Lachlan couldn’t get the memory of that kiss out of his head. Daphne had tasted as sweet as strawberries, her soft lips utterly tempting, and her curves made for his hands. It was a miracle he managed to stop. If he hadn’t heard her giggle, he might not have been able to. He would have laid her flat on the bed, her skirts tossed up over her waist and buried himself within her. He’d wanted her to clutch at his shoulders and writhe in ecstasy. The old Lachlan would have reveled in such reactions. Knowing a man could give pleasure to a woman so fully that she lost her control and sense of self had been one of his joys in life.

But that laugh of delight had been a douse of cold water. It shocked him from his haze of lust and, for that, he was grateful. Marrying her wasn’t supposed to be about making her happy or giving her pleasure. It was about justice. It was about revenge. It was about William. He could not dishonor his brother’s memory by becoming distracted by her. Oh, he would bed the pretty lass and likely enjoy it, but he was not going to allow her to have a happy life here. Her marriage would be penance for William’s death.

“You’re scowling again,” Daphne whispered as they entered the large dining room.

Lachlan tried to ignore how delectable she looked, even in a simple servant’s day gown and a tartan shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Freshly bathed, her hair smelling sweet and her skin glowing, she looked too innocent, too good to be Richard Westfall’s daughter. If only she wasn’t… If only.

“I’m not scowling,” he muttered.

“You are…” she said in that sweet voice. He was tempted to smile, but his mother waited for them, drawing his attention to other matters. They must have looked like a happily affianced couple, their bodies close as he escorted Daphne to her chair.

“There you are, Lachlan. I wondered if you two had become distracted.”

He forced a smile for her, even though it felt like a grimace.

“Come and sit by me, Miss Westfall.” The Dowager Countess patted the seat beside her.

“Thank you.” Daphne tried to pull free of his arm, but Lachlan escorted her all the way over to his mother and pulled back the chair for her. It gave him another chance to touch her, to brush his fingertips over her shoulders when he pushed her chair closer to the table after she was seated.

“Please, call me Daphne, my Lady.”

“Then you must call me Moira.” His mother beamed at Daphne. She smiled back, and for a moment Lachlan couldn’t remember why he’d brought Daphne here. All thoughts of anger and vengeance were obliterated like shadows beneath a noonday sun. The open joy in her voice as she spoke to his mother was entrancing.

I shouldn’t be captivated, not by her. Anyone but her... The guilt of his brother’s loss prickled like an incurable itch, just out of reach.

“Lachlan, dear, when is the wedding to be?” Moira asked when he sat down across from them.

“The day after tomorrow,” he replied.

His mother’s brow knit with confusion. “So soon? That’s hardly sufficient time to prepare.”

“I need only to meet with the vicar at the Kirk of Huntley and schedule a quick service.”

His mother was openly frowning now. “But your bride needs a proper trousseau.”

“She doesn’t require such fine things.” He smiled at his mother, his tone teasing, yet as he turned to Daphne, he added a bite to his gaze. “Do you?” A spark of fire blazed in her eyes, and her lips parted in protest before she composed herself.

“Quite right. In fact, I insisted that we not make a fuss. It seems so unkind to focus on a wedding whilst the family is still in mourning for William. A quiet, simple wedding is proper.”

“Really Lachlan, you must be willing to spend a little on your bride. This doesn’t happen every day. I know society dictates we stop living while we mourn, but I, for one, think it is wrong. Weddings should be a happy affair and we should act accordingly. We are quite comfortable and can afford to buy her a trousseau.”

He didn’t miss the way Daphne shifted in her chair at the mention of money.

“If you don’t wish for a trousseau for her, fine,” his mother continued. “But we must still invite a few friends to the wedding.”

Lachlan did not want anyone to be there, but a few witnesses would be required.

“What about Cameron McLeod and Eliza?” Moira asked. When Daphne showed open confusion, Moira patted her arm and added. “Cameron and Lachlan have been friends since they were wee bairns. They live only a short distance away. Cameron recently married. Eliza is a sweet lass.”

“Oh, that would be lovely.” Daphne’s shoulders sagged in relief and Lachlan now frowned. He didn’t want his close friends to see him marry the daughter of the man who had driven William to his death. Not that anyone except him would ever know the truth, but his victory was grim and he didn’t wish to celebrate it.

“Please, Lachlan.” Daphne breathing his first name drew him from the thoughts that shadowed his heart.

Candlelight illuminated her features, showing her full and beseeching eyes. That soft part of his heart he thought he’d buried with William resurrected itself.

“I should like very much to meet your friends.” Her smile was tentative and shy.

He tried to cling to the edges of his anger and bitterness. Tell her no, just say no. But the refusal never made it past his lips.

“Er… I suppose I could invite them. We will need witnesses, after all.”

“Wonderful!” Moira exclaimed. “We will make a party of it. I know we must still mourn, but I could do with a bit of laughter in this house. I believe it’s what William would have wanted.”

Both women turned to him, hope shining in their eyes. Lachlan knew he would never win an argument if both his mother and bride aligned. He stared down at the food as dinner was brought in, but did not think he could eat. Conversation moved around him and he felt much like a large stone cast in a stream. The rivers of words flowed around him, unstoppable, soothing. He hated how easily his mother and his fiancée got along. He threw in a word or two when questions were sent his way, but the ladies seemed content to talk on without him.

He had made the foolish assumption that by bringing Daphne here, he could control her happiness and keep her defeated and miserable. But he hadn’t planned that his mother would take to Daphne so quickly. Since William’s death, she’d been quiet, her heart wounded by her grief. Now he saw the glint of joy in her eyes and he welcomed the return of her smile. If he ruined Daphne’s happiness, it would make his mother retreat into her pain all over again and he could not do that to her.

I should never have agreed to meet Daphne. Damn Stirling and his foolish ideas.

He could still break the contract and send Daphne back to Stirling. But Lachlan couldn’t stomach the thought of another man claiming her.

He listened to his mother and Daphne talk, but the longer he watched them, the more his stomach turned to knots. He shoved his chair back and stood. Moira and Daphne turned to him, eyes wide in surprise.

“Excuse me. I’m afraid I don’t feel well.” He offered no other explanation, but simply left the dining room.

The corridor outside was dark, with evening shadows playing tricks upon his eyes. He paused at the base of the grand stairs to face the portrait of his older brother. William stood proud in his kilt and black coat. His face held an eerie, life-like quality. The artist had captured the hint of sorrow in his eyes and the worry lines around his mouth. William had always been one to fret over even the smallest of details.

Brother, why did you do it?

He closed his eyes. The memories were there, swirling just beneath the surface like the waters of a deep loch. He couldn’t block out the past; it came rushing up to meet him, drowning him.

The late fall at Huntley Castle was always exquisite. The gardens were just beginning to lose their summer blossoms and the walkways were littered with colored petals. The trees were turning a brilliant array of reds and golds, which set the sky on fire when the sun began to set behind the edge of the castle.

Lachlan soaked in the beautiful view as he rode up to the front steps. As he dismounted, he felt that the world held out every answer, every dream to him. He smiled as he dropped the reins into the hands of the waiting groom and took a step toward the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw William at the window of his study, watching him. Lachlan waved, eager to see his brother. He’d only just returned from a month in London.

But William hadn’t waved back. He hadn’t seen Lachlan, at all. His gaze had been distant, seeing things beyond the window’s view. Then he noticed the pistol in William’s hand.

Why—

Lachlan rushed into the house, but he only made it a few feet before the shot rang out.

“William!” Lachlan plunged into his brother’s study, skidding to a halt inside. He saw William’s leg stretched out from behind his elegant desk.

“Will—” the name choked him. William didn’t move.

Lachlan stumbled forward, his legs leaden and his hand shaking as he approached the desk and leaned over to stare down at the pistol laying close to William’s right hand. And when he turned his gaze away, he saw the crimson splatter staining the wall.

The contents of Lachlan stomach threatened to rise. He covered his lips with the back of his hand, a strangled sound escaping his lips.

“Oh God…Oh God…”

The rustle of people in the doorway shocked Lachlan back to life. He felt as though he’d been split down the middle, like a lightning strike hitting an old oak tree. Part of him, the carefree part, was gone. What remained was a shell. That part of him took charge, sending a footman for the doctor, even though William was clearly gone. He ordered his mother to be kept away. She couldn’t be allowed to see her son like this.

How long he stood there as the world passed around and by him, he wasn’t sure. The body was covered and taken away, blood wiped from the walls. Only the dark, almost black, stain on the carpet remained.

Lachlan’s knees shook as he collapsed into William’s desk chair. His eyes burned as he fought to breathe past the agony that ripped through him like a storm upon the coast. He struggled to suck in a painful breath as he stared at his brother’s desk.

That was when he’d seen the letter. Neatly written in William’s hand, the quill placed at the bottom of the page. The remaining ink had dripped down to form a tiny black pool beneath his signature.

 

Mother,

I am sorry for all the pain my passing will cause you and Lachlan. I cannot bear the shame I have brought upon myself. In the coming days, you will learn of my involvement with a man named Richard Westfall. He was an investor I foolishly trusted with some measure of our family fortune. I assure you that we have not lost enough to ruin us, but Richard has been arrested for crimes of counterfeiting banknotes. He was using his notes to payout returns to his investors. I have accepted and used these funds and I encouraged many men I trusted to invest with him, who lost everything because of me. The guilt and shame of my involvement is too much to bear. I was never the man to run Huntley. That burden now falls to Lachlan. No doubt he will prove to be a better son than I ever was. Please pray for my damned soul. I hope I shall someday have the peace that I was deprived of in life.

Yours always,

William

 

Lachlan took the letter and locked it in the desk drawer. His mother could never be allowed to read it, yet he could not bring himself to burn the letter. Their mother would be devastated to learn the depths of William’s struggle to find peace within himself.

Moira would blame herself for failing to see William’s despair and not intervening to save him. If he could make one good come from this nightmare, he would spare their mother that particular agony.

Lachlan pulled himself out of the past, his heart heavy and his soul empty. He stared again into the layers of oil that formed his brother’s face and saw the hollow, haunted look that had rarely left his brother’s face while he lived.

You left us, Will, and you made me step into your life, a life I didn’t want. I cannot forgive you for this.

Lachlan closed his eyes and drew in a shaky breath, then made for the library at the far end of the house. The servants kept a fully stocked liquor cabinet in the room, and tonight he had every desire to drink himself into oblivion.

I want to forget you, Will. Forget you, forget Daphne and her warm brown eyes and petal soft lips. I want to drown it all away.

He knew the relief from his pain would be temporary, but he would do anything right now for a few blessed hours of numbness.