybe a little more.’

      She lowered her head and her hand crept up to touch a brooch pinned to her travelling cloak.

      ‘Where did you get that brooch?’

      Her head snapped round as her hand closed around it. ‘It is mine.’

      ‘I don’t doubt it. But it was not on your cloak earlier.’

      Her face flamed and he recalled the tremble of her hand as he handed her into the carriage. He gentled his voice.

      ‘I shall not take it from you. It was a harmless enough question, I thought. One that surely deserves an answer?’

      He smiled at her, keen to ease this tension that shimmered between them.

      ‘It was in my pocket. My father said it was unsuitable for my wedding day.’

      ‘May