The Earl's Convenient Wife (Harlequin Romance) Page 4

  It would have broken Eileen’s heart if she’d known Alasdair was forced to let it go. Because of her? Because she lacked courage?

  What if...? What if...?

  ‘Think about it overnight,’ Alasdair said, pushing himself away from the door. ‘But I’m leaving in the morning. I need a decision by then.’

  ‘I’ve made my decision.’

  He stilled.

  She’d poured the milk into the flour and turned it to dough without noticing. Now she thumped the dough out of the bowl and flattened it. She picked up her cutter and started cutting, as if perfectly rounded scones were the only thing that mattered in the world.

  ‘Jeanie...’

  She shook her head, trying to figure how to say it. She finished cutting her scones, she reformed and flattened the remaining dough, she cut the rest, she arranged them on the tray and then she paused.

  She stared down at the scone tray. They were overworked, too. They wouldn’t rise properly. She should give up now.

  But she wouldn’t give up. She’d loved Eileen. Okay, Eileen, you win, she told her silently and then she forced herself to look at the man before her.

  ‘I’ll do it if I can stay here,’ she managed.

  * * *

  He didn’t get it. He didn’t understand where this was going, but business acumen told him not to rush in. To wait until she spelled out terms.

  She was staring down at her scones. She put her hands on her waist and her head to one side, as if considering. She was considering the scones. Not him.

  She had a tiny waist, he thought irrelevantly, for one so...curvy. She was wearing a tailored suit under her apron—for the funeral. Her suit had showed off her neat figure, but the tight ribbons of the apron accentuated it even more. She was curvy at the bottom and curvy at the top... Um, very curvy, he conceded. Her hair was tied up in a knot but wisps were escaping.

  She had a smudge of flour on her cheek. He’d like to...

  Um, he wouldn’t like. Was he out of his mind? This was business. Stick to what was important.

  He forced himself to relax, walking forward so he had his back to the fire. Moving closer.

  He felt rather than saw her flush.

  Inexplicably, he still had the urge to remove that smudge of flour, to trace the line of her cheekbone, but the stiffening of her spine, the bracing of her shoulders, told him he might well get a face covered in scone dough for his pains.

  ‘We’d need to live in Edinburgh,’ he said at last, cautiously.

  ‘Then there’s not even the smidgeon of a deal.’

  ‘Why the hell...?’

  And at that she whirled and met his gaze full on, her green eyes flashing defiance. She was so close...

  She was so angry.

  ‘Once upon a time I ached to get off this island,’ she snapped. ‘Once upon a time I was a fool. The islanders—with the exception of my father—support and care for me. In Edinburgh I have no one. I’d be married to a man I don’t know and I can’t trust. I’ve married in haste before, Alasdair McBride, and I’ll not do so again. You have much more to gain from this arrangement than I have, so here are my terms. I’ll marry you for a year as long as you agree to stay in this castle. Then, at the end of the year, I’ll inherit what the will has decreed I inherit. Nothing more. But meanwhile, you live in this castle—in my home, Alasdair—and you live on my terms for the year. It’s that or nothing.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’ He could feel her anger, vibrating in waves, like electric current, surging from her body to his and back again.

  ‘Take it or leave it,’ she said and she deliberately turned her back, deliberately broke the connection. She picked up her tray of unbaked scones and slid them into the trash. ‘I’m trying again,’ she told him, her back to him. ‘Third-time lucky? It might work for scones.’

  He didn’t understand. ‘I can’t live here.’

  ‘That’s your decision,’ she told him. ‘But I have some very fine whisky I’m willing to share.’

  ‘I’m not interested in whisky!’ It was an explosion and Jeanie stilled again.

  ‘Not?’

  ‘This is business.’

  ‘The whole year will be business,’ she retorted, turning to the sink with her tray. ‘I’m thinking it’ll be shortbread for the guests tonight. What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t care what you give your guests.’

  ‘But, you see, they’ll be your guests, too, Lord Duncairn,’ she told him. ‘If you decide on marriage, then I’ll expect you to play host. If you could keep wearing your kilt—a real Scottish lord playing host in his castle—I’ll put you on the website. It’ll pull the punters in in droves.’

  ‘You’re out of your mind.’

  ‘And so was Eileen when she made that will,’ Jeanie told him, still with her back to him. ‘So all we can do is make the most of it. As I said, take it or leave it. We can be Lord and Lady of the castle together or we can be nothing at all. Your call, Lord Duncairn. I need to get on with my baking.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  FOUR WEEKS LATER Lord Alasdair Duncan Edward McBride, Sixteenth Earl of Duncairn, stood in the same kirk where his grandmother’s funeral had taken place, waiting for his bride.

  He’d wanted a register office. They both had. Jeanie was deeply uncomfortable about taking her vows in a church, but Eileen’s will had been specific. Marriage in the kirk or nothing. Jeanie had felt ill when the lawyer had spelled it out, but then she’d looked again at the list of charities supported by the Duncairn foundation, she’d thought again of the old lady she’d loved, and she’d decided God would forgive her.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t support dogs’ homes,’ she told Maggie Campbell, her best friend and her rock today. ‘But I feel a bit of concern for AIDS and malaria and otters as well. I’m covering all bases. Though it does seem to the world like I’m buying myself a castle with marriage.’ She hadn’t told Maggie of the debt. She’d told no one. The whole island would think this deal would be her being a canny Scot.

  ‘Well, no one’s judging you if you are,’ Maggie said soundly, hugging her friend and then adjusting the spray of bell heather in Jeanie’s simple blue frock. ‘Except me. I would have so loved you to be a bride.’

  ‘I should have worn my suit. I’m not a bride. I’m half a contract,’ Jeanie retorted, glancing at her watch and thinking five minutes to go, five minutes left when she could walk out of here. Or run. Honestly, what was she doing? Marrying another McBride?

  But Maggie’s sister was a lawyer, and Maggie’s sister had read the fine print and she’d got the partners in her firm to read the fine print and then she’d drawn up a prenuptial agreement for both Jeanie and Alasdair to sign and it still seemed...sensible.

  ‘This is business only,’ she said aloud now, and Maggie stood back and looked at her.

  ‘You look far too pretty to be a business deal. Jeanie, tomorrow you’ll be the Lady of Duncairn.’

  ‘I... He doesn’t use the title.’ She’d tried joking about that to Alasdair. She’d even proposed using it in castle advertising but the black look on his face had had her backing right off. You didn’t joke with Lord Alasdair.

  Just Alasdair. Her soon-to-be husband.

  Her...lord?

  ‘It doesn’t stop the title being there, My Ladyship.’ Maggie bobbed a mock curtsy as she echoed Jeanie’s thoughts. ‘It’s time to go to church now, m’lady. If m’lady’s ready.’

  Jeanie managed a laugh but even to her ears it sounded hollow. She glanced at her watch again. Two minutes. One.

  ‘Ready, set, go,’ Maggie said and propelled her to the door.

  To marry.

  Third-time lucky?

  * * *

  He was standing at the altar, waiting for his bride. He’d never though
t he’d be here. Marriage was not for him.

  He hadn’t always believed that, he conceded. Once upon a time he’d been head over heels in love. He’d been twenty-two, just finishing a double degree in law and commerce, eager to take on the world. Celia had been a socialite, five years his senior. She was beautiful, intelligent, a woman who knew her way around Scottish society and who knew exactly what she wanted in a marriage.

  He couldn’t believe she’d wanted him. He’d been lanky, geeky, unsure, a product of cold parents and too many books, knowing little of how relationships worked. He’d been ripe for the plucking.

  And Celia had plucked. When she’d agreed to marry him, he’d thought he was the luckiest man alive. What he hadn’t realised was that when she was looking at him she was seeing only his title and his inheritance.

  But she’d played her part superbly. She’d held him as he’d never been held. She’d listened as he’d told her of his childhood, things he’d never told anyone. He’d had fun with her. He’d felt light and free and totally in love. Totally trusting. He’d bared his soul, he’d left himself totally exposed—and in return he’d been gutted.

  For a long time he’d blamed his cousin, Alan, with his charm and charisma. Alan had arrived in Edinburgh a week before he and Celia were due to marry, ostensibly to attend his cousin’s wedding but probably to hit his grandmother for more money. He hadn’t been involved with Jeanie then. He’d had some other bimbo on his arm, but that hadn’t cramped his style. Loyalty hadn’t been in Alan’s vocabulary.

  And it seemed it wasn’t in Celia’s, either.

  Two days before his wedding, Alasdair had realised he’d left his briefcase at Celia’s apartment. He’d had a key so he’d dropped by early, before work. He’d knocked, but of course no one had answered.

  It was no wonder they hadn’t answered. He’d walked in, and Celia had been with Alan. With, in every sense of the word.

  So now he was about to marry...another of Alan’s leavings?

  Don’t think of Alan now. Don’t think of Celia. He said it savagely to himself but the memory was still sour and heavy. He’d never trusted since. His personal relationships were kept far apart from his business.

  But here he was again—and he was doing what Celia had intended. Wedding for money?

  This woman was different, he conceded. Very different. She was petite. Curvy. She wasn’t the slightest bit elegant.

  She was Alan’s widow.

  But right now she didn’t look like a woman who’d attract Alan. She was wearing a simple blue frock, neat, nice. Her shoes were kitten-heeled, silver. Her soft brown curls were just brushing her shoulders. She usually wore her hair tied back or up, so maybe this was a concession to being a bride—as must be the spray of bell heather on her lapel—but they were sparse concessions.

  Celia would have been the perfect bride, he thought tangentially. That morning, when he’d walked in on them both, Celia’s bridal gown had been hanging for him to see. Even years later he still had a vision of how Celia would have looked in that dress.

  She wouldn’t have looked like this. Where Celia would have floated down the aisle, an ethereal vision, Jeanie was looking straight ahead, her gaze on the worn kirk floorboards rather than on him. Her friend gave her a slight push. She nodded as if confirming something in her mind—and then she stumped forward. There was no other word for it. She stumped.

  A romantic bride? Not so much.

  Though she was...cute, he conceded as he watched her come, and then he saw the flush of colour on her cheeks and he thought suddenly she looked...mortified?

  Mortified? As if she’d been pushed into this?

  It was his grandmother who’d done the forcing, he told himself. If this woman had been expecting the castle to fall into her lap with no effort, it was Eileen who’d messed with those plans, not him. This forced marriage was merely the solution to the problem.

  And mortified or not, Jeanie had got what she wanted. She’d inherit her castle.

  He’d had to move mountains to arrange things so he could stay on the island. He’d created a new level of management and arranged audits to ensure he hadn’t missed anything; financial dealings would run smoothly without him. He’d arranged a satellite Internet connection so he could work here. He’d had a helipad built so he could organise the company chopper to get him here fast. So he could leave fast.

  Not that he could leave for more than his designated number of nights, he thought grimly. He was stuck. With this woman.

  She’d reached his side. She was still staring stolidly at the floor. Could he sense...fear? He must be mistaken.

  But he couldn’t help himself reacting. He touched her chin and tilted her face so she had no choice but to meet his gaze.

  ‘I’m not an ogre.’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘And I’m not Alan. Business only.’

  She bit her lip and his suspicion of fear deepened.

  Enough. There were few people to see this. Eileen’s lawyer was here to see things were done properly. The minister and the organist were essential. Jeanie’s friend Maggie completed the party. ‘I need Maggie for support,’ Jeanie had told him and it did look as if she needed the support right now. His bride was looking like a deer trapped in headlights.

  He took her hands and they were shaking.

  ‘Jeanie...’

  ‘Let’s...let’s...’

  ‘Not if you’re not sure of me,’ he told her, gentling now, knowing this was the truth. ‘No money in the world is worth a forced marriage. If you’re afraid, if you don’t want it, then neither do I. If you don’t trust me, then walk away now.’

  What was he saying? He was out of his mind. But he’d had to say it. She was shaking. Acting or not, he had to react to what he saw.

  But now her chin was tilting in a gesture he was starting to recognise. She tugged her hands away and she managed a nod of decision.

  ‘Eileen trusted you,’ she managed. ‘And this is business. For castle, for keeps.’ She took a deep breath and turned to the minister. ‘Let’s get this over with,’ she told him. ‘Let’s get us married.’

  * * *

  The vows they spoke were the vows that were spoken the world over from time immemorial, between man and woman, between lovers becoming man and wife.

  ‘I, Alasdair Duncan Edward McBride, take thee, Jeanie Margaret McBride... To have and to hold. For richer or for poorer. In sickness and in health, for as long as we both shall live.’

  He wished—fiercely—that his grandmother hadn’t insisted on a kirk. The minister was old and faded, wearing Wellingtons under his well-worn cassock. He was watching them with kindly eyes, encouraging them, treating them as fresh-faced lovers.

  For as long as we both shall live...

  In his head he corrected himself.

  For twelve months and I’m out of here.

  * * *

  For as long as we both shall live...

  The words were hard to say. She had to fight to get her tongue around them.

  It should be getting easier to say the words she knew were just words.

  The past two times, she’d meant them. She really had.

  They were nonsense.

  Stupidly she felt tears pricking at the backs of her eyelids and she blinked them back with a fierceness born of an iron determination. She would not show this man weakness. She would not be weak. This was nothing more than a sensible proposition forced on her by a crazy will.

  You understand why I’m doing it, she demanded silently of the absent Eileen. You thought you’d force us to become family. Instead we’re doing what we must. You can’t force people to love.

  She’d tried, oh, she’d tried, but suddenly she was remembering that last appalling night with Alan.

  ‘Do you think I�
��d have married you if my grandmother hadn’t paid through the nose?’

  Eileen was doing the same thing now, she thought bleakly. She was paying through the nose.

  But I’m doing it for the right reasons. Surely? She looked firmly ahead. Alasdair’s body was brushing hers. In his full highland regalia he looked...imposing. Magnificent. Frightening.

  She would not be frightened of this man, she told herself. She would not. She’d marry, she’d get on with her life and then she’d walk away.

  For as long as we both shall live...

  Somehow she made herself say the words. How easy they’d been when she’d meant them but then they’d turned out to be meaningless. Now, when they were meaningless to start with, it felt as if something were dying within.

  ‘You may kiss the bride,’ the minister was saying and she felt like shaking her head, turning and running. But the old man was beaming, and Alasdair was taking her hands again. The new ring lay stark against her work-worn fingers.

  Alasdair’s strong, lean hands now sported a wedding band. Married.

  ‘You may kiss the bride...’

  He smiled down at her—for the sake of the kindly old minister marrying them? Surely that was it, but, even so, her heart did a back flip. What if this was real? her treacherous heart said. What if this man really loved...?

  Get over it. It’s business.

  But people were watching. People were waiting. Alasdair was smiling, holding her hands, ready to do what was right.

  Kiss the bride.

  Right. She took a deep breath and raised her face to his.

  ‘Think of it like going to the dentist,’ Alasdair whispered, for her ears alone, and she stared up at him and his smile widened.

  And she couldn’t help herself. This was ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous. Jeanie Lochlan marrying the Earl of Duncairn. For a castle.

  She found herself chuckling. It was so ridiculous she could do it. She returned the grip on his hands and she even stood on tiptoe so he could reach her.