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. ‘It is a castle, yes. Lochmore Castle.’
‘Lochmore?’
Lachlan frowned at Flora’s gasp. ‘Did your father not tell you? He had a good look round when he rode over to discuss the settlements.’
‘No, he did not.’
Father had always claimed nothing would induce him to set foot in the castle of his old enemy, ever since the proposed match between Flora’s Aunt Tessa and the current duke had failed. It was a matter of pride, he had said, and if there was one thing Highlanders possessed in abundance, it was pride.
‘I never imagined...but, how did...? You are a McNeill. Why do you own the ancestral seat of Clan Lochmore?’
Did Father view this as some kind of victory over the Lochmore—a McCrieff to be mistress of Lochmore Castle after all?
‘Clan Lochmore?’ Lachlan raised one dark brow. ‘I thought that feudal structure was banned after the forty-five?’
‘They couldn’t wipe out centuries of history just like that,’ said Flora. ‘Clan is family—no government can control our hearts and minds.’ She’d heard her father raging about it often enough when he’d been imbibing the whisky. ‘So...why Lochmore Castle?’
‘The Duke of Lochmore does not care for the place. He and his family have not lived there for years and his heir spends much of his time travelling and so, rather than continue to spend money on its upkeep, he instructed his agent to sell.’
‘But none of that explains why you bought a castle to live in. Why? And why Lochmore in particular?’
‘Have you finished eating?’
Flora nodded. Lachlan packed up the basket before setting it on the seat opposite them.
‘You’d better call your dog,’ he said.
Flora opened the door. ‘Bandit! Here, boy.’
He streaked across the turf, his short legs pumping, tongue lolling. A flying leap at the doorway and he skidded across the carriage floor like he was on ice before tumbling head over heels to land in a heap at Lachlan’s feet. Her husband’s mouth thinned. He rapped on the ceiling and the carriage lurched into motion.
‘That is well behaved?’ he commented as Bandit leapt on to Flora’s lap, propped his front paws on her chest and licked her ear.
‘He is happy to see me.’ Flora hugged her pet as he wriggled in ecstasy. ‘He’ll soon settle down.’
Lachlan raised one brow as Flora persuaded Bandit to curl up on the seat between them.
He leaned back against the squabs and sighed. ‘To answer your question, I bought Lochmore because I thought it might gain me acceptance with the Scottish nobility. I was wrong.’
He turned his penetrating gaze upon Flora and a warning shiver trickled down her spine.
‘And that is where I come in?’ Her voice was barely a whisper.
‘It is. With a well-born wife I shall find doors opened to me that would otherwise remain closed.’
Foreboding twisted her stomach as she fondled Bandit’s ear, her mind racing. Her one consolation in marrying Mr McNeill had been that she would never again have to face society after the scandal of her almost-betrothal to the Duke of Galkirk. Now, in an awful twist of fate, it seemed the only reason Lachlan had married her was to provide him with an entrée into that society.
‘Why do you wish to be accepted by the nobility? Why not socialise with the business classes? These days, many of them are richer than the aristocracy, especially here in Scotland.’
‘I seek not only investment, but patronage.’ Lachlan leaned forward, propping his forearms on his knees, linking his hands together as he stared at the floor. ‘I bought a whisky distillery and invested in new equipment. My whisky is good—a new blend of malt and grain. The business has potential, but I’ve struggled to get the name accepted. I need influential backers and that’s why I need you.’
He twisted his head, his dark eyes intense as he stared at Flora, before lowering his gaze once more to the floor.
‘But why buy a castle if you need money for your business? You could afford to sell it for less, perhaps, to gain customers. Or advertise it in the newspapers.’
‘It’s not that simple. I need introductions to the gentlemen’s clubs and hotels in cities such as London, Edinburgh and Glasgow to allow me to increase production, but for that I need patronage. Those establishments are so set in their ways, they need to be persuaded to even try a new supplier, let alone make a permanent change.’ He shook his head. ‘I know I can do better.’ The words burst from him. ‘I know we can produce enough fine-quality whisky to expand the distillery and to supply many more customers, but I just need the opportunity. I need the right doors to open for me.’
Flora