The Highlander's Arranged Marriage: Highland Legacies, #2

By Aileen Adams

Iris is heartbroken. Her dear father has passed. Now her mother has promised her to a cad of a laird. What's a lass to do but run away from certain disaster and violence?

 

Angus's entire family was lost in a horrible murderous rampage. He alone survived. Now he's got a scar, a broken heart, and vengeance on the mind. He's become a man who tends toward rage at the drop of a hat. He's not the kind of man anyone wants to be around. He's not remotely interested in romance or friendships or socializing. On a ride with his best friend Lorne, he finds an unconscious lass.  When his best friend suggests that Angus help the lass out by marrying her, he wonders if she will runaway from another proposal and his uncontrollable rage.

 

Iris is between a rock and a hard place. Choosing between kindness and rage and politeness and violence leaves her with few prospects. What will Iris do now?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AilAd
• Release date: Jul 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201535391

Book preview

1

F ine! Angus’s voice boomed from the top of the staircase. Leave for all I care. His green eyes narrowed as he leaned over the railing.

Not sparing a look back at her former employer, a fleeing young woman pushed past the man in the doorway with a huff. He stepped aside and watched the maid exit into the yard before turning back to the man at the top of the stairs. Sunlight streamed in from the high windows, sending noonday shadows across the foyer.

Still making friends, aye, Angus? Lorne, a cousin to Lachlan Stewart, one of Angus’s not-so-near neighbors, called up with a grimace. He stepped fully inside and shut the door behind him, dusting some errant dirt from the road off his sleeves. He was tall and lean, and his finely tailored clothing fit impeccably. Ye always did have a way with the lasses.

Angus rolled his eyes but bit back a scathing response. He’d let his temper get the best of him—again—but he wasn’t about to take it out on his oldest friend and fellow laird. Forcing the tension out of his broad shoulders, he strode down to the first floor, one heavy step at a time. His dark hair hung loose over his shoulders—he was due for a cut and would have one soon—and he was dressed simply in a tunic and kilt that had seen better days. Ye have perfect timing, as usual, Lorne, he all but growled as he met his friend’s eyes. Absently, he rubbed the old scar that traveled down his jaw line and disappeared under his collar.

I usually do. Lorne extended his arm, and the two men grasped each other’s wrists in greeting. Now, what was that all about? He gestured back to the door with his thumb.

Just another maid, unable to do her job, Angus replied dismissively.

And what exactly was that? Putting up with yer mercurial moods? Lorne asked.

Angus’s nostrils flared.

Come now, Lorne said, patting the man on the shoulder. How many is that this year? Four maids? Five?

The laird looked away uneasily. Four maids, a stable hand, and a kitchen assistant, he relented, crossing his arms over his chest.

Lorne whistled. Do ye have anyone left? He peered around as if servants might be hiding in the dusty corners of the front hall.

Angus grunted. I have enough. He thought about Eliza, his housekeeper, and Thomas, his cook, both of whom had been with the family for years. They were used to his temper. Alongside the gardener and the handful of stable hands he had left, it was barely sufficient to run the large estate and its surrounding property.

Lorne side-eyed his friend but dropped the subject. Regardless, ‘tis good to see ye again, old friend. I’m glad we could set aside a few days for a visit, although one of these days ye really have to come north to see me manor in exchange. He smiled.

Angus nodded absently. He rarely left the McDowell estate, preferring his own company and the solitude of his study. Leaving meant socializing, and he had very little interest in that in the last two years. He traveled to visit Lorne, he was sure the man would wrangle him into some festivity or another. Nae, he thought to himself, best I stay here where I’m not to be bothered.

He gestured to his friend to follow and headed down the side hallway, passing a series of old tapestries that hung from the stone walls. They had all seen better days, the bottoms of a few looking worn and ragged where they trailed near the floor. Soon enough, they came to a solid oak door. Pulling the key from his sporran, Angus unlocked the latch and stepped inside, heading straight to the large desk in the center of his study. Swiping a dark bottle from the cluttered mess and two glasses from a side table, he deftly poured himself and Lorne a drink.

How was the journey? he asked, handing the glass to his friend.

Lorne took it gratefully. Well enough, I’d say. I left early and made it here by noon, so I ken I made good time of it. He tasted the dark whiskey and smiled in appreciation.

Angus turned and dropped into the large chair behind his desk. The room was a mess, even he had to admit, but he forbade any of the servants from tidying things in his study. The woman who just left had tried, and that was the last straw. He’d cornered her while she was tidying his bed-chamber and fired her on the spot. He almost wondered if he could be in the wrong, but he dismissed the idea. Regardless, as a consequence of his orders, the tabletop was covered in a scattering of ledgers and loose parchment. Old correspondence, maps, notes, and balance sheets he hadn’t bothered to file away into their proper places were stacked in haphazard piles. Dust coated the mantel over the fireplace, and cobwebs had formed in the highest shelves of the bookcases. Part of him knew he should feel ashamed for the state of affairs, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Lorne sat opposite from him, his eyes falling on a pile of unopened letters, the wax seals still intact. Before Angus could stop him, he reached out and plucked the top letter off the stack. A wee behind on yer letters, Angus? he asked, using a nail to pop open the red wax seal.

Only the frivolous ones. The large man threw back the contents of his glass and poured himself a second. He knew better than to argue with Lorne when he started poking around in other people’s business. If it had been anyone else, Angus would have already thrown him out, but the two were like brothers. If Lorne could tolerate his tempers, he could tolerate his meddling.

Lorne read the letter and then spun it to show to Angus. Why, ‘tis an invitation from Lord MacAllister. Some kind of dinner feast.

So? Angus growled.

Ye should go to this, Angus. It would be good for ye. He looked at the letter again. Och, except that it was last week. The corners of Lorne’s mouth dropped into a grimace.

All the best then, Angus replied, taking a sip of his drink.

Lorne turned back to the pile of unopened letters. Are these all invitations ye’ve just been ignoring? What if one of them was important?

The only letters of import are the ones that come directly to me by courier. Angus tapped a finger on another pile of opened notes. Each contained reconnaissance from his contacts throughout the north. Those investigations were the only thing that really mattered to Angus anyway.

Lorne pulled a larger letter out from the bottom of the first pile. What about this one? ‘Tis from yer company manager?

Angus took the mail from his friend and put it aside. Anything worth reading Wallace brings to me personally, he said as a matter of explanation.

Angus. Lorne leaned forward in his chair, a serious expression on his face. ‘Tis one thing to neglect yer social life, but the trade business too?

The McDowell family business stretched back generations, and as the only heir, its management fell completely into Angus’s hands. An overseas trading company specializing in import and export goods, its success had brought the family its wealth and status. It practically runs itself, Angus countered. Wallace kens what he’s doing.

Wallace McGowan is just a manager. Aye, he can see to the day to day, but ye’ve got the McDowell name. Yer at the helm, Lorne argued.

Angus grunted, dismissing the notion. I have more important things to be doing than monitoring ledgers and petty work disputes.

Och? Like what? Lorne asked.

Like finding me family’s murderers, Angus growled, his eyes intense.

Lorne’s face softened. Me friend. ‘Tis been two years, and ye’ve yet to find any substantive leads. Nae it time to move forward, to live yer life without the constant desire for revenge?

A shiver of rage ran through Angus’s core, and he slammed his glass against the desktop. Some of the whiskey splashed up, sending droplets over the papers. Are ye suggesting I give up? he asked darkly.

Lorne’s eyes were gentle as he met Angus’s. Nae, Angus. Ye donnae have to give up. But ye need to remember ye have more to live for. Yer brother and sister would want ye to have a life.

The mention of Sarah and Jacob took the wind out of Angus’s sails. He slumped back into his seat.

Bolstered, Lorne continued. If ye keep on this path, if ye keep being a recluse like this, yer going to be a bachelor forever. Ye’ll have nothing to show for yer life. Who will ye grow old with? Who will take over the family business when yer gone? Will ye let the whole company die along with ye?

The laird looked away, unable to meet his friend’s gaze. He knew Lorne was right. Holding himself up in his home wasn’t an answer to his problems, but he had no interest in pretending to care about such useless things as social standing. He hadn’t the patience for it.

At least tell me ye’ll think about it, Lorne added.

Angus finished his whiskey and stood. I’ll think about it, he said, getting to his feet. But only if ye donnae mention it again.

Lorne stood along with him. Deal.

Now, Angus said, placing his glass back on the desk. Are ye up for a ride? I could use some fresh air.

Lorne threw back the remainder of his liquor and nodded. Only if ye get me some lunch first.

That, I can manage, Angus replied, and the two headed for the estate’s kitchens.

2

The air was still as Iris made the long walk up the hill from the family’s cemetery plot. It had only been five days since her father’s funeral, and she’d spent every morning saying prayers at his grave. His death had come as a surprise. His health for the last two months hadn’t been perfect, but she never would have expected the sudden downturn it had taken only a week ago. What had started as a persistent headache quickly devolved into a fever and chills until he couldn’t even rise from his bed without a struggle. Within days he was dead, choking on his own blood as Iris could do nothing but watch.

Her childhood home crested ahead of her, the cold stone stark against the clear blue sky. Beyond, the rolling land was lined with tangled hedges of berry bushes that went on as far as her eyes could see. The men would be hard at work in the winery by now, and the inn to the south already bustling with patrons. She hoped she could slip into the manor unnoticed. Her mother had been growing more and more impatient with her, making quiet remarks about how pale she looked from her days spent indoors, how skinny she was from her lack of appetite. But Iris’s father had been her world. As his only heir, he treated her as he would have a son, teaching her the family businesses of fruit wine production and inn management. Iris, in turn, found she loved dealing with numbers and communicating with the vintners and cooks. He wanted nothing more than for Iris to marry well and run the estate with her future husband, but only when she was ready.

Her mother, however, had had other plans. She wanted Iris to marry far above her station and reprimanded her father for occupying her time with mathematics and men’s affairs. She felt time was better spent on social pursuits, and Iris had often overheard the two arguing about what was best for her future. Now that her father had passed, it seemed her mother’s concerns about their social lives was catapulted to the forefront. She insisted Iris start meeting with men twice her age to secure her standing and preserve the estate. So far, Iris had managed to demur, her focus instead on mourning her father. But she knew she couldn’t avoid her mother forever.

There ye are, her mother Margaret cried out as Iris crossed the threshold into the front hall. Where have ye been all this time?

Iris unwrapped the dark scarf from around her hair and hung it on a hook near the door. Whe-where I’ve been every m-morning, Mama. Visiting Papa, she stuttered softly.

Margaret’s eyes narrowed for a moment, but her grim expression was quickly replaced with a large smile. Aye, well. I’m glad ye are back. I have someone I’d like for ye to meet.

Iris blinked in surprise. O-och? she asked timidly.

Aye, and please wipe that doe-eyed look off of yer face. Margaret stepped forward and used her thumb to wipe away a smudge from Iris’s cheek. His name is Laird Highwater—Kenneth Highwater—and he has agreed to marry ye. Can ye believe it? Her mother’s voice rose with excitement as the words tumbled out.

Iris tilted her head, sure she had misheard. M-marry, m-me?

Ye dinnae think ye could be single and mourning forever, did ye? Margaret shook her head and slipped one arm around her daughter, directing her forward toward the reception room. Iris went limp, allowing her mother to push her forward. Now, donnae say verra much, we ken how yer speech can be a little… difficult. Just let me do the talking, aye?

Iris was too stunned to reply and suddenly found herself in the reception room, face to face with a tall, reddish blonde-haired man with a heavy beard. He took a moment to look her up and down, and Iris couldn’t help but feel like she was being examined the way her father would have evaluated a new horse for proper pedigree. Rather than meet her eyes, the man looked toward Margaret.

Och, so this is the bonnie Iris ye’ve spoken so much about. His gaze fell on her then, cold and calculating. His eyes were dark pools of umber brown, reflecting nothing.

Aye, her mother responded, her fingers digging into Iris’s shoulder. She was just out enjoying the morning sunshine and was very delighted to hear that ye were here.

Is that so, Iris? he asked curiously.

Iris swallowed the lump in her throat. Aye, she replied quietly, her own gaze falling to the stone floor at her feet.

A heavy finger lifted her chin back up, and she found his face to be only inches away from hers. He was looking for something in her eyes, but she had no idea what. She squirmed under her mother’s grip, but if he noticed her discomfort, he didn’t care. After a moment, the laird dropped his hand, releasing her. He turned to Margaret with something of a bored expression on his face.

Aye, she will do, he said with finality. He strode past the pair toward the door. I expect all to be prepared in three days’ time. Until then, I will be staying at the inn, with yer hospitality, of course.

It was clear to Iris that this was an order, not a request. She turned to her mother, but she was just beaming back at Laird Highwater. Of course, m’laird. It will soon be yer inn to do as ye please, after all.

His lip curled up into a half-smile, but before he could turn away, Iris shrugged off her mother’s claw-like grip. Ju-just wait a minute, she managed to get out. Tha-that’s it? Donnae I have any say in th-this?

The laird’s thick eyebrows raised, reminding Iris of bushy