One

“You’re letting the estate run to rack and ruin!” Cameron Fraser thundered.

“Dear boy, I’m bringing civilization to it,” his uncle responded. “Thirty years I’ve lived here,” – he shuddered – “and finally it’s within my power to make something of the place.”

“Make something of it? You’re letting it fall to pieces. The great storm was more than two months ago and not one tenant’s roof is yet repaired, nor any orders given to begin. Winter’s staring us in the face, and what do you do? Order silk hangings from Paris – silk!”

His uncle said earnestly, “But dear boy, quality pays. Wait till you see what a difference hangings will make to this gloomy room. Besides, the tenants can fix their own roofs.”

Cameron’s nails bit into his palms. “Not without money to pay for materials, they can’t. Besides, it’s our responsibility – my responsibility as laird.”

His uncle smiled. “Laird? In name, perhaps.”

“Aye, I ken well it’s in name only. Yet I bear all the shame,” Cameron said bitterly. “If Uncle Ian were still alive …”

“I know. Who would have imagined he’d go before me, being so much younger, but there it is,” Charles Sinclair said. “So you’ll just have to trust me. I have so many plans … Nearly five years is it not, before you turn thirty and gain control?”

Cameron clenched his jaw. When both his uncles had been in charge he’d had paid scant attention to estate finances. Uncle Ian was a Fraser and his love for the estate and its people ran bone deep in him, as it did in Cameron. But now Uncle Ian was dead and the remaining trustee, Uncle Charles, could do as he pleased. And what he pleased was, in Cameron’s view, entirely frivolous.

“If those roofs aren’t fixed, come winter, people will freeze.” Cameron clenched his fists. “Do you want the death of women and bairns on your conscience?”

Charles Sinclair returned to the perusal of silk swatches. “Your conscience is too delicate, dear boy. Peasants are hardy folk. Now, look at this design I drew for—”

“You’ll not spend a shilling more of my inheritance!”

His uncle glanced up. “Dear boy, how do you propose stopping me?”

“Marriage!” The word burst from Cameron’s mouth, shocking himself as well as his uncle. He’d had no intention of marrying, not for years to come, but now he saw it was his only solution. Under the rules of his father’s will the trust would conclude on Cameron’s thirtieth birthday or his wedding day – whichever came first.

“Marriage? With whom, pray? You’ve not attended a society event in years.”

It was true. Cameron preferred hunting and fishing to dancing and up to now, he’d avoided the marriage mart of Inverness like the plague. As a result he couldn’t think of a single likely female. And since half the women on the estate were related to him, officially or unofficially – Grandad had been quite a lad – he had to look further afield.

Cameron’s fists clenched in frustration.

His uncle chuckled. “Dear boy, marriages take time to arrange. Your grandfather and mine negotiated for months over my dear sister’s marriage to your father, and as your trustee, naturally I will handle any such negotiations on your behalf. And by then you will have a home worthy of a bride.” He patted his designs.

“No negotiations will be necessary,” Cameron snapped. “I’ll marry the first eligible woman I find.” He turned on his heel and stormed from the room, nearly cannoning into his two cousins, Jimmy and Donald, waiting outside. Distant cousins, orphaned and raised on the estate, they were like brothers to Cameron.

“What did he—” Donald began.

“Meet you at the stables in fifteen minutes,” Cameron snapped. “I’m off to Inverness to find a bride.”

Two

They galloped through the village, scattering squawking hens and setting dogs barking. “Marry the first eligible woman you find? You canna be serious!” Donald shouted over the sound of galloping hooves.

“Ye’re crazy, mon,” Jimmy agreed. “If ye must marry, at least choose the lass wi’ care and caution.”

“I’ve no choice,” Cameron flung back. “The longer I leave it the more my uncle squanders what little money we have. He’s already ordered silk hangings from Paris costing a fortune. The sooner I’m wed, the sooner I can cancel the order. And stop any more.”

Rain set in, a thin, relentless drizzle. After half an hour of it Jimmy edged his horse alongside Cameron. “Ach, Cameron this rain is freezin’ me to death. Let’s go back. We’ll find a solution to your woes tomorrow, when we’re no’ such sodden miseries.”

“You go back if you want to, I’m for Inverness. I swore I’d marry this day and so I will.” Cameron bent his head against the rain and rode on.

“He swore to his uncle he’d marry,” Jimmy told his brother glumly. He pulled out a flask, took a swig of whisky and passed it across.

Donald drank from it. “He’ll no go back on his word, then. You know Cameron.”

“Aye, pigheaded – a Fraser to the bone.” Jimmy drank another dram of whisky and the two brothers rode gloomily on in their cousin’s wake.

Cameron took no notice. He was used to his cousin’s complaints. They’d stick with him, he knew. He was glad of it. Another few hours to Inverness, and then to find a bride. The whole idea was somewhat … daunting.

He’d never given marriage much thought. He liked women well enough, but marriage was a serious business, the sort of thing a man considered in his thirties. But he couldn’t let his uncle squander any more of his inheritance.

Cameron’s mother and her brother, though of pure Scots blood, had been born and raised in France. Their grandparents were exiles who’d fled with the Prince after the disaster of Culloden. Raised in Parisian luxury, fed on romantic, impossible dreams of Scottish glory, they’d both found Scottish reality, and the poverty that resulted from the effects of war, sorely disappointing.

Cameron’s mother had died of an ague when he was a wee lad, but her brother, who’d initially come for the wedding, had stayed on, never marrying, seemingly harmless. Cameron’s father had tolerated him, and Cameron was inclined to do that same. Blood was blood, after all.

Though to name him as trustee … Who would have expected Uncle Ian to sicken and die of a chill, such a big, hale man.

But if, after nearly thirty years of sponging off the Frasers, Charles Sinclair thought he could now turn a Scottish castle into a mini Versailles, he had another think coming.

They reached the bog at the southern edge of the estate. A narrow raised road had been built across in ages past. At the end of the causeway was the wooden bridge that would take him on to the Inverness road.

In ancient times the bog had proved a useful barrier. The estate lay on a promontory, defended on two sides by water, and on the third by mountains. The narrow, easily defended causeway was the only way to cross the treacherous, muddy land of the promontory, and the bridge over the burn that the bog slowly drained into gave the only access to it. History had lost count of the number of times Frasers had burned the bridge to keep out invaders.

But those times were long past. The current bridge had been built when his grandfather was a boy. It was time to drain the bog and build a sturdy stone bridge, Cameron thought. His father had planned to do it but he’d died.

God grant Cameron would soon have the power to begin the necessary work. All he needed was a wife. It wouldn’t take him long, surely, in a town the size of Inverness.

His spirits lifting, he urged his horse along the causeway, galloping into the rain.

A herd of sheep suddenly appeared, ghostly in the misty drizzle, bunched thick along the causeway, blocking the road. Cameron hauled his horse to a standstill. It snorted and moved restlessly, misliking the situation.

The sheep eyed Cameron suspiciously and backed away, but “Get on there!” a voice shouted from behind the herd. “You on the horses, stand still and let the sheep through!”

Cameron squinted into the rain. Dimly he could see a boy in a too-big coat and hat, waving a crook. A dog barked and the sheep bunched and milled and baaaed uncertainly, crowding to the very edge of the causeway.

Behind him Jimmy and Donald’s horses plunged to a halt. “Get those beasties out of the way,” Jimmy shouted.

“Dinna shout at them, ye fool,” the boy snapped. “They’re stupid beasts and are like to panic. And if any get into the bog …”

Jimmy, being well into the contents of his flask, was inclined to argue – gentlemen on horseback took precedence over sheep – but Cameron held up his hand. “Stay still,” he ordered.

The dog barked again and suddenly the first sheep darted past Cameron. The milling herd followed, streaming around and past the men on horseback like a living river, baaing madly, their long sodden woollen skirts swinging frantically as they fled along the causeway. Two little black-faced lambs, however, plunged off the causeway and floundered in the muddy bog. Their mother followed.

“Damn ye tae hell, ye fool beasties!” the boy swore and followed them into the bog with a splash. He grabbed the first lamb and set it back on its feet. It stood, bleating plaintively. The boy then began to heave at the mother, both of them floundering in the mud. Jimmy and Donald watched the show from horseback, grinning.

Cameron barely noticed. The rain had eased and he could see the bridge, a few dozen yards away. Or what remained of the bridge. It was impassable, smashed to pieces, looking more like a scattering of giant toothpicks than a bridge.

It must have happened during the great storm. Rage slowly filled him. His uncle must have known. And he’d done nothing. This was as bad, or worse than the roofs needing repairs. The bridge gave the estate direct access to the Inverness road.

Uncle Charles, however, only cared about access to France, and that was by boat, not road.

Cameron stared at the devastation. He’d have to return the way he’d come, and leave by the westerly border. Hours more travel and they’d still be on the estate.

“Give it up, Cam.” His cousin Donald touched his arm. “We’ve no choice but to turn back now. It’ll be dark before we even get home.”

“I’ll no’ go home wi’ my tail between my legs,” Cameron muttered, though in truth he could see no other alternative. “And I’ll not leave the estate in my uncle’s hands a day longer than I must.”

“There’s naught you can do wi’ the bridge in that state, though, is there?” Donald said reasonably. “Ye canna cross it, ye must go back.”

“Dammit, I can see that!” Thwarted and furious, Cameron glared at the bridge. Hearing laughter behind him, he turned to see his cousin Jimmy swigging whisky and chuckling at the spectacle of the boy still trying to drag his wretched sheep from the bog. The large, ungainly animal was plunging deeper into the bog, struggling desperately, as if the lad were trying to drown it instead of saving it. From where Cameron stood, the sheep was winning. Both lad and beast were black mud to the eyebrows. And on the far side of the struggle the remaining small lamb was sinking fast.

“Make yourself useful, will ye Jimmy? Give the lad a hand.”

“And get my new boots filled with black mud?” Jimmy snorted. “Not likely.”

Cameron glanced at Donald, who shrugged and made no move. The lad fell for the third time. The tiny lamb struggled to keep its head above the muddy water.

Cameron swore, swung off his horse and waded in. He scooped the lamb out first and set it on its feet beside its twin. Then he hauled the boy out, shoving him close to the bank. “Jimmy! Pull him out.”

Jimmy dismounted, gingerly took the boy’s dirty hands and dragged him on to the solid causeway. Cameron waded back in and tried to fetch the mother sheep. The stupid thing bucked and fought, and in seconds Cameron himself was black with bog mud.

His cousins watched from the bank, passing the flask back and forth, making bets and roaring with laughter.

But Cameron was strong and big and angry. He wrapped his arms around the sheep’s middle and heaved, almost throwing the filthy beast on to the bank, causing his cousins to leap back like ladies to avoid the mud. The sheep shook itself, bleated and trotted indignantly away, followed by the lambs.

Cameron’s cousins were laughing fit to burst. He’d fix them. “Help me out.” He held out his hands, but they laughed and backed away.

“We’re no so far gone we’d fall for that old trick,” Jimmy chuckled.

“Canny bastards,” Cameron muttered as climbed out of the bog, black mud dripping from him. “And if there’s no whisky left in that flask, I swear I’ll throw you in anyway.”

Laughing, Jimmy tossed him the flask. Cameron was about to drain it when he saw how the shepherd lad was shivering in the cold. He thrust it towards the boy, saying, “Here, you need this more than me.”

The boy accepted it with a surprised expression and took a quick swig. He shuddered violently as the whisky went down, but managed to gasp out his thanks.

“So, boy,” Cameron said. “What’s your name?”

His cousins guffawed. The shepherd boy gave a quick grin, a cheeky white slash in a muddy face. “Jeannie Macleay, sir, and thank you for getting the sheep out o’ the mud, even if you did panic the beasts in the first place. My uncle would’ve kilt me if I’d lost her.” She tried to wipe the mud off her face with her sleeve and only smeared it more.

“Jeannie?” Cameron stared. The coat she wore was a man’s coat, too big for her, rolled up at the sleeves and hanging down almost to her ankles, but though it was hard to tell because of the mud, there was a skirt beneath it. The boots she wore were a man’s boots, too big, surely for her feet and the hat crammed on her head was a man’s hat.

“Are ye married, Jeannie?” Jimmy asked, suddenly intent.

She frowned. “No,” she said cautiously.

“And where were ye born?”

“Stop that!” Cameron snapped, realizing what his cousin was up to.

Jimmy gave him an innocent look. “No harm in asking.”

“Drop it, Jimmy,” Cameron told his cousin. He was not going to marry some ragamuffin he’d just dragged out of a bog.

“She’s the first one you’ve seen,” Jimmy insisted.

“The first what?” the girl demanded.

“He couldna take her anyway,” Donald argued. “She’s just a wee thing, no’ a grown woman.”

“Take me where? Nobody’s taking me anywhere.”

“Stow it you two, the whole idea’s ridiculous,” Cameron said. His cousins took no notice. There was a bet on and the contents of the flask were obviously well absorbed.

“How old are you, Jeannie lass?” Jimmy asked.

“Nineteen,” Jeannie Macleay said, eying each man suspiciously. “But I said, nobody’s taking me anywhere.” She began to edge away.

Jimmy grabbed her by the arm, careless now of any mud, intent only on his wager. “And where were you born, Jeannie, me dear?”

“I’m no’ your dear.” She yanked her arm from his grip and hurried away, flinging over her shoulder, “And not that it’s any of your business, but I was born on the island of Lewis.”

At her words, Jimmy let out a whoop of triumph and punched his brother in the shoulder. “Lewis! She’s eligible! You owe me a monkey, Donald!”

“The bet’s not won until the deed is done,” Donald insisted. “Cameron’s yet to wed her.”

“He will, he will,” Jimmy crowed.

Donald snorted. “It’s a crazy notion, and Cameron’s no the crazy one here.”

Jimmy shook his head. “He gave his word, man, and Cameron never goes back on his word.”

The girl followed her sheep, putting as much distance between herself and the men as she could, running swiftly despite the clumsy, man-sized boots. Cameron watched her thoughtfully.

When he’d made his rash statement he had no thought of wedding anyone except a lady born. This bog sprite shepherdess was totally unsuitable.

But he’d never broken his word before. Rashness gave way to serious thought; there might be wives to be had in Inverness – ladies – but how long would it take to get one to wed him? And how much would his uncle squander in the meantime?

Jimmy grabbed him by the shoulder. “Well, Cammie, will ye wed her or no? There’s a bet on.”

Cameron swore softly under his breath. The girl was young, unmarried and born outside the estate. What difference would it make anyway who he wed? Women were for running the house and birthing babes and any female could do that. Getting control of his inheritance was what counted. Besides, the little he knew of ladies born was that they were a lot of trouble. They expected a man to dance attendance on them, whereas a lass like this, country bred and down-to-earth … She floundered in the mud. Very down-to-earth.

“Aye, I’ll wed her,” he declared.

“Aha—” Jimmy began, then let out a yell. “She’s getting away. Don’t worry, Cam, I’ll get her back for ye.” And without warning he jumped on his horse and galloped after the girl.

“Och, the mad fool,” Donald began. “Whatever will she think—”

Cameron leapt on his horse and set off after Jimmy.

The girl, seeing Jimmy bearing down on her, screamed defiance at him and ran faster. Jimmy let out a whoop, as if he was running down a hind.

“Leave her be, Jimmy,” Cameron roared.

But Jimmy was almost on the girl and oblivious. With a bloodcurdling yell he scooped her up and tossed her over his saddle. She fought and struggled but Jimmy just laughed and smacked her on the backside as he wheeled his horse around and cantered back to Cameron with a triumphant grin.

“I fetched her for ye – yeeeowww!” He broke off with a yell of pain. He stared down at the girl in shock. “She bit me! The wee vixen bit me!”

The wee vixen moved to bite his leg again and Jimmy hastily shoved her off his horse. She dropped lightly to the ground and glanced warily around, preparing to run again.

“There’s no need to be afeared,” Cameron said hastily. He dismounted and took a few slow steps towards her, holding his hands up pacifically, saying in a soothing voice, “Nobody here will harm you. My cousin is a wee bit enthusiastic, that’s all—”

“He’s drunk,” the girl said, backing away.

“Maybe, but he meant well,” Cameron told her.

She snorted. “Meant well? To kidnap me in broad daylight?”

“Nobody’s going to kidnap you,” Cameron assured her softly and moved closer. She backed away and glanced at the bog, as if weighing her chances of escaping across it.

“Ye daft wee besom, he wants tae marry you,” Jimmy said, still rubbing his leg.

She snorted. “He’s drunker than I thought.”

It was now or never, Cameron thought. He cleared his throat. “It’s true,” he said. It came out as a croak.

She made a gesture of disgust. “You’re drunk, too.”

“I’m not. I’m offering you marriage.” There it was out. He was officially crazy. But at least he’d get control of his inheritance.

Away on the moors a curlew called, a mournful, other-wordly cry. The wind blew across the bog, carrying the scent of heather and dank, rotting mud.

The girl scrutinized his face, then turned to look at each of his cousins. “Marriage?” she said eventually. “You’re proposing marriage to me? To me?”

Cameron nodded. “Aye.”

In her dirty, mud-streaked face, her blue eyes gleamed bright with suspicion. “Why?”

Cameron shrugged. “I must marry someone. Why not you?” It was ridiculous when said aloud, but with the eyes of his cousins on him, he wasn’t going to back down. He’d never broken his word yet.

But he might not have to. The girl could still refuse. He waited.

Down the road the girl’s sheepdog barked. A sheep baaed in response. “You’re tetched in the head,” she told him. “You canna mean such a thing. Why, you never set eyes on me before today.”

“It sounds mad, I know, but it’s an honest offer I’m making ye,” Cameron told her.

Stunned, Jeannie Macleay chewed on her lip and stared at the solemn young man in front of her. He was asking her to marry him? It couldn’t possibly be true. He probably wouldn’t even recognize her if he met her again – she was all over mud, anyway. He was drunk, or tetched in the head, but … Marriage? The thought gave her pause.

She would have married almost anyone to get away from Uncle Ewen and the sheep. And suddenly, like something out of a dream, here was this tall, beautiful young man, asking her.

Was he one of the fairy folk? She’d never believed in them until now – well, not since she was a little girl – but she’d heard they were invariably beautiful, and this one certainly qualified.

He’d wiped his face clean of mud. His cheekbones and jaw might have been cut with a blade, they were so perfect and sharp. His nose was bold and straight as a sword and his mouth firm and unsmiling. And his chin … her mother always used to say a man with a firm chin could be relied on.

Warrior stock, no doubt, like many folk in the highlands, of Viking descent. His hair was brown and sun-streaked yet his eyes weren’t Viking blue, but hazel. They watched her steadily, but she sensed an intensity beneath the calm manner.

He was well off, too, going by the quality of his clothes and his horse.

God knew why he’d even looked twice at her, with her in her uncle’s old coat and boots and covered in mud, but he had. And try as she might, she could not dismiss it. She pinched herself, hard, to be sure it wasn’t a dream.

“I don’t know you from Adam,” she said to silence the clamour in her head.

“My name is Cameron Fraser.”

Fraser. It was a common enough name around here.

Oh Lord. She ought not to even consider his proposal. The poor lad was no doubt a wee bit soft in the head, and his friends were too drunk to realize what he was doing.

But she was only human.

The choices loomed large in her head; life with Uncle Ewen, the stingiest, gloomiest, dourest man in all of Scotland – or life with this tall, solemn young man.

The rest of her life spent on the moors, half the time cold, wet and hungry, looking after Uncle Ewen’s sheep – or marriage to this beautiful young man who was probably tetched in the head to be offering marriage to her on so little acquaintance.

No choice at all.

People said better the devil you knew. Not Jeannie.

“Do ye have a house?” she asked.

“I do.”

“Would I be its mistress?” It was the summit of her dreams – to have a home of her own, to be beholden to noone. To belong.

He nodded. “My mother died when I was a bairn. You’d be the woman of the house.”

The woman of the house. There it was, her dream laid out for her. All she had to do was to say yes. She swallowed. What if he proved to be a madman or violent?

She thought of how he’d plunged into the bog and hauled her and the sheep out out. He hadn’t given a thought to his fine clothes. And he’d set the lamb on its feet with a gentle hand.

No, he wasn’t a violent man, and if she was wrong, well, she was fleet of foot and nimble. She could always run away. She’d been planning to run away from Uncle Ewen anyway, only she hadn’t yet worked out how to do it without a bean to her name. A different situation would offer different opportunities.

A home of her own. The woman of the house. Not a servant or an indigent relative, taken in begrudgingly and reminded of it daily. Her own home. And a place of honour in it as his wife.

It was probably a joke. He was making a may game of her, but oh … oh, if it were true. Mad or tetched or drunk, he was young and beautiful and the thought of those lithe, powerful limbs wrapping around her made her shiver.

She gazed into his eyes, trying to read his mind. His steady hazel eyes stared back at her, telling her nothing. But they were steady, not wild.

She moistened her lips with her tongue and took the plunge. “Ye truly mean it?”

“I do.” He gave a curt nod to emphasize it.

He sounded sincere. He looked sincere. Oh God let him be sincere, she prayed.

She took a deep breath. “Well then, I’ll marry you.”

The man who’d tried to kidnap her gave a loud whoop, causing his horse to toss its head and plunge restlessly. “She said yes! I win! Pay up, Donald!”

His words punched into Jeannie’s gut. All the breath left her lungs. It was a joke after all. A bet. See if you could get the gullible girl to believe a strange man would offer her marriage.

And the fool girl had believed. Had even allowed herself to hope. After all she’d been through in the last few years, had she learned nothing?

She tried to look as if she’d known it all along, as if disappointment and humiliation weren’t about to choke her. “A bet, was it, lads? A laugh at my expense?” she said with an attempt at breezy unconcern. “Very funny. Enjoy your winnings. I’m awa’ then to my sheep.” She turned away so they would not see the hot tears prickling at her eyelids.

A firm hand wrapped gently around her elbow, holding her back. “It wasn’t a joke,” he told her. “There was a bet, yes, but my cousins will bet on anything and everything.”

Jeannie stared down at his mud-caked boots, angry and ashamed, hearing the sincerity in his voice and refusing to be caught a second time.

“I meant it,” he went on. “And you said you’d wed me.”

She jerked her arm away. She wouldn’t be made a fool of twice. “As if you’d marry a girl like me, a girl you don’t even know. And as if I’d marry a man on an acquaintance of five minutes.”

“You said you would.”

She made a rude noise. “I was just going along with the joke. Why would I want to marry a man I’d just met?”

“Perhaps because you’re desperate—”

She looked up at him then, glaring, ready to spit in his eye.

“—maybe even as desperate as I am,” he finished.

His words stopped her cold. “You? Desperate?” she managed after a moment. “Why would you be desperate?”

“I need to gain control of my inheritance. My uncle – my trustee – is spending it like water. I inherit when I turn thirty, or when I wed. If I wait much longer there’ll be nothing left.”

Jeannie turned his words over in her mind, then shook her head. “You’re saying you’re to be rich? But there’s nobody else you can marry? Just a girl you fished from a bog?”

“There are plenty of other girls,” he admitted. “But I swore I’d marry the first woman I met. And that was you.”

Marry the first woman he met? Jeannie couldn’t believe her ears. She glanced at his cousins who sat on their horses, watching wide-eyed, like great gormless owls, to see what would happen next.

“Is this true?” she demanded. They nodded.

“You’d truly marry a stranger, just to get your hands on your inheritance?”

“I said I would and I never break my word,” he said.

“He never breaks his word,” the cousins chorused.

“That’s the daftest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said.

He shrugged. “Maybe. So, will you marry me?”

Jeannie stared into the steady hazel eyes, trying to read his true intent. She could read nothing, so she looked away into the distance, trying to decide what to do. She could smell the mud on her, feel it tightening on her skin as it dried. She must look a sight.

“I give you my word I’ll take good care of you, Jeannie Macleay.”

His word. The one he never broke. And he had big, broad, lovely shoulders, even if he was cracked in the head. “When?” she asked.

“Today.”

Jeannie closed her eyes, counted to ten, and then counted again, just to make sure. And then she tossed commonsense to the wind. “All right, I’ll do it. Were do we go?”

“The nearest kirk. St Andrew’s-by-the-burn?”

She nodded. It was the closest church, though her uncle wasn’t a believer and she’d never been there.

Cameron Fraser mounted his horse and held out his hand help her up behind him.

She hesitated and glanced back at the sheep waiting in a close huddle at the end of the causeway. Rab, the sheepdog, lay quietly, watching her, watching the sheep, ever vigilant.

Cameron Fraser followed her gaze. “If you want, Jimmy will stay to take care of your sheep.”

She looked sceptically at his cousin who swayed on his horse, grinning muzzily. “They’ll be safer wi’ the dog. Have ye a handkerchief?”

He handed her a clean, folded handkerchief, no doubt thinking she meant to clean herself with it. She was beyond one handkerchief.

She picked up a stone, plucked a sprig of heather growing by the side of the road and knotted them both into the handkerchief. Then she let out a shrill whistle. The dog raced towards her like a dart.

She tied the handkerchief on to his collar. “I’ll miss ye, Rab,” she whispered, stroking the dog’s silky ears. He’d been the only source of love and affection she’d had in four long years. She’d miss him, but Rab would be all right with Uncle Ewen. Her uncle was a lot kinder to animals than he was to people.

“Away home wi’ them Rab,” she said. “Away home.” The dog raced back and began to circle the sheep. A bark here, a nip there and the herd began to move. They’d be home soon.

“Will no one worry when the sheep come home without you?” Cameron Fraser asked her.

“No. My uncle will understand the message in the handkerchief. He won’t be troubled, as long as no sheep are missing, and Rab will get them home safe.”

It was the exact same message her mother had left when she ran off with her father more than twenty years ago. Mam had left a stone, a sprig of heather and a note. A stone for Grandad’s heart and heather for Mam’s hopes for the future. Jeannie had no paper for a note, but her uncle would remember.

He frowned. “But he’ll want to know where you’ve gone, surely.”

Clearly it didn’t reflect well on her that she had no one who cared. Jeannie tried to pass it off with a laugh. “He’ll be relieved to have me off his hands.”

Cameron Fraser quirked a brow at her. “Trouble, are you?”

“Aye, I eat too much and I’m the worst shepherdess he’s ever had.”

He smiled for the first time, and it was like the sun reflected off the silvery loch. It set off a flutter deep inside her.

“He never wanted me in the first place. I was dumped on him when my mother died four years ago.” Lord, she was babbling. She bit her tongue.

“You can eat what you like and you’ll never have to look after sheep again.” He held out his hand.

“I’d marry the devil himself for that promise.” She took hold of Cameron Fraser’s hand, swung up behind him and, heart in her mouth, rode off to meet her fate.

Three

The small stone kirk of St Andrew’s-by-the-burn was the last remnant of a hamlet that was slowly dying. The elderly minister and his wife were in the front garden, tending to the rose bushes.

“Good day to ye, Reverend.” Cameron dropped lightly to the ground, placed his hands around Jeannie Macleay’s waist and lifted her down.

“Cameron Fraser, is it you?” The minister came forward, brushing twigs and leaves from his clothes.

“Aye, Reverend, it is. I hope you and Mrs Potts are well.” Cameron was well aware of the minister’s shrewd gaze running over them all, noting his cousins’ inebriation, his own muddy state and finally coming to rest on the muddy scrap he’d just help dismount.

“And what is it ye want of me, Cameron? This is no’ a social call I’ll be thinking.”

“I need you to perform a marriage.” Cameron said it briskly, as if there was nothing at all strange in such a request. He held a hand out to the scrap and drew her to his side. “This is Miss Jeannie Macleay, originally of the Island of Lewis, and we are betrothed.”

There was a muffled sound from the minister’s wife, but the man himself didn’t turn a hair.

Cameron continued, “We wish to be married today. Now, in fact.”

The minister frowned. “No banns?”

“If ye can’t do it now, just say so and we’ll go elsewhere,” Cameron said calmly. He’d prefer a church wedding, but Scottish laws ensured he didn’t need the minister’s cooperation. A declaration before witnesses would do it, and the minister knew it.

He eyed Jeannie dubiously. “Are ye of age, Miss Macleay?”

“I’m nineteen,” she said, sounding quite composed for a girl with half a bog on her.

The minister pursed his lips. “Very well, then. I suppose I should be glad you’ve come to the kirk for it. Better an irregular marriage with God’s blessing than a godless arrangement. Come ye in. We’ll get the details down. I expect they’ll be glad of a cup of tea, Elspeth.”

“Indeed, indeed,” his wife said, looking curiously at the girl behind Cameron.

Cameron made to lead the scrap into the minister’s house, but she didn’t budge.

“I’m no’ going into the house, not like this.” She gestured at her muddy garments. She turned to the minister’s wife. “Would it be possible for me to wash around the back of the house, ma’am?”

The minister’s wife brightened. “Of course my dear. I can see you’ve had a nasty encounter with some mud. Come along with me.” She held her hand out and gestured to the path around the side of the house.

The minister waited until they’d disappeared from sight and then said, “Now Cameron, you’d better tell me what kind of a mess you’ve got yourself in this time.”

“I’m not in a mess, Reverend Potts,” Cameron said stiffly. The man was some kind of distant relation but it didn’t excuse his familiarity.

The minister’s brows rose sceptically. “Not in a mess? And yet you turn up out of the blue demanding to be wed to a lass who’s mud to the eyebrows, here and now, no banns, no witnesses except for those feckless young wastrels—”

The feckless young wastrels made indignant noises, but Rev. Potts swept on, “—and none of the celebrations that one would expect of the wedding of the laird.”

“None of that matters,” Cameron told him. “Just wed us and be done.”

Reverend Potts put a hand on Cameron’s arm. “What is it, lad? Has the girl trapped you into this?”

Cameron shook off his hand. “She has not. And I don’t propose to discuss it. If you’re not willing to marry us, then say so and we’ll be off.”

The minister took a step back. “Now, now, laddie, no need to be like that. As long as you’re happy about it, I’ll wed the pair of ye, and gladly.” He glanced down at Cameron’s muddy breeches and boots. “But you’ll not want to be married wi’ your boots and breeks in such a state.”

“It doesna matter—” Cameron began.

“It’s not respectful to your bride to be married in dirt,” the minister went on inexorably. “Come ye in and get cleaned up.”

She was in an even muddier state, Cameron thought, but he followed the man anyway. He could at least clean up for her, he supposed.

In the large, cosy kitchen at the back of the house, Elspeth Potts and her cook were firmly stripping Jeannie of her muddy clothes. “Och, child, ye canna go to your wedding reeking of the bog, I’d never forgive myself,” Elspeth said. “There’s plenty of hot water, so just you climb into the tub there and scrub it all off. Your hair, too – Morag, beat up an egg.”

“An egg?” Jeannie’s stomach rumbled.

“Aye, followed by a vinegar rinse. T’will give your hair a lovely glossy finish. Now hop in, my dear, before you get cold.”

With the last of her clothes stripped from her shivering body, Jeannie had no alternative but to climb into the tin bathtub. She’d been prepared to scrub the worst of it off with a bucket of cold water, but Mrs Potts wouldn’t hear of it. “Cold water? Nonsense. A bride deserves the best we can give her, isn’t that right, Morag?”

So Jeannie luxuriated in a tub of warm water and scrubbed the dirt from her body. The bath water was soon black and the minister’s wife ordered a second bath, with hotter water. This time, instead of the strong-smelling soap Jeannie had used the first time, she gave her a small oval cake that smelled of roses.

“It’s beautiful,” Jeannie said, inhaling the rich scent as she lathered her body for the second time.

“It’s French,” the older lady admitted. “A terrible indulgence for a minister’s wife, but I confess, I cannot resist it. Now, close your eyes and Morag will shampoo your hair with the egg.”

It seemed a waste of good food, but Jeannie sat in the deep tin bath with her eyes closed while Mrs Potts and Morag fussed over her. The hot water was blissful. The last four years she’d bathed in lukewarm water: Uncle Ewen’s kettle only held a small amount of hot water and he didn’t approve of wasting fuel to heat water for baths.

She felt herself relaxing as Morag’s strong fingers massaged her scalp. It was so long since anyone had seemed to care if she lived or died, let alone felt clean and smelled good. Four years since Mam had died, but now, with her eyes closed, she could almost believe Mam was here, helping prepare her for her wedding.

She stood while Morag rinsed her down like a child, wrapped her in a large towel and then rinsed her hair carefully, several times, with water, then vinegar, then with a mixture that also smelled of roses.

“There you go, lassie, sit ye down by the fire now and drink this.” Morag pushed a cup of hot, sweet tea into her hand. Jeannie drank it gratefully.

She dried her hair by the fire, using her fingers to untangle it. The pile of muddy clothes lay on the stone floor where she’d discarded them and her heart sank. Not much use in being clean and sweet-smelling when the only clothes she had were muddy cast-offs. The dresses she’d brought to Uncle Ewen’s four years ago were long outgrown or worn out. The skirt she’d worn today was a patched together creation of what remained of them. But she had no choice. She’d have to dry her clothes by the fire and brush off as much mud as she could.

“Here you are,” Mrs Potts swept into the room with an armful of clothes. “We’ll find something pretty for you here.”

“But—”

“Hush now, I can see you’ve lost your own clothes, and I’ll not let a bride be wed in those.” She flapped disdainful fingers towards the muddy pile. “Now, let’s see.” She pulled out a couple of dresses, held them up, shook her head and tossed them on a chair. “Ah, this one, I think. Matches your bonny blue eyes.” She held up a dress in soft blue fabric, glanced at Morag for confirmation, and nodded. “Now, let’s get you dressed.”

She handed Jeannie a bundle: underclothes of fine, soft lawn, edged with lace, finer than anything Jeannie had worn in her life.

“But I canna accept—” Jeannie began, pride warring with longing for the pretty things.

“Pish tush, they’re old things I have no more use for. They don’t even fit me now, see?” Mrs Potts patted her rounded shape comfortably. She added in a softer voice, “And it would give me great pleasure, Jeannie Macleay, to know that you go to your wedding dressed as a bride should be, from the skin out. You’ve a handsome young man there who’ll appreciate them later.” She winked. “Come now, indulge an old woman.”

Blushing and wordless at the unexpected kindness, Jeannie donned the chemise and petticoat. She picked up the stockings and looked up in shock. “These are silk.”

Mrs Potts flapped her fingers at her. “Well of course – silk for a bridal. Besides, what use are silk stockings for an old woman like me? Now, no argument. And try these slippers on.” She handed Jeannie a pair of soft brown leather slippers.

They were a bit big for Jeannie, but once Morag stuffed the toes with wool, they fitted.

“Now for your hair.”

Jeannie began to twist it in a rope around her hand.

“No, no, no! Leave it out. ’Tis your glory, child, and as a married woman you’ll be covering it up soon enough. In the meantime leave it out to dazzle that man of yours.”

Jeannie wasn’t sure she had it in her to dazzle anyone – she was no beauty, she knew – but if Mrs Potts said her hair could dazzle, Jeannie would leave it out.

She had no idea what marriage to Cameron Fraser would be like, but she would do her best to make it work. And Mrs Potts was giving her a head start.

Producing a brush, Mrs Potts brushed out Jeannie’s long hair till it shone, then produced a veil of creamy, precious lace, which she placed carefully over Jeannie’s head. “’Twas my own bridal veil, and both my daughters wore it at their weddings, too.”

She stood back and smiled. “There, a bonny bride you are indeed, is she not Morag? Right now, I’ll just—” She broke off, hesitated, then said, “Child, do you have no kith or kin to stand up with you?”

Jeannie shook her head. “There’s only Uncle Ewen, and he wouldna come. He doesna like people.”

Mrs Potts and Morag exchanged glances. “Would that be Ewen Leith, the one they call ‘the hermit’?”

Jeannie nodded. “My mother’s brother.”

“I never realized he had a young girl living with him. I’m sorry lass, if I’d known you were alone up there in the hills, I would have visited.”

Jeannie shrugged awkwardly. “It doesna matter.”

The older lady hugged her. “Well, you’ll not be lonely any longer with young Cameron Fraser for a husband. I’m amazed you two ever met, let alone had time to court. Right then, I’ll away and see if the men are ready. Take her to the church door, Morag, and when you hear the music send her down the aisle.” The minister’s wife bustled away.

Jeannie and Morag looked at each other. “Could I maybe—” Jeannie began. “Is there a looking glass somewhere, so that I could see …”

“Och, of course, lass.” Morag looked out into the hallway, then beckoned.

Jeannie stood in front of the looking glass in the hall and stared. Other than in a pool of water, she hadn’t seen her reflection in four years. Uncle Ewen didn’t believe in wasting money on such things.

She’d changed in four years. Grown up. “I … I look like my mother,” she whispered. “I look …” Pretty, she thought. She couldn’t say it aloud. Vanity was a sin. But she thought it and the thought gave her a warm glow. She was still a bit freckled and skinny and her cheeks were red from the cold and her mouth too wide and she still had that crooked tooth but she looked … nice. Like a proper bride. A real bride. She adjusted the beautiful lace veil. If not for Mrs Potts’s kindness …

Emotion surged up in her and her eyes filled with tears.

“Now stop that, lassie, or you’ll start me off as well.” Morag said briskly. “Time enough for tears later. Let’s get ye to the kirk.”

Four

They waited in the vestibule of the small stone kirk until they heard the full chord of an organ sound. Jeannie took a deep breath. One step and she was on her way to wed Cameron Fraser, a man she’d known but a few hours. And once married, there was no going back.

She couldn’t move.

“Go on lass,” Morag whispered and gave her a hefty shove that sent her stumbling into the aisle.

And there he was, waiting. Cameron Fraser, solemn as a judge and as fine a man as she’d ever seen. To her surprise he wore the kilt, the Fraser dress kilt, a splash of bright colour in the austere little whitewashed kirk.

Jeannie’s heart fluttered. She’d always been partial to the sight of a man wearing the kilt. And Cameron Fraser looked as braw and bonny as any man she’d seen. The man had a set of legs on him that fair took her breath away.

The music continued and Jeannie walked slowly down the aisle, drinking in the sight of her groom. He wore a white shirt with a lace jabot at his throat, the foam of the lace in stark contrast at the hard line of his jaw and square, firm chin. Over it he wore a black velvet coat with silver buttons. He looked like a hero out of a painting of old.

His expression hadn’t changed. He looked … no, she couldn’t read his face at all. He ran a finger between his throat and his jabot, as if it was tied too tight.

Was he having second thoughts?

She hoped not because she wanted him, wanted him with a fierceness that burned bright and deep within her. She quickened her step.

Cameron Fraser had made her want him. He’d caused all her long-buried dreams to surface, had tantalized her with possibilities she knew were foolish and impossible, but now she wanted him, wanted the house he’d promised her, the place, the home. Her home. And him. She wanted it all.

He was not going to back out now. She hurried the last few steps to where he waited at the altar and when he presented his arm, she grabbed it. And held on tight.

He stared down at her, looking faintly stunned.

Cameron couldn’t believe his eyes. This was his muddy little bog sprite? This? This lissom young woman walking towards him with shining eyes and a look of hope so transparent it went straight to his heart.

Behind him, one of his cousins said something but Cameron wasn’t listening. His attention was entirely on his bride as she made the interminable walk down the aisle, light and graceful in a pretty blue dress.

He straightened, glad now he’d stuffed his kilt and jacket into his saddlebag when he left, glad the minister had insisted it wouldn’t do for the laird to be wed in his breeks, even if nobody except a couple of young wastrels were there to witness it. His bride would remember he’d done her honour on this day, the old man said.

Cameron ran a finger around his neck. He hadn’t wanted the fussy lace jabot. The minister had pressed it on him at the last moment, completing the full formal dress.

Cameron was glad of it now. His bride was … He took a deep breath and faced it: his bride, his little bog sprite was beautiful. Not the perfect, polished beauty in the portraits of his mother, nor the ripe, sensual beauty of Ailine, the widow who’d first taught a brash boy how to please a woman.

Jeannie Macleay’s beauty was something quite different.

She was the scent of heather on the wind, the softness of mist in the glen, and the clean, fresh air of the mountains. It was a subtle beauty, like that of his homeland, not delicate and whimsical and demanding as his mother had been, but strong and free and bonny.

She wore a softly draped veil of lace over long, glossy chestnut hair that fell clear to her waist. Where had she hidden that hair? His fingers itched to run through the silken length of it. Her skin was smooth and fresh with a dozen or so small freckles, like brown breadcrumbs sprinkled over cream, her cheeks a wild rose blush echoed in her soft, full lips.

Cameron straightened under his bride’s clear gaze. She liked how he looked too, he could tell by the feminine approval in her wide blue eyes. He drew himself up, glad now he’d worn the kilt and even the stupid, fussy jabot.

She gazed up at him, clinging tightly to his arm, and gave him a hesitant, shy, faintly anxious smile that pierced his heart.

His bride.

“Dearly beloved.”

They turned and faced the minister. It passed in a blur. Cameron heard himself making his vows. His bride spoke hers in a clear, soft voice.

“Time to sign the register,” the minister said. He handed Cameron the pen. Cameron signed it and passed it to his bride.

She took it, but made no move to sign. Her thoughts seemed far away.

Of course, she wouldn’t know how to read or write, he realized, and his stomach hollowed as he took in the implications of his rash act.

“Dip the end in the ink and make your mark,” Cameron told her in a low voice. “A cross will do. Or a thumbprint if you prefer.”

She gave him an odd look, then dipped the quill in the ink and swiftly wrote her name in a stylish copperplate hand.

Cameron blinked. How had a simple shepherdess learned to write like that?

He was still pondering that question while the minister recited some advice about marriage. And then the words, “You may kiss the bride.”

Cameron lifted the veil back off her face. To his surprise, his hands were shaking. She turned her face up to him, her eyes shining, trustful, her lips rosy, slightly parted.

He stared down at her. This thing he’d done so carelessly, this marriage he’d made without consideration, thinking only of his inheritance: it had become something momentous. This girl had given herself into his care, forever. She was his.

He bent and touched his mouth to hers, intending to make it brief, but her lips softened under his and she sighed and leant into him, and before he knew it he was kissing her deeply, his senses swimming with the taste, the scent and the feel of her.

“That’s enough for now, lad.” The minister’s voice cut in dryly. “Save the rest for the honeymoon.”

Cameron released her, dazed, still hungry. He stared at her in shock. She blinked up at him, blushing, a little dishevelled, her mouth soft and moist, her eyes dreamy.

His wife.

Afterwards, they returned to the minister’s house for tea. “It’s not much of a wedding breakfast, I’m afraid,” Mrs Potts said, “but it’s the best Morag and I can do at such short notice, and it’ll keep you going until you get home.”

“Your best is very fine thank you, Mrs Potts,” Cameron assured her. There was shortbread and egg-and-bacon tart and Selkirk bannock and fresh-baked baps with butter and honey. And if Cameron and his cousins thought it a poor celebration to be washing such fine food down with tea instead of whisky, they knew better than to say so. Not in front of a minister.

Not that Cameron cared. He was watching his bride eat her way through every piece of food offered her with an expression of utter bliss.

Halfway through a slice of Selkirk bannock, she set it down with a huge, regretful sigh. “I’m sorry, but I canna eat a single mouthful more. It’s the most delicious meal I’ve had in forever, Mrs Potts, Morag.” She laughed. “Uncle Ewan thinks porridge is all a body needs.”

He recalled what her uncle had said about her eating too much. She was as slender as a reed.

Cameron stood. “We’d best get along home now. Thank you for all you’ve done, Reverend Potts, Mrs Potts, Morag.” He bowed to each. “You’ve turned this into a very special occasion.”

At his words, Jeannie jumped up. “Oh, your dress,” she said to Mrs Potts. “I should change back into—”

The older woman shook her head. “Keep the dress my dear, with my blessing. And here’s a wee wedding present for you.” She gave Jeannie a parcel wrapped in brown paper. “Open it tonight, before you go to bed.”

For the sake of politeness Jeanie made a few half-hearted protests but she was glad to leave her old clothes – and her old life – behind. She hugged the motherly minister’s wife and thanked her again.

Then it was time to mount up again, this time with Jeannie riding in front of Cameron, seated sideways across his saddle because the blue dress was too narrow-cut to allow for sitting astride – not without a scandalous amount of leg showing. Jeannie was made comfortable enough with a cushion borrowed from Mrs Potts and in a short time they were off and heading towards her new home.

With her new husband. The thought took her breath away. It was like a dream. His arms were wrapped around her holding her steady, warm and strong. Her husband.

Five

They breasted a hill and stopped to take in the view. A rocky promontory jutted deep into into the loch where a castle loomed, gloomy and forbidding. A village nestled at its foot, a scattering of neat cottages.

Jeannie eyed them eagerly. One of them would be hers. She couldn’t wait. “Which house is yours?”

“The big one.” He pointed.

Two cottages were larger than the others. One was on the outskirts of the village and the other was in the centre, facing the village square. “Is it the one in the town or the one next to the wee burn,” she asked. She didn’t mind which.

“The big one,” he repeated.

“But—” She broke off. Did he mean? “You mean the castle?” Her voice came out in a squeak.

“Aye.”

She twisted in the saddle to look him in the eye. “You’re not some kind of a servant, are you?”

He grinned and shook his head.

Jeannie swallowed. “You mean to say you live in the—” She could see the answer in his eyes. He did. “But you said I’d be the woman of the house.”

“You will.”

“What job do you do in the castle?”

He just grinned. His cousins, who had recovered their high spirits once out of sight of the minister, guffawed. “He’s the laird, lassie. From the moment you married him. You’re the laird’s wife.”

“The laird’s wife?” she echoed faintly. A hollow opened up in her. “You mean to say I’ll be in charge of that, that enormous place?”

He smiled down, pleased at her amazement. “Aye.”

They all beamed at her, as if it was some huge treat to be put in charge of a castle with no warning. Or training. Or even any clothes.

She thumped him on the shoulder, hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He gave her a bemused look and rubbed his shoulder. “Would it have made any difference?”

“Yes! No – I don’t know. You should have warned me.” Oh Lord, the laird’s wife.

“What good would it have done?”

She thumped him again. “I could have prepared myself.”

“Clothes, ye mean?” he asked cautiously.

“No, ye great thick-head! Where would I get clothes?” She tapped her forehead. “I mean up here. You told me I’d be mistress in my own home—”

“Well you will be—”

“—not the laird’s wife—”

“It’s the same thing.”

She went to thump him again and he caught her fist, laughing.

“It’s not the same thing,” she said crossly. “A woman in her own cottage answers to nobody. A laird’s wife answers to everyone. Everyone will have an opinion, from your uncle to the lowest scullery-maid. And if they don’t think I’m up to the job – and they’ll see at once I’m no fine high-born lady – they won’t respect me, and they won’t obey me – oh, they’ll pretend to and be sweet as pie to the mistress’s face but they’ll resent me and the work will be done shoddily and—”

“For a shepherdess, you seem to know a lot about how a big house runs.”

“I’ve only been a shepherdess for four years,” she told him impatiently. “Before that my mother was housekeeper of a large house – she took the position after my father died and left us with no money. So believe me when I say—”

“Housekeeper?” he interrupted.

“Aye, she—”

“Then you’ll know fine how to run a castle, won’t ye?” he said, leaving her dumbfounded. He gave a pleased nod and, still holding her fist in one large hand, he urged his horse down the slope towards the castle.

Jeannie swallowed. She wanted to hit him for being so unreasonably blithe about the problems she faced, but somehow his confidence seeped slowly into her. She did know a little about running a grand house. From the wrong end of things, but still …

Besides, she had no choice. She was wed.

She could do this, she could. As long as nobody found out he’d fished his bride from a bog, she just might be able to pull it off.

Her confidence seeped away as the castle loomed closer. They trotted over a bridge and through an archway and came to a halt in a courtyard.

Ostlers ran out to take the reins of the horses. Cameron Fraser – she had to stop thinking of him by his full name, he was her husband now, not a stranger – Cameron dismounted and lifted Jeannie down. She stretched her cramped limbs in relief, shook her crumpled skirts out and tidied her hair.

“Ready?” Cameron asked her.

She wasn’t, she wanted to run in the opposite direction but she nodded, and without warning he swept her into his arms and carried her up the steps to the great iron-studded oak door.

“What—?”

“Stop struggling. It’s tradition. Carry the bride over the threshold,” he said. His cousins ran ahead and banged loudly on the door, shouting that the laird had brought home a bride. As they reached it the door swung open. Cameron strode through it.

Jeannie clung to his neck, gazing around her, trying to look graceful. Her stomach was a battlefield of fluttering butterflies.

People came from everywhere, popping out of doorways and flowing down stairwells, staring at her, crowding in after Cameron, flocking to see the laird’s bride, laughing and clapping and buzzing with surprised speculation.

“He married the first woman he found,” Jimmie shouted exuberantly to the crowd. “Fished her out of a bog and married her!”

Jeannie’s fingers curled into fists. “I’m going to kill your cousin,” she muttered into Cameron’s neck.

He laughed. “Best it’s out from the beginning. You’re my wife, nothing can change that.”

“I’m still going to kill him.”

Cameron carried her into a room they called the Great Hall. It was a big, barren-looking room with an ancient fireplace as big as a horse stall.

Cameron set her carefully on her feet, took her hand and raised it. “Meet your new mistress, Jeannie Macleay of the Isle of Lewis, now Mrs Cameron Fraser. And I am now running this estate.”

There was a roar of approval and clapping. Jeannie was under no illusion that the approval was for her. It was Cameron they were cheering, and that he was, at last, the laird.

They came forward to be introduced, one by one, first relatives, of whom there were a surprising number. Jeannie tried to remember the names but they soon became a blur.

Of his newly deposed trustee uncle, there was no sign.

“And this is the housekeeper, Mrs Findlay,” Cameron said.

Mrs Findlay was a tall, austere-looking, middle-aged woman. Dressed in crisply pressed shades of grey, she exuded efficiency.

Facing her, Jeannie felt tired and crumpled and inadequate, but everyone was watching and she would not be intimidated. She held out her hand pleasantly. “Mrs Findlay.”

Instead of shaking Jeannie’s hand the housekeeper handed her a large bunch of keys on a round metal circlet, saying stiffly, “The keys to the household, madam. As the laird’s wife, they are yours by right.”

The ring of keys weighed heavily in Jeannie’s hand. Her mother had carried just such a collection on her belt. She took a deep breath, praying it was the right thing to do, and handed them back to the housekeeper, saying in a clear voice. “Thank you Mrs Findlay, but I’m sure you know what to do with these much better than I. I learned a little about the running of a great house from my mother, of course, but I’m a new bride and still have much to learn.” She smiled and added, “I can see for myself the castle is beautifully run. I hope we’ll work well together.”

There was an almost audible sigh in the room as the housekeeper took the keys back. Thawing visibly, she said in a warmer tone, “I’m sure we will, madam. If it’s convenient, I could show you the house and its workings tomorrow.”

Jeannie nodded. “That would be very convenient, thank you.”

As the housekeeper turned away, Cameron slipped Jeannie’s hand in his and squeezed it briefly. “Perfect.”

She felt a small glow of satisfaction, and as the rest of the household came up to be introduced, she addressed them with added confidence.

Suddenly a hush fell. The crowd parted and a tall, white haired courtier came slowly forwards. It was a wig, she saw as he came closer: Uncle Charles still affected the fashions of a bygone era.

Cameron introduced them stiffly, poised, Jeannie saw, to defend her from any insult his uncle might make her. The realization warmed her.

Uncle Charles, however was the perfect courtier. He bowed gracefully over Jeannie’s hand and murmured everything that was correct, then shook his nephew’s hand and congratulated him.

The watching household waited, but it soon became clear there would be no dramatic scene, and disappointed, people slowly drifted back to their duties.

Six

Dinner was almost ready. Jeannie was given time to wash and tidy herself, and a maidservant to assist her. While the maid did her best to neaten the crumpled, travel-stained dress, Jeannie washed her face and hands and brushed her hair and wound it into a neat coronet, but she had no fresh gown to change into and she felt very self-conscious when Cameron came to escort her to dinner. He was dressed formally in the kilt, though this time with no lace jabot. He still took her breath away.

“I’ll need more clothes,” she told him. “I have just this one dress to my name.”

He nodded. “Wear this tonight.” He dug into his sporran and pulled out a worn, flat box. She opened it to find a rope of lustrous, shimmering pearls. “My mother had a lot of jewels, but I’m told pearls are the most suitable for a bride.”

He helped her twine them about her neck. They felt cool and heavy and magnificent against her skin, armour against the feelings of inadequacy that intensified as he led her down the staircase to the great hall, where they were to dine.

A piper sounded, piping the laird and his new bride in to dinner. The sound shivered down Jeannie’s spine. She was now part of an ancient tradition.

Cameron’s uncle sat at Jeannie’s right hand and from the moment she was seated, began to engage her in light, polite conversation.

Bemused, Jeannie responded to his questions as best she could, but far from the personal interrogation she dreaded, she soon found he was entirely uninterested in herself and passionate about his plans for silk hangings for the great hall. He’d designed the hangings himself, was sorely disappointed with the cancellation of the order and clearly aimed to enlist her support in changing Cameron’s mind.

“Such a barren and gloomy room, is it not? My nephew, lacking the refinement to appreciate such things, has already cancelled the order—”

On the other side of her, Cameron bristled.

“But I can see you’re a lady of taste. Do you not think …”

“Mr Sinclair—”

He patted her hand. “Call me Uncle Charles, my dear. We’re family now.”

“Uncle Charles, then. I’m sorry but it’s been a long day. Perhaps we could discuss this at a later date?” It wasn’t a lie. She was exhausted. So much had happened. And there was still her wedding night ahead.

The older man acquiesced gracefully. She’d say this for him, he was a courtier to his beautifully manicured fingertips. Perhaps they could have the hangings locally woven out of wool, she thought. He was right, the hall could use some brightening, and it didn’t have to be expensive. But she wasn’t going to be drawn into a family quarrel in her first day.

“Are you ready?” Cameron asked her. He stood beside her chair, his hand out, ready to escort her upstairs.

Jeannie’s heart beat a rapid tattoo. Her wedding night. She’d thought about it all afternoon, planned exactly what she was going to say …

The wine she’d been drinking at dinner tasted suddenly sour in her mouth. She’d find out now what kind of man she’d married.

At the door of her bedchamber – their bedchamber – he raised her hand and kissed it. “I’ll leave you to get ready. I’ll return in half an hour.”

She nodded numbly, dread pooling in her stomach at the delay.

A maid waited inside. There was hot water in the jug and a fire blazed in the hearth. A wine decanter and two glasses stood on the table beside the bed. The very large bed. The sheets were turned down, the pillows plumped and waiting.

On the bed lay the brown paper parcel that the minister’s wife had given her. She’d forgotten all about it. Someone must have found it in Cameron’s saddlebags and brought it up.

She opened it and found a pretty nightgown, a soft white woollen shawl, a cake of the rose soap and a small china pot containing face cream. The nightgown was made of fine, soft lawn, narrowly pintucked and embroidered at the neck with tiny pink roses.

Jeannie hadn’t worn anything so pretty to bed in her life. It would be a waste to wear it tonight but she couldn’t resist.

The maid helped her off with her dress and brushed out her hair, then she sent the girl away. She washed with the rose soap, creamed her skin from the little china pot, then put on the dainty nightgown. It slipped over her skin like feathers. So light. So insubstantial. Thank goodness for the fire.

She glanced at her reflection in the looking glass and her eyes widened. The nightdress was so fine it was practically transparent. She arranged the shawl around her, but though warm, it was fine and soft and clung lovingly to her shape. Too lovingly.

It would not do at all.

Through the doorway on the right of the room lay Cameron’s dressing room. She hurried in and searched through it rapidly until she found the perfect thing, an old woollen fishing pullover, slightly unravelled at the neck. She pulled it on. It fell halfway to her knees. Perfect.

There was a knock on the door. He was here. She ran back into the bedchamber and took a flying leap on to the bed, landing just as the door opened.

Cameron took a deep breath and opened the door. He was about to take his bride and make a wife of her. He couldn’t wait. Ever since he’d seen her walking down the aisle of the kirk, since he’d smelled the scent of her and tasted her mouth, his body had throbbed with the knowledge that this was his woman, and that tonight she’d be his.

He smiled. She sat cross-legged on the bed. Under his gaze she dragged the bedclothes up like a shield, covering her bare legs. And what the hell was she wearing his old pullover for? The room was perfectly warm – he’d ordered the fire himself.

Mind, he had no complaint; she looked very fetching in the shapeless old thing, one shoulder sliding out of the loose ravelled neck.

He couldn’t wait to strip it off her.

She also looked pale and wary and a wee bit nervous. That was as it should be. Brides were nervous. Grooms were not.

Cameron shrugged off his coat. He wasn’t the least bit nervous. He was, not to put too fine a point on it, well primed and raring for action. Well, his body was. But tonight, at least, his desires would have to take second place to hers.

He unbuttoned his waistcoat, placed it on top of his coat and loosened the ties at the neck of his shirt. Her eyes were on him, big and wide.

Cameron knew his way around a woman’s body. He knew fine how to pleasure a woman. He’d gentle his bride and take her slow and easy, bringing her to the business with all the finesse at his fingertips – and that, he flattered himself, was considerable. She’d find pleasure in her marriage bed, he was determined on it. It would make her a more malleable, contented and obedient wife.

He pulled off his boots and in his stockinged feet walked towards the bed, smiling.

“Don’t come any closer,” she warned, her hands held up ready to ward him off.

Aye, she was nervous, all right. “Don’t worry, lass, I’ll be gentle—”

“I said stop!” she repeated. “There’s something I need to say to you first.”

Cameron shrugged and sat down on the end of the bed. “Go ahead.”

She scooted back, about as far away from him as she could be and still be on the same bed. “I’m no’ going to lie down with you tonight,” she told him. “Not as a bride.”

Bridal jitters. “Why not?” Cameron folded his arms and waited.

She nervously ran her tongue across her lips. His gaze followed the movement hungrily.

“I don’t know you.”

“Och, you do. I’m your husband,” he said with a glimmer of amusement.

“I ken that fine,” she flashed, “But we don’t know each other and I won’t – I can’t lie down wi’ a man I don’t … I’ve only just … You don’t know me at all.”

“I know enough,” he said, “and in the lying down together we will come to know each other.”

She flushed, a wild rose colour that set his blood pounding. “What exactly do you know about me?”

Ah, so that was it. She had a past, some secret she was afeared he’d discover. “I don’t care what you’ve done in the past, Jeannie. Our marriage starts fresh tonight.” He slid along the bed towards her.

She shot off the bed. “Not tonight it doesn’t. You will listen to me on this, Cameron Fraser!” She stood near the fire, her arms folded across the swell of her breasts, her blue eyes sparking. “I’m not ashamed of anything in my past if that’s what you’re implying – but you’ve proved my point. You know nothing about me. I’m not just some female body you pulled from a bog and wed to get your hands on an inheritance. I’m a person, with hopes and dreams and plans of my own. Aye, we’re married, but it’s not enough.”

He frowned. What the devil was she on about? Of course she was a person. He could see that fine through the thin fabric of her nightdress,, her long, slender legs silhouetted by the firelight. The blood pooled in his groin.

But she was saying no, dammit. “I don’t understand. I’ve given you my name, brought you to my home, introduced you to my family in all honour. What the hell else do you want?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t curse at me, Cameron Fraser.” Her voice softened. “I know we’re wed and I appreciate the honour you’ve done me, indeed I do. But if I’m to be a true wife to you, I want … I want …”

He flung himself off the bed and prowled slowly towards her, his temper on a knife edge. He’d got her measure now. He’d put a stop to this nonsense. “More jewels? Money? What?”

She swallowed. “I want the same as other brides.”

“Clothes? A trousseau? I said I’d buy you—”

“I want to be courted.”

He came to an abrupt halt. “Courted?” She wanted to be courted? By her husband?

She nodded. “Just for a wee while. Just until we know each other better. And then I’ll feel more comfortable when we … you know.” She glanced at the bed.

His anger slowly died. She was in earnest. And he had, after all, only known her for less than a day. He’d taken one look at her in the kirk and was ripe to tup her then and there, minister be damned.

But women were different, he knew.

“And what would this courtship entail?” He knew. Flowers, little gifts. Pretty speeches. And poetry, he thought gloomily. He hated poetry.

She bit her lip and considered it a moment. “Talking mainly,” she said at last. “Getting to know each other. Perhaps a few walks.”

It wasn’t much to ask. “No poetry then?” he said, cheering up.

Her eyes lit. “Do you like poetry? My father was a poet.”

“No,” he said hastily. “I don’t know any poems.” Mainly dirty ones. “But I could teach you to ride.”

“That would be lovely,” she said in the kind of voice that told him she’d prefer he spouted poetry. And she waited, with that hopeful look in her eyes that unmanned him every damned time.

Capitulation loomed. “How long would this courting period last?” He didn’t like the idea, didn’t want to wait for what his body hungered for, but she was his wife and he owed her respect. And he couldn’t withstand that damned appealing look.

“A week?”

He sighed. A week of waiting would probably kill him, especially if he had to look at those legs of hers much longer. But it wasn’t an unreasonable request.

“All right, a week,” he agreed. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“We both sleep in the same bed – this bed. I give you my word I’ll do nothing you don’t want,” he added before she could argue.

Courting couples did a great deal more than talking. Kissing, rolling around in the hay, all kinds of intimate exploration. He’d court her in bed with soft words and caresses. By the end of the week when they came to do the deed she’d be aching for him as he ached for her now.

She gave him a wary look, sensing a trap.

“I don’t want people gossiping about our marriage,” he explained, and that did the trick.

She nodded. “Very well, I agree.”

“Right then.” Cameron strode to the bed, flipped the covers back, pulled out his sgian dhu and cut his arm.

Seven

“What are you doing?” Jeannie gasped and flew across the room to him

He let a few drops of blood fall on the sheets before he allowed her to examine the cut.

“What on earth were you thinking of? Why would you do such a thing to yourself?” She grabbed a clean handkerchief and pressed it to the small cut. It was nothing, but he rather liked her fussing over him.

“I won’t have the maids spreading rumours about your virginity. Or lack of it.”

“I don’t lack – oh.” She broke off in blushing comprehension and stared at the stains on the sheet. “You cut yourself for me, for my honour,” she whispered.

Cameron tried to look noble and brave. “It’s noth—”

She flung her arms around him and kissed him, full on the mouth. He gathered her against him.

He’d cut himself for her, to protect her from gossip and unkindness. What husband would do that for a bride who’d just refused him her bed?

Jeannie lifted her mouth to his and a kiss started in gratitude ended in passion. The taste of him entered her blood like hot strong whisky, wild and dark and thrilling, dissolving her doubts, her fears.

He grabbed the hem of the pullover and dragged it up. She hesitated. “It’s scratchy,” he murmured, and staring at his mouth, his beautiful, damp, wicked mouth, and his steady hazel eyes, she lifted her arms and let him drag the pullover over her head.

Even before he’d tossed it aside she was kissing him again. The taste of him was like wildfire in her blood.

Wanting poetry? Was she mad?

She didn’t want poetry. She wanted Cameron. Her husband.

The salt-clean scent of his skin was so right, so familiar to her. Desperate to touch him she slipped her hands under his shirt, over his chest, caressing the smooth, hard planes, and all the time kissing, kissing …

He bent her back over the bed, half lying, grasping her by the hips and positioning her between his long brawny thighs, bare thighs, covered only by the kilt.

Her hands dropped to his waist. She could feel the buckles of his kilt.

Cameron eased her down on the bed, running his hands over her slender, lissome body, caressing her through the soft fine fabric of her nightdress. She pressed herself against him like a small eager cat, writhing in innocent eroticism, her limbs embracing him.

His kilt was riding up and as she moved she brushed against him. Cameron groaned. He was hard and throbbing and it was all he could do not to shove her nightgown up and take her.

But he’d given her his word.

She brushed against him again and he abruptly pulled away and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He sat there, panting, trying to lash into obedience the wild horses of his control.

“What’s wrong?” She touched him tentatively on the shoulder.

He didn’t reply. What the hell had happened? He was as out of control as a young boy with his first woman.

“Cameron?” She trailed her hand softly down his spine.

He shuddered and arched beneath her touch. “Don’t do that!” There was a short, hurt silence and he added in a quieter voice, “Don’t touch me.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“I like it fine.”

“Then why?”

“Because it’s stretching my control to its limits, that’s why.”

“Your control?” There was almost a purr to the way she said it.

“Aye, touch me again and I might not be able to keep my promise to you. And I don’t break my word.”

“I see.”

The only sound in the room then was the crackling of the fire and Cameron’s own heavy breathing. He tried to concentrate on pure thoughts, but the scent of her skin, of roses and warm, aroused woman teased his nostrils. Coals shifted in the fireplace and all he could think of was the way she would look clad in nothing but firelight. He gritted his teeth willing his rampant body to obedience.

“What if I want you to?”

His stomach lurched. Did she just say what he thought she’d said?

Her hands moved at his hips, there was the click of buckles and he felt his kilt begin to slide away. He turned around to face her. “What the hell?”

“I … I’ve changed my mind.” In one movement she pulled her nightgown over her head and knelt there, naked, her heart in her eyes.

With a groan he pulled her to him. He lavished her with kisses, loving every inch of her skin with hands and mouth and body. She was warm satin, fragrant as petals and her hair flowed over her like the silky dark water of the peaty burn.

She shuddered and gasped and pressed herself against him, wrapping her long silky legs around him, plastering him with hot, slightly clumsy kisses that drove him purely wild.

He’d planned to wait, to take it slow and gentle but she was wild and eager and impatient and so greedy for him he couldn’t hold himself back.

As he entered her she cried out, arching and shuddered, clutching him with hard little fingers, her thighs trembling and closing around him as her body accepted him deep inside. Welcoming him.

Ancient rhythms pounded through him and he shattered then, and at the spiralling edge of his awareness felt her shattering with him.

Eight

Cameron woke first in the morning. Usually after a night of love-making he sprang out of bed, raring to meet the day. Now he lay quietly, listening to the soft sound of her breathing, examining the unaccustomed feelings that lay heavy and full in his chest.

He was married. He had a wife. This was how he’d wake every morning for the rest of his life. He felt … He tasted the feelings floating inside him … Happy. Humbled. Awed.

Yesterday he’d sworn a mad, rash vow and performed the most reckless act of a somewhat reckless life. It could have been the biggest mistake of his life.

He glanced at the girl curled up against him, her silky chestnut hair spilling over her shoulder, half hiding her face.

Instead she was the biggest gift.

He lay there, breathing her in, the scent of her; roses and woman. His woman, his bride.

Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled sleepily. “Cameron,” she breathed, and he couldn’t help it, he had to kiss her, and then, well, he couldn’t help himself again. He had no self-restraint, and apparently, neither had she.

Afterwards they lay entwined, their breathing slowing, skin to skin, gazing into each other’s eyes.

After a while she gave a shivery sigh. “That was the loveliest way to wake up.” She stretched and gave him a rueful smile. “I suppose this means the courtship is over.”

And she looked at him with that damned look in her eyes that shattered him every time.

Cameron took a deep breath and began, “My love is like a red, red rose that’s sweetly sprung in June, my love is like—” He broke off. She had tears in her eyes.

“What is it?” he said. “What’s the matter?”

“Rabbie Burns,” she whispered. “You’re quoting Rabbie Burns to me on my wedding morning.” Great crystal tears glittered on her lashes. What the hell had he done wrong?

“You said you liked poetry.”

“You said you didn’t.”

“Aye, well, I promised you a courtship. And you do smell like a rose, and so I thought …” He swallowed. “They fit. The words I mean. They all fit. All the words.” He scanned her face anxiously. Didn’t she see what he was trying to tell her?

Her mouth quivered. “Cameron Fraser, I know we’ve only known each other for a day and a night, and you’ll probably think it’s foolish of me, and premature, but I think I’m falling in love with you.”

She loved him. He wanted to shout it from the battlements. His chest felt full and heavy. He cupped her cheeks with his hands and kissed her. “It’s neither foolish nor premature, Jeannie Macleay Fraser, but a proper thing in a bride.”

“And you?” She gave him that look and waited. Och he was gone, he was truly gone.

“Perhaps I’ll one day come to rue the day I plucked a wee bog sprite from the mud and married her, but I doubt it. Right now I think it’s the cleverest thing I’ve done in all my life.”

She tried to frown. “A bog sprite?”

Cameron grinned and kissed her. “Aye but this wee bog sprite smells like a rose.” He kissed her again. “My bonnie lass.” And again. “My red, red rose.” And then because she might not have understood what the poem meant, “My love.”