Moira Connaught had told her son with a shudder of distaste. ‘It looks more like a medieval keep than a castle. It is quite old but quite plain too. I doubt it will appeal to your architectural sensibilities.’
For once, Lawrence had been inclined to agree with her. Tower-house-style castles were, in his experience, durable but rather dour. He was, however, curious about this unexpected legacy. Dunswaird Castle had come into his ownership following the death of his mother’s uncle, a confirmed misogynist whose will, twenty years out of date, named her brother, Lawrence’s uncle, as heir. Since he had joined his maker some ten years previous leaving a clutch of daughters, all as yet unwed, and had no other male siblings, Lawrence found himself, six months after the death of a relative he had never met, the possessor of his castle and his title, provided he paid, according to some ancient tradition, the price of a thistle and a rose to the crown each Lady Day.
The most recent of Lawrence’s architectural commissions had been completed in October. He had not yet decided on the next. More importantly, he was in urgent need of an excuse to avoid yet another of his mother’s house parties and the parade of eligible young ladies she produced for him in an increasingly desperate attempt to see her eldest son settled. But her eldest son was not in the least bit interested in settling. The very word, so staid and dull, bored him.
Variety was the spice of Lawrence’s life, in both work and women—especially women—at least it had been until recently. Recently, even variety had begun to pall. His boredom threshold was becoming alarmingly low. The thrill of the chase, the witty banter with its double entendres and seductive undertones which he had once enjoyed almost as much as the consummation which followed, now seemed to him pointless. Horrified by the notion that he might be growing arrogant, one of those tedious, seen-it-all boors, he had begun to spend more and more time alone. His last liaison had ended six months ago now, and he felt no inclination to embark upon another. Something was missing from his life, but it was not another affair. He needed a change of a more substantive kind.
‘And change, these Highlands of Scotland most certainly are,’ he muttered to his horse. ‘Though just exactly where I am for the present quite defeats me.” Jamming his hat back on his head, Lawrence set off once more, wondering if he’d been unwise not to spend the night with his baggage at the last inn.
Ten minutes later, and the snow had begun to permeate even the thick grey wool of his greatcoat. He could no longer feel his toes inside his top boots. An eerie silence prevailed. In the strange light, it could be either dawn or dusk. He felt as if he were the only living soul in this bleak, treacherous landscape.
He rode on, concentrating all his energy on remaining in the saddle, too cold and too mesmerised by the whirling snow to notice how far he had strayed from the track until a branch whipped painfully across his cheek. Reining in, he found himself in a densely wooded copse. Already, the hoofprints of his horse were obliterated behind him. Dismounting, he felt his boots sink into deep snow. The light was failing fast. The sky was murky, ominous. Around him, the gnarled branches of the bare trees seemed to be encroaching, reaching out, beckoning. His horse whinnied, straining at the reins, pawing nervously at the ground. He rubbed his gloved hand over its twitching ears, but the animal refused to be calmed, snorting and pulling more forcefully to free itself.
He was lost. He knew he was lost, though he refused to accept it, and there was a part of him which welcomed the fact, for at least it was a change. Determined to choose any way rather than none, Lawrence stumbled, dragging his reluctance mount, towards what looked like a path leading through the copse, but almost immediately the naked branches swallowed him up with their snagging limbs. He turned back, but must have missed his direction, for the next path looked wholly unfamiliar. Another turn, and he was in another small clearing.
The clutching branches of the desiccated forest snatched at his greatcoat, his hat, his hair as he stumbled in and out of rabbit holes and partially frozen streams indiscriminately, with no aim save to escape from this godforsaken place. ‘This is ridiculous,’ Lawrence muttered, quite disconcerted by the impenetrable landscape. A noise to his right made his terrified steed rear up. Lawrence whipped round in an effort to retain his tenuous grip on the reins, caught a glancing blow to his head from a low bough, and only just retained his balance.
Through the trees, a thin spiral of smoke caught his eye. Shakily, he managed to remount, pointing his horse in the direction of the smoke, forcing his way through and out of the forest. The cottage was white, thatched, almost obscured by the snow, which was falling heavier than ever. Dizzy and weak from the blow he had sustained, Lawrence clung swaying and semi-conscious to the saddle.
A voice, a female voice, musical and low, murmuring words he could not understand made him open his eyes. Gaelic. His mother’s language, though almost the only words of it he knew were the curses and insults she used to rain down upon his father when they were at odds.
The woman’s tawny hair was the first thing he noticed. Long and luxurious, it trailed all the way down her back. Her eyes, he noticed next. Golden, he thought, though maybe they were hazel, almond-shaped, fringed with dark, dark lashes. A pink, full mouth. A perfect nose. ‘I don’t speak Gaelic,’ Lawrence said, stumbling over the one phrase he’d been able to persuade his mother to teach him.
‘Don’t try to move, you’ve a nasty cut on your forehead.’
She spoke English with a delightful lilt. Those eyes, they were like liquid amber, he had never seen such a colour before. Her gown of plain brown wool was old-fashioned, the bodice laced at the front, fitted to the waist, quite unlike the Empire line so popular in London. She had an ethereal look about her, as if she was not quite of this world. ‘Who are you?’
‘Jura, Jura Mcnair.’
‘I am Lawrence Connaught.’ He looked around at his surroundings. ‘Where am I?’
‘In my cottage.’
A fire burned brightly in the hearth that was set into the gable end, a heavy black iron kettle hanging from a hook in the chimney simmering over it. His greatcoat and hat were draped over a chair, steaming gently. Lawrence struggled to sit up from the cushioned wooden settle on which he seemed to be sprawled. ‘I was in the woods. Lost. The snow. I remember now, my horse…’
‘He’s in the shed with my milk cow. You must have fainted, for I found you unconscious on the doorstep. I had a hard task of it, getting you inside,’ Jura said with a smile. It had been taxing, but also rather delightful, wrestling this muscular and extremely attractive stranger into her cottage. His expensive clothes, the air of elegance which clung to him despite the toll the weather had taken, made it obvious he was far from home even before he spoke. She could not possibly have met him before, and yet when she had seen him at first, slumped against her doorstep, she’d felt a connection, as if she knew him, or had been expecting him. It was the strangest thing.
‘You’ve hurt yourself,’ she said, delicately touching the blood-crusted cut around which a livid bruise was blooming. His eyes were the blue of rosemary flowers. The bruise throbbed under her fingers. Their gazes snagged. The air crackled, the way it did just before lightning struck.
Lawrence blinked. ‘I hit my head on branch,’ he said. ‘Stupid thing to do. My horse was trying to bolt.’ A violent shiver made his teeth chatter.
‘You need to get dry or you’ll catch your death. Take off those boots and that coat, they’re soaking. I’ll fetch a balm to take away the swelling on the bruise.’
Lawrence hesitated. ‘I don’t want to put you out.’
‘I will be glad of the company, it gets very lonely here. Besides, I doubt you’ll be able to go anywhere in this storm. The snow is over
