Janice Preston – His Convenient Highland Wedding (страница 10)

She was no doubt nervous of the night to come and, in recollecting that tonight was their wedding night and that his bride was not only a delicate lady but also a virgin, his nerves exploded. He had never thought twice about taking his pleasures before and had even learned a certain skilfulness in increasing his partner’s pleasure, but the thought of a man such as he—an ex-convict—taking such liberties with a lady, even though she was his wife, broke him out in a cold sweat.

He tried to quash his burgeoning nerves by draining his wineglass again. Drummond came forward to replenish his glass and Lachlan drank again before signalling to Renney to clear his plate away. At the far end of the table, Flora folded her napkin, placing it beside her plate. Dessert was served and Lachlan was pleased to see his bride partake of the stewed plums and custard with more enthusiasm.

Finally, the interminable meal was done. Lachlan pushed back his chair and waited as Drummond pulled back Flora’s chair.

‘We will take tea in the drawing room, Drummond.’

He still felt uncomfortable giving orders to servants, but it was important to keep up appearances if he ever hoped to be accepted. He was reconciled to being a master by knowing that without these jobs some, if not all, of his servants would be condemned to scratching a very poor living from the sea—a harsh career for anyone not raised to it—or working up to fourteen hours a day in a noisy, dirty factory in Glasgow.

He paced the length of the table until he reached Flora. Then, quite deliberately, rather than offer his arm, he reached for her hand. It felt dainty and fragile as ever and he felt the quiver of her nerves. He smiled down at her, noting her delicate blush as he folded his fingers around hers.

‘Come.’

In the drawing room the tea was soon served and while Flora poured a cup for each of them, Lachlan poured himself a whisky from a decanter set on a silver salver on a side table. He must, somehow, connect with his bride before they retired to bed.

‘I like your gown—the green suits your colouring.’ And the style accentuated her feminine curves. Desire stirred and blood powered through his veins.

Flora glanced down at herself. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It is my best evening gown, made for me when I attended the Caledonian Rout last year.’

Lachlan knew the annual Rout was taking place now, in Edinburgh, with its races, concerts, balls and other amusements.

‘I fear most of my clothes will look outmoded compared to this one,’ Flora went on, a hint of apology in her tone, not meeting his eyes, ‘but I do have an afternoon dress for if we have visitors.’

He had only meant to compliment her, not remind her of the past. Her father’s debts were no different to those of many landowners in the Highlands, a fact that had first been brought home to Lachlan on his return to Scotland via the undercurrent of resentment and envy from the landed gentry when they had realised Lachlan’s wealth. It was not only his birth and upbringing that stood in the way of him being accepted.

He cast all thought of business from his mind to focus on his bride.

‘Would you care for a dram, Flora?’

He held up his glass and the amber liquid glowed as it swirled, the lead-cut crystal sparkling in the candlelight. Flora looked startled and Lachlan felt his cheeks redden. Had he committed a faux pas? Did fine ladies not drink spirits?

‘It is my own blend,’ he hurried on. ‘The whisky we make at the distillery near Ballinorchy, on the shores of Loch Carnmore. I thought you might like to sample it. After all, if you are to help me find patrons, it is fitting you should know the taste.’

Her eyes lit up. Happy that he had asked her? Maybe she was not offended. Perhaps this might be a success after all, if Flora was keen to help him promote Carnmore whisky. He poured a splash into a tumbler and handed it to her.

‘It will burn your throat at first,’ he warned, ‘but give it time. Allow the flavour to come through.’

She tilted the glass, her eyes on his. She drank. Swallowed. Blinked. Coughed, just a little. And, finally, she smiled. ‘It is nicer than the malt whisky my father drinks.’

‘He gave you whisky to drink?’

Her cheeks dimpled. ‘No. He disapproved of females drinking strong spirits. But that just made me want to try it all the more. I was sixteen years of age—it made my eyes water, and I coughed and spluttered so much my mother heard.’

‘And was she angry? Did she punish you?’

She stared down into her glass, which she held in both hands, cradled to her chest. The play of candlelight over her décolletage, her shoulders and her pale arms stoked his desire, heating his skin.

‘No. She was only scared that he would find out. She never told him.’ She tipped up her chin, capturing Lachlan’s gaze. ‘My father has strong notions of right and wrong. He expects obedience and he can make life unpleasant if his rules are not obeyed.’

‘He beat you?’

Lachlan felt again the sting of the lash on board the prison hulk, the Susan, and again when he first arrived in Australia.

‘At times, yes, but that was only to be expected when we were naughty as children. But if he fell into a rage, the entire household would suffer so we all tried hard not to annoy him. Especially my mother.’

He caught the sudden apprehension in her expression. In time, she would learn that he was not like her father.

‘Carnmore Whisky is a milder spirit than the whiskies distilled from malted grains in the old pot stills,’ he said. ‘We use a Coffey still, mixing malted barley with unmalted grains such as wheat. As it’s a continuous process it is cheaper and quicker to produce, but it is still a fine product. I have been experimenting with blending the two types to improve the flavour.’

His cheeks heated at allowing his enthusiasm to carry him away. ‘I apologise for boring you with business talk.’

‘No!’ She touched his forearm. ‘I’m not bored. I—I like to be involved.’

Now it was her turn to colour and Lachlan felt more comfortable in her presence than at any time since their wedding.

‘From where does your father get his whisky?’

‘A clansman, Sandy McCrieff. He lives up to the north, further into the Highlands.’ Her eyes darkened. ‘At least, he did. He could no longer pay the rent, even in whisky, and he left at the start of the summer.’

A familiar story.

Flora handed Lachlan his teacup and they sat side by side on the sofa as they drank. The silence stretched and, as soon as she had finished, Flora stood up and Lachlan immediately shot to his feet. She cast him a nervous smile, but did not meet his eyes.

‘I believe I shall retire now. It has been a long day.’

Her cup rattled in its saucer as she went to deposit it on the tea tray and Lachlan followed her with hungry eyes, devouring her curves and the sway of her hips as she moved.

His bride. His wedding night. He grew hard. Painfully so.

‘I shall give you time to prepare.’ His voice sounded gravelly and he cleared his throat. ‘I shall see you in a short while.’

Her cheeks were pale, her freckles clearly visible. She nodded before leaving the room.

Time passed slowly, marked by the tick of the mantel clock. Lachlan paced the room a time or two, then paused by the salver and poured himself another whisky as he tried to gag that insistent inner voice that said he was unworthy. He should have gone with her. That would have helped his nerves. He should have just got on with it. Bedded her. Consummated their marriage. Once they’d been intimate...once she was no longer a virgin...they could both concentrate on what was important. Their future lives together.

But he had not wished to shock her and, although the waiting made him more apprehensive, it would be easier for her if she was already in bed when he went to her.

He sighed. Scratched his ear. Drained his glass and, finally, he strode from the room.

Chapter Four

Muriel helped Flora disrobe, unlaced her stays and removed her petticoats before unpinning her hair as she sat before the mirror on her dressing table. Bandit watched the proceedings from where he was curled on the foot of the bed.

‘I can manage now, thank you, Muriel.’

Muriel dropped a curtsy. ‘If ye’re sure, milady? D’ye want me to take Bandit?’

At his name, the terrier tilted his head and his droopy ear pricked. Flora scooped him off the bed and hugged him to her chest.

‘No. He can...’ Flora scanned the room. Bandit usually slept in her room, but Lachlan surely wouldn’t approve. ‘He will sleep in the boudoir. His cushion is already in there.’

She ignored the wrinkle of Muriel’s nose at the mention of the cushion. It was a touch smelly, but she was sure the familiar bed would help him to feel more at home.

‘You dinna want me to brush out your hair?’

‘No. Thank you.’

Muriel took Bandit and shut him in the boudoir before leaving.

Flora sighed with relief. She needed these few moments alone. Time to prepare, mentally, for what was to come. Her mother had warned her it would hurt, but had also drummed into her that it was her duty to stay silent and to submit to her husband whenever he wished. She had then refused to answer any of Flora’s questions, her lips pursed tight in distaste, leaving Flora...anxious.