The Scottish Lord’s Secret Bride

At twenty-five she got the chance to find out.

Chapter One (#ulink_832a6281-38cf-5e78-b347-8d79c9eeedc0)

“Kintrain

September 1810

My dearest love,

I miss you with an intensity I have never felt before. Why did we allow ourselves to be separated like this? Why did I meekly wave goodbye when it was time for you to go? Am I that weak? Lord I hope not.

I know my own mind, know I do not want to be apart from you. You said on that last magical day together that you would be with me wherever. We promised each other that our love would last, and here I am alone and wondering why I could not put us first. Why I accepted that I have to do what is best for the estate and the people it supports. I never thought myself weak, but now I wonder.

It’s hard, nigh impossible to imagine life without you. I feel I have lost half of myself—the better half.

Will you come with me? Or follow me if not?

I have to go to Barbados and take over the plantation for the next few years—we know that. The livelihood of too many people is dependent on that.

I leave from Edinburgh on the Arabella, and we dock on 15th, God willing in London Docks, and leave three tides later. I have reserved a cabin. A cabin for two.

Go to Messrs Banks and Bullimore in Lincoln’s Inn and ask for the letter left there for you. It has the details of how we can be together again.

I pray it is soon,

Your love,

for ever,

Fraser.”

One month earlier

It was one of those days you rarely get in Scotland. Soft warm sunshine, clear blue skies and no midges.

The estate was in festive mode, the games well underway and the ale and whisky going down well. Children milled around, dressed in their Sunday best, and getting in everyone’s way. Prizes were handed out for tossing the caber, putting the shot, tidiest croft and prettiest goat. Emotions were high and happy and more than one couple slipped away to see Tam Curtin the Romany, who for a few shillings would conduct a hand fasting, or a wedding over the brush. As Fraser told Morven both were considered legally binding and a lot simpler than having the bans read.

Morven wandered hand in hand with Fraser, laughing at the children, admiring the goats and enjoying the day.

Until the tall swarthy man with a body like a tree trunk, long, dark hair and even darker, flashing eyes stood in front of them and raised one eyebrow. ‘Master, will ye no come and let Tam give you a blessing?’ His deep voice with its soft dialect was melodious and welcoming. ‘It’s part of today.’

Fraser turned to Morven and smiled. ‘Are you ready to seal our friendship? Tell Tam how important it is?’

‘Of course?’ What reason was there to hesitate? ‘Where?’

The man pointed. ‘Over yonder by the rowan tree.’

Morven glanced at Fraser as they followed the giant. ‘Why there?’

‘The tree is said to have magical properties,’ Fraser said with a certainty she hadn’t heard in his voice before. ‘To seal a friendship under its boughs is supposed to bring better fortune.’

She liked the idea of that. ‘We need all the good fortune we can get.’ This magical interlude was coming to a close. All too soon she would be back in Rutland to gather her clothes and then London for the coming season, both hundreds of miles distant from the castle set high on a pass in the Trossachs and the people who lived and worked there.

And one special occupant. The man who filled her dreams and held her happiness in his hands.

The man who stood beside her.

‘Barbados is so far away,’ she said sadly and choked back her tears. ‘Why must you go?’

‘For the clan’s sake. I have no option for it’s my duty to all my people both here and there. However, that’s not today.’ Fraser kissed her tenderly. ‘Let’s go and stand in front of Tam, and say what we really feel for each other. I’m yours for ever.’

Her eyes misted over. ‘And I yours.’ In the glade, under the trees, all the sounds and sights of the games faded into the background. It could have been only her, Fraser and Tam, or there could have been thousands around. It was not important. All that mattered was telling the man by her side what he meant to her.

‘I, Morven, do…’

Welland Castle, Rutlandshire

Eight years later…

The earth moved and she shuddered. ‘Whaaaa…’

‘Miss Morven, wake up. Here’s your washing water.’

She rocked from side to side once more and grabbed on to something solid.

A pillow?

Morven opened one eye and groaned. It was that dream again. For four nights running now, she’d woken hot, disturbed and grasping for something that was no longer there. For something over and done with eight years earlier. Why?

Because it isn’t over and done with and never will be. Oh why did he leave me?

‘I’m awake.’

‘Good. Your mama wants you downstairs and in her sitting room as soon as possible.’

Oh grief, what bee had her mama got in her bonnet now? Morven pushed her hair out of her eyes and got out of bed. Her tummy churned. Why did she have that horrible feeling of disquiet?

She soon found out.

‘Scotland in July? Are you mad? Midges…’ Morven shuddered in what even she would admit was a ridiculous and exaggerated manner and tried to slow her racing pulse. ‘Minuscule, nigh on invisible, blood-sucking, nasty…and lots of the bloody things.’ Swearing was to risk the wrath of her mama, but at that moment, Morven couldn’t care less. The Trossachs in Scotland had an excess of midges during the summer months, and they loved her with a vengeance. Many years ago, they had not been the only things that loved her—but she wouldn’t think of that. Not now.

He loved me once, or so he said. We told each other what we felt, how we… Stop it now. If he truly loved me why did he not ask me to go with him?

‘Language, my dear. You’ll never get a husband with a mouth like the bottom of a sewer.’ Her mama, Lucretia, The Duchess of Welland, tutted and waved a finger at Morven with disapproval. Her aquiline nose turned up with disapproval and her tight lips firmed into a thin straight line. Morven sighed and twisted one almost black curl around her finger. She’d never live up to her mother’s standards and to be honest had given up trying. Mama could take her as she was or not. Morven was past worrying. She liked herself as she was—most of the time. And if on occasion she wondered, “what if”, she tried not to dwell on it. Even so, sometimes she couldn’t help but wonder… Had he meant it?

‘Decorum at all times,’ the duchess said firmly. ‘As befitting a young lady such as yourself.’

Decorum had never been high on Lady Morven’s list of priorities. Furthermore, if cussing kept proposals at bay, she thought it all the more reason to swear. Nevertheless Morven nodded dutifully, and didn’t point out that to all intents and purposes she was, at almost twenty-six, no young lady, and nigh well on the shelf. There was no reason to argue when she knew the outcome was never going to be in her favour. Her mama had a one-track mind where the propriety within the ton was concerned, and lived in hope that one day Morven would conform. Morven knew she wouldn’t.