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 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
