His Convenient Highland Wedding. Janice Preston

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       Chapter One

      October 1848

      The tall, broad-shouldered figure standing before the altar sent shivers crawling up and down her spine. In desperation, Lady Flora McCrieff turned to her father, the Earl of Aberwyld, whose grip around her arm had not relaxed once on the five-minute walk from the castle to the kirk.

      ‘Father...’

      She quailed under that implacable green glare. Then her father bundled Flora none too gently to one side of the porch. Out of sight. Out of hearing.

      ‘Ye’ll not disgrace me again, Flora,’ he hissed. ‘D’ye hear me?’ He shook her arm. ‘Ye’ll do as I bid ye—for the love of your family and your clan. Think of your brother and your sisters. You owe them this.’

      Her stomach roiled so violently she had to swallow several times to prevent herself being physically sick. She mentally scrabbled about for more of the persuasive arguments she had rehearsed in her bedchamber as her maid had prepared her for this wedding. Her wedding. To a man she had never met. To a man whose name she had never heard until Sunday—two days ago—when her father had announced her forthcoming nuptials.

      All her protestations had fallen on deaf ears. The banns had already been read and finally she understood why she had been forbidden to attend church services on the past three Sundays.

      ‘Father...please...’

       Why didn’t I run when I had the chance?

      But where would she have gone? She had nowhere and no one. And the shock of discovering the future had been mapped out for her was only just beginning to wear off. Misery squeezed her heart as her father’s grip tightened painfully.

      ‘No. You will do as you are told, lass, and wed McNeill. Ye will not care to experience my displeasure if you refuse to obey me in this.’

      Tears scalded Flora’s eyes and her father sighed, loosening his grip. He lifted Flora’s veil and brushed a tear from her cheek.

      ‘I need you to do this, Flora. McNeill seeks a well-born wife and he is wealthy enough to take you without a dowry.’ He cleared his throat and glanced apprehensively at the door. ‘He has promised to fund the repairs to the keep roof—you’ve seen how much damage has already been done by the leaks. And he’ll provide dowries for Aileen and Mairi. Surely ye want to see your little sisters make good matches? Ye owe it to us after that business with Galkirk.’

      A seed of hope germinated. Might this finally persuade her family to forgive her for letting them down so badly last year? Would obeying her father mean they would finally stop blaming her? But it still hurt that her own family appeared to view her as a brood mare, expecting her to sacrifice the rest of her life to a man she had never met.

      Lachlan McNeill.

      Her bridegroom. A rich man. A businessman.

      And a plain mister—a poor match for the eldest daughter of an earl...even an impoverished one like her father. Her inner voice taunted her, telling her it was no more than she deserved. She had spoken out against the Duke of Galkirk last year and the consequences had been disastrous. Since then, she had become more accustomed than ever to keeping her opinions locked inside. It was less painful that away.

      She longed to defy her father but, in truth, she had no fight left. She sucked in a deep breath, swallowed past the lump in her throat and nodded. Her father smiled, lowered her veil and—this time—he crooked his arm for her to take rather than grasping her arm. They entered the kirk and began the short walk up the aisle towards Lachlan McNeill.

      Dread churned Flora’s insides. What manner of man would take a bride unseen and even pay money for her? All too quickly, they reached her bridegroom and a swift sideways peek at his profile reassured her in his appearance, at least. His black frock coat was fashionably nipped in at the waist and well-tailored—the attire of a gentleman. His black hair was thick and wavy on the crown, but neatly trimmed to collar length, and his sideburns—not bushy in the fashion favoured by some men—reached to the hinge of his jaw. His profile was stern and slightly forbidding with its straight nose, strong jawline and firm lips, but Flora’s keenly developed sixth sense told her he was not a man to fear even though his dark eyebrows were slashed low.

      Flora wiped her mind of all thought as the marriage ceremony commenced.

      Lachlan McNeill couldn’t quite believe his good fortune when he first saw his bride, Lady Flora McCrieff, walking up the aisle towards him on her father’s arm. Her posture was upright and correct and her figure was...delectable. The tight bodice and sleeves of her wedding gown—her figure tightly laced in accordance with fashion—accentuated her full breasts, slender arms and tiny waist above the wide bell of her skirt. She was tiny, dwarfed by her father’s solid, powerful frame, and she barely reached Lachlan’s shoulder when they stood side by side in front of the minister. True, he had not yet seen his new bride’s face—her figure might be all he could wish for, but was there a nasty surprise lurking yet? Maybe her features were somehow disfigured? Or maybe she was a shrew? Why else had her father refused to let them meet before their wedding day? He’d instead insisted on riding over to Lochmore Castle, Lachlan’s new home, to agree to the marriage settlements.

      Their vows exchanged, Lachlan raised Flora’s veil, bracing himself for some kind of abomination. His chest loosened with relief as she stared up at him, her green eyes huge and wary under auburn brows, the freckles that speckled her nose and cheeks stark against the pallor of her skin. His finger caught a loose, silken tendril of coppery-red hair and her face flooded pink, her lower lip trembling, drawing his gaze as the scent of orange blossom wreathed his senses.

       She is gorgeous.

      Heat sizzled through him, sending blood surging to his loins as he found himself drawn into the green depths of her eyes, his senses in disarray. Then he took her hand to place it on his arm and its delicacy, its softness, its fragility sent waves of doubt crashing through him, sluicing him clean of lustful thoughts as he sucked air into his lungs.

      For the first time he doubted this plan of his to wed an aristocratic lady with useful connections in Scottish society—connections he СКАЧАТЬ