style="font-size:15px;"> * * *
She could do this. It was only three miles, and if there was one thing Jeanie had learned to do over the years, it was walk. She loved this country. She loved the wildness of it, the sheer natural beauty. She knew every nook and cranny of the island. She knew the wild creatures. The sheep hardly startled at her coming and she knew each of the highland cattle by name.
But she was currently wearing a floaty dress and heels. Not stilettos, she conceded, thanking her lucky stars, but they were kitten heels and she wasn’t accustomed to kitten heels.
Maybe when Alasdair was out of sight she’d slip them off and walk barefoot.
Ouch.
Nevertheless, a girl had some pride. She’d made her bed and she needed to lie on it. Or walk.
She walked. There was no sound of an engine behind her but she wasn’t looking back.
And then a hand landed on her shoulder and she almost yelped. Almost. A girl had some pride.
‘Don’t,’ she managed and pulled away to keep stomping. And then she asked, because she couldn’t help herself, ‘Where did you learn to walk like a cat?’
‘Deerstalking. As a kid. My grandpa gave me a camera for my eighth birthday.’
‘You mean you don’t have fifty sets of antlers on your sitting-room walls back in Edinburgh?’ She was still stomping.
‘Nary an antler. Jeanie—’
‘Mrs McBride to you.’
‘Lady Jean,’ he said and she stopped dead and closed her eyes. Lady Jean...
Her dad would be cock-a-hoop. He’d be drunk by now, she thought, boasting to all and sundry that his girl was now lady of the island.
His girl.
Rory... She’d never been her father’s girl, but Rory used to call her that.
‘My lass. My sweet island lassie, my good luck charm, the love of my life...’
That this man could possibly infer she’d married for money...
‘Go away,’ she breathed. ‘Leave me be and take your title and your stupid, cruel misconceptions with you.’
And she started walking again.
To her fury he fell in beside her.
‘Go away.’
‘We need to talk.’
‘Your car’s on a blind bend.’
‘This is my land.’
‘Your land?’
There was a moment’s loaded pause. She didn’t stop walking.
‘Okay, your land,’ he conceded at last. ‘The access road’s on the castle title. As of marrying, as of today, it’s yours.’
‘You get the entire Duncairn company. Does that mean you’re a bigger fortune hunter than me?’
‘I guess it does,’ he said. ‘But at least my motive is pure. How much of Alan’s money do you have left?’
And there was another statement to take her breath away. She was finding it hard to breathe. Really hard.
Time for some home truths? More than time. She didn’t want sympathy, but this...
‘You’d think,’ she managed, slowly, because each word was costing an almost superhuman effort, ‘that you’d have done some homework on your intended bride. This is a business deal. If you’re buying, Alasdair McBride, surely you should have checked out the goods before purchase.’
‘It seems I should.’ He was striding beside her. What did he think he was doing? Abandoning the SUV and hiking all the way to the castle?
‘I have guests booked in at four this afternoon,’ she hissed. ‘They’ll be coming round that bend. Your car is blocking the way.’
‘You mean it’s blocking your profits?’
Profits. She stopped mid-stride and closed her eyes. She counted to ten and then another ten. She tried to do a bit of deep breathing. Her fingers clenched and re-clenched.
Nothing was working. She opened her eyes and he was still looking at her as if she was tainted goods, a bad smell. He’d married someone he loathed.
Someone who married for profit... Of all the things she’d ever been accused of...
She smacked him.
* * *
She’d never smacked a man in her life. She’d never smacked anyone. She was a woman who used Kindly Mousers and carried the captured mice half a mile to release them. She swore they beat her back to the castle but still she kept trying. She caught spiders and put them outside. She put up with dogs under her bed because they looked so sad when she put them in the wet room.
But she had indeed smacked him.
She’d left a mark. No!
Her hands went to her own face. She wanted to sink into the ground. She wanted to run. Of all the stupid, senseless things she’d done in her life, this was the worst. She’d married a man who made her so mad she’d hit him.
She’d mopped up after Rory’s fish for years. She’d watched his telly. She’d coped with the meagre amount he’d allowed her for housekeeping—and she’d never once complained.
And Alan... She thought of the way he’d treated her and still... She’d never once even considered hitting.
But now... What was she thinking? Of all the stupid, dumb mistakes, to put herself in a situation where she’d ended up violent...
Well, then...
Well, then what? A lesser woman might have burst into tears but not Jeanie. She wasn’t about to show this man tears, no matter how desperate things were.
Move on, she told herself, forcing herself to think past the surge of white-hot anger. Get a grip, woman. Get yourself out of this mess, the fastest way you can. But first...
She’d smacked him and the action was indefensible. Do what comes next, she told herself. Apologise.
‘I’m sorry.’ Somehow she got it out. He was staring at her as if she’d grown two heads, and who could blame him? How many times had the Lord of Castle Duncairn been slapped?
Not often enough, a tiny voice whispered, but she wasn’t going there. No violence, not ever. Had she learned nothing?
‘I’m very sorry,’ she made herself repeat. ‘That was inexcusable. No matter what you said, I should never, ever have hit you. I hope... I hope
