A stranger.
And she was now Lady Flora McNeill, not the lady of rank she had once imagined in her future.
And whose fault is that?
She quashed that taunt. She had been right to reject the Duke of Galkirk—her instinct had warned her against him even before he proved himself a despicable lecher on the very evening their betrothal was to be announced. And she had publicly denounced him, not realising at the time how great was the financial need of her family and their tenants. Needs that had worsened in the past year after blight hit the local potato crop yet again. The blame, disapproval and disappointment of her parents and her siblings—not to mention other clan members—had worn her down until the burden of shame had grown almost too much to bear. She had retreated into herself—speaking only when spoken to and accepting the chores heaped upon her shoulders without complaint.
And now, that same instinct that had prompted her to refuse Galkirk was telling her that Lachlan McNeill was a good man and she trusted his word that he would never raise his hand to her. The past twelve months, however, had taught her there were worse punishments than the strike of a man’s hand. At least that was over and done with, if painful and humiliating, unlike the consistent drag on her spirits of knowing how she had let her family down.
How much would she see of her family in the future? Her father expected obedience from his wife and children and he’d already demonstrated his ability to cut those who displeased him from his life after his sister, Tessa—having defied their father’s plan to marry her to the Duke of Lochmore—had been sent to live with relations in Glasgow. Neither Grandfather nor Father had ever forgiven her and Flora had never even met her aunt. That incident had added yet another grudge to the ancient feud between the McCrieffs and the Lochmores—a feud that the marriage of Lochmore and Tessa had been intended to heal.
Flora glanced back at Lachlan, who was consulting with the coachman. He was her future and it was up to her to make the best of it and not look back. She slowly retraced her steps. She did not want him to regret marrying her, so she would try hard to make him happy. But did that mean she must obey him blindly in all things, as her mother obeyed her father? She did not think she could bear such a marriage, but she realised her future was in her hands. She would tread softly to begin with, however, until she knew her husband better.
Lachlan met her gaze as she approached. He was so tall—he towered over her—and he was so formidable looking with his stern expression and his brooding dark eyes under straight black eyebrows. She had seen him smile just the once, when he’d asked her about her brooch, but it had been a forced smile that didn’t reach those deeply intense eyes.
And have you smiled at him?
A gust of wind caught at her cloak and she shivered, gathering it around her again. Beneath, she still wore her wedding gown—an old white-silk evening gown of Mother’s, trimmed with Honiton lace—neither as fine nor as romantic as she had once dreamed of for her wedding, but then this union was not romantic, was it? It was a marriage of convenience. A lock of hair fell loose, tumbling across her forehead, and she tucked it beneath her bonnet. She forced herself to smile at Lachlan. His eyes widened, then he strode to her to take her arm. She hid her wince as he touched the painful bruise left by her father.
‘It is cold out here. We will sit in the carriage to eat.’
‘As you wish, sir.’
‘Lachlan.’ The rejoinder came swift and fierce. ‘I do not wish to be “sir” to you.’
‘Very well. Lachlan. It is a good Scottish name. As is McNeill.’
He nodded in acknowledgement, but offered none of his background. As they neared the carriage, the groom was on the roof, handing another basket down to the coachman.
‘What is it, Barclay?’
‘There’s something in it, sir. It moved.’
He unstrapped the lid. It lifted an inch and a black nose emerged, followed by—
‘Bandit!’
Nothing could stem the tears now. Flora fell to her knees and hugged the squirming terrier to her. She had begged her father to allow her to bring Bandit, but he’d forbidden it. So who...?
She set Bandit down and he bounded away before settling to the serious business of nosing the ground to investigate the fascinating smells. Flora pulled the basket to her and rummaged inside. Under a cushion she found a folded piece of paper. Her breath caught as she opened it.
Thought you might need a friend. D. x
Flora scrambled to her feet, clutching the note, joy coursing through her. Donald had defied Father. Through blurred vision she saw Lachlan watching her, a frown creasing his forehead.
‘Bandit?’ One brow lifted.
‘Please say I may keep him.’ If he said no, there would be nothing she could do. ‘He is well behaved, even though he’s only young.’ He would be two in the spring and was a bundle of energy, but how could anyone resist his lopsided ears and the black eye patches that had inspired his name?
Her new husband frowned. ‘There are cats at the castle. And poultry roam freely in the grounds.’
‘Bandit is used to livestock.’ Flora tilted her chin at her white lie. He was getting better at not chasing after other animals.
‘Very well. Watch he doesn’t stray while we eat, Barclay.’
Lachlan handed Flora into the carriage, then followed her inside with the picnic basket. He opened it to reveal bread and cheese and a quart stoneware bottle of ale, but no vessels from which to drink. He appeared momentarily at a loss.
‘I am not so fine that I cannot drink from the bottle,’ Flora said, with a smile. The world had taken on a brighter hue.
Dull red flagged his cheekbones. ‘It is not how I imagined toasting our union.’
His voice was gruff and a muscle ticked in his jaw. Out of nowhere came the urge to comfort him and Flora reached out to touch his hand. They had each removed their gloves in order to eat and the feel of his strong, hair-dusted hand...the heat of his skin...the sight of his neat square fingernails...sent her heart leaping and a tingle up her arm. He started at her touch and raised his gaze from the bottle to capture hers, his dark eyes puzzled. She braced herself against the natural instinct to snatch her hand from his and, instead, she stroked, tracing the solid bones of his hand with her fingertips, learning the feel of him. The air appeared to shimmer between them.
‘We can toast our union when we are home,’ she said softly. ‘Will you tell me a little about it? You called it a castle...have you lived there all your life?’
He tugged his hand from beneath hers. ‘No.’
He offered her bread and cheese and, although still not hungry, she accepted a portion of each, wondering what she had said to cause his abrupt withdrawal. He opened the bottle and offered it first to Flora. She took it and drank gratefully, then nibbled alternately at the bread and the cheese, waiting for him to elaborate.
He tipped his head back, drinking a deep draught, before he continued. ‘I bought it a year ago.’ He looked at her again, his expression a mix of defiance and pride.
