‘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.
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.
She knew, from the animals in the fields, what would happen.
She knew, from overhearing maids whispering and giggling in corners, that the act—copulation—could be pleasurable, but that it was not always so. And she knew some of those maids actively pursued the experience.
But all that knowledge was overshadowed by the nights she had heard her father loudly grunting and her mother weeping.
She’d promised herself that her marriage would not mirror that of her parents, but that might be easier said than done when, in the past year, the little confidence she’d had in expressing her views had slowly been leached from her. See what had happened when she had spoken out against the Duke—she’d let down those she loved and made herself an outcast. For certain, had she wed the Duke she would now be fully accepted by those of her own class and her life would be very different. But she would not have been happy. Not with a man such as Galkirk.
The sound of footsteps followed by Lachlan’s bedchamber door opening and closing jolted her from her thoughts. Her heart thudded as she hurriedly stripped off her chemise and pulled on her plain cotton nightgown, buttoning it up to the neck. She pulled a brush hastily through her hair and loosely plaited it as she did every night. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she coiled the plait around her head and covered her hair with a lace-edged cap. A glance in the mirror changed her mind. She tore the cap from her head but then, as her fingers went to the ribbon binding her plait, she hesitated.
Would he think her immodest? She knew so little about her husband. What would he expect of her? The murmur of voices from the adjoining room sent her scurrying for the bed. She burrowed beneath the covers, her hair still plaited. And she waited, fretting that she had no prettier nightgown to wear for her wedding night—a lace-trimmed silk nightgown fastened with satin ribbons rather than plain buttons. But she’d had no opportunity to plan her wedding day, let alone the night. It was a far cry from the wedding she had once dreamed of—the magnificent gown she would wear...how beautiful she would look...how her bridegroom’s eyes would light up with love as he watched her walk up the aisle to his side...the splendid trousseau she would bring to her new life—trunk after trunk of fashionable clothes and accessories...the dash she would cut in society, as a nobleman’s wife.
All silly girlhood dreams.
Silly and unimportant. I must make the best of what I have.
At least Lachlan McNeill was a handsome man, if somewhat sombre. If only he was not such an unknown quantity.
The door linking their bedchambers opened to reveal Lachlan, clad in a ruby-red brocade dressing gown and a pair of velvet slippers. He paused at the foot of the bed, his gaze slowly travelling the length of her body, outlined under the blankets. His brows twitched into a frown as she pressed into the mattress, trying to minimise her shape, and she forced herself