Page 2 of Hope in the Highlands (Seduced in Scotland #1)

Scottish Highlands, June 1855

Graham MacKinnon stood perfectly still beneath the barrel-vaulted ceiling of the dining room in Lismore Hall. His gaze was transfixed on a massive portrait suspended on the wall, surrounded by fifty or so mounted deer antlers, an ode to the Scottish sense of decor. The painting had hung in this room for over a hundred years, and while Graham had often studied the faces portrayed in the piece of art, he always found himself a bit surprised to remember that these were his kin.

A dark-haired woman with a hint of a smile on her lips sat on a bench in front of a woodland scene beneath a towering beech tree. She was flanked by two young sons, both of whom resembled her, sitting on either side of her. A stern man with a square chin stood erect behind them, and his hand curled around the lapel of his jacket. He glared down at Graham. All of them were draped in the green and red plaid of the Clan MacKinnon, unaware that their family was only a few short months away from being destroyed.

Graham had never met his great-grandfather, as Fergus MacKinnon had died over eighty years before he was born, but he often found himself wondering about the old highlander. Would Fergus believe that he would be dead only six months after this portrait had been painted, one of the thousands who fell at the ill-fated battle of Culloden? What would he have done if he knew the Crown would seize all of MacKinnon’s ancient clan lands, leaving his widow and two sons with nothing more of their once-vast estate but their beloved Lismore Hall?

And what would he do if he learned that his grandson, Graham’s father, James, had lost Lismore Hall in a single hand of cards fifty years later?

Footsteps echoed from the hallway, jolting Graham away from his thoughts.

“MacKinnon!” an elderly, bejeweled woman said from behind him.

Dragging his attention away from the portrait, he bowed to greet her. Her blackwood cane tapped against the flagstone floor. She came towards him, followed by her butler, Andrews. “I didn’t know you would be stopping by today.”

He smirked, allowing himself to find the humor in the fact that an Englishwoman was living in his ancestorial home. MacKinnon had been visiting her the first Monday of every month for the past ten years, and every time, Lady Belle Smith acted surprised to see him.

“Lady Belle,” he said, bowing over her outstretched hand. Taking it, he pressed his mouth to the back of her small, wrinkled knuckles covered in emerald rings. “Terrible weather we’re having, no?”

A fierce roll of thunder echoed above them as the rain fell loudly against the ceiling. The storm had been raging since the night before. Inhaling deeply, Graham could smell the ancient, exposed timber above his head and the faint, musty scent that emanated through the red sandstone walls that always magnified during a rainstorm.

The storm was a blessing, dissipating the heatwave that had stifled the country for weeks. Graham felt as if he was finally been able to breath. He loathed the heat.

“It’s dreadful, absolutely wretched,” she replied, shuddering at the mention of it. Her eyes flickered to the windows along the far end of the dining room. “But,” she said, perking up, pointing her index finger towards the ceiling, “I have no doubt it will stop storming by tomorrow.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” she said, pausing before addressing her butler. “Andrews, will you have some tea brought in?”

“Yes, my lady,” the butler said with a nod, leaving the room at once.

Graham watched the man exit. He waited until they were alone to continue their conversation.

“And how can you be so certain that the weather will change?” he asked.

“The storm clouds have a purple tint to them,” she said, lifting her cane and pointing it at the window. “Go and see for yourself.”

Not sure what the color had to do with anything, but used to being ordered about by the older woman, he walked to the window. Pulling the gold damask curtain back, he looked toward the sky. As Lady Belle had reported, the angry, rolling clouds had a purplish hue.

“And purple signifies?”

Lady Belle gave him a reproachful glance. “Surely, you’ve heard the rhyme? If skies are purple, gather the kernel?”

Graham’s brow furrowed. “Ack. That’s a terrible rhyme,” he said slowly. “And it doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does so,” she insisted. “It means the next day is a good day to start sowing seeds.”

He didn’t believe a word of it. Lady Belle was a peculiar woman with a reputation for constantly expounding half-truths and fanciful ideas. The vast majority of them could have been easily disproven, except that no one ever really wanted to invalidate her. There was a strange appeal to Lady Belle made the local people wish to indulge her.

It could have been her old age, sharp wit, or evergreen beauty. Even at seventy-five years old, Lady Belle was still a remarkably handsome woman. Her hooded blue eyes still shone with youthful mischief, and while wrinkles creased the corner of her eyes and mouth, they seemed to be caused by a lifetime of laughter in a way that enhanced the charm of her smile rather than diminishing it. Her once pale blonde hair had whitened, giving her a certain glow against the dark interior of Lismore Hall.

Yes, there were several reasons everyone who lived on the estate and the surrounding lands allowed Lady Belle a certain amount of grace. But mostly, it was because she had once, very publicly, made an English king beg for mercy.

“You’re daft, and you know that, don’t you?” Graham said.

Lady Belle barked with laughter and whacked her cane on the floor.

“Oh! You’re a fresh man, MacKinnon!”

He smiled, enjoying the ease with which they spoke. Given the circumstances that had brought her to live here, he doubted Fergus MacKinnon would appreciate his descendant’s strange friendship with the wily Englishwoman. Still, Lady Belle was the sort of saucy woman MacKinnon men had often been drawn to.

“The words don’t even rhyme. Purple and Kernel.”

“It’s close enough.”

“It’s lazy language. And it’s yours. You should try harder.”

Lady Belle squinted at him.

“How do you say purple in your tongue?”

“Purpaidh,” he said.

“Well, that’s far too easy to rhyme. I prefer the correct way.”

“The English way, you mean.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Now, no starting that, Lady Belle,” Graham said, coming back towards her as a footman pulled out her chair.

She winked at him and nodded to the seat next to hers at the long, oak table in the middle of the dining room. Three Paris Porcelain vases painted with cornflowers held an array of flowers cut from the walled garden that wrapped around Lismore Hall. It was widely regarded as one of the most splendid gardens in the Highlands, and Lady Belle was always proud to display its blooms.

The oak table was long enough that it could easily seat sixty people. Graham sat next to her, ignoring the instinctive annoyance that he should sit at the side while she sat at the head of the table. It had bothered him greatly when he’d first started his visits ten years ago, but now it hardly fazed him.

Well, almost.

Andrews returned, followed by a slew of servants delivering platters of sandwiches, cakes, and tarts, along with piping hot tea and a small glass of brandy. Lady Belle always had her tea boiling with a brandy splash. She also liked to pour it herself, shooing away the servants as soon as they placed the items before them.

Once finished with her own cup of tea, she poured one for Graham and handed it to him, ignoring his grimace. Graham disliked tea and preferred coffee over anything, but Lady Belle had insisted years ago that if he wished to speak with her, he’d have to take tea with her. It was another thing that had grated him at the beginning of their friendship, but he’d reconciled himself to it. Now he added a dash of cream and drank it as fast as he could.

He held the dainty pink porcelain saucer in his large hand and lifted the teacup with the other. He was sure he appeared ridiculous. How clever that tea set manufacturers would build such a fragile, easily breakable product, guaranteeing a return customer. Knocking back his head, he swallowed the entire serving of Earl Grey swiftly, unaffected by the scorching temperature.

“How are your bees doing in this weather?” she asked. “Do they suffer much when it rains? I hope it won’t affect business.”

The reference to his business made Graham want to puff out his chest slightly. Since studying agriculture at university at his uncle's insistence, Graham had become relatively successful in life. Years prior, he had invented a seed drilling attachment that could be fitted on a threshing machine during the planting season. It eliminated the need for two costly devices, combining the equipment for planting and harvesting into a single contraption. It had earned him a tidy sum of money that he had gone on to invest in a new venture: beekeeping. Lady Belle had allotted him the use of an old butterfly garden on the eastern side of the walled grounds at Lismore Hall.

“No, not at all. The bees love rain.”

“Do they?” She stirred the brandy into her tea, took a tentative sip, and smiled. “Well, do you wish to ask me your question before or after my news?”

“You have news?”

“I do.”

“Well then, let’s get it over with so you can carry on as you like,” Graham said, sitting up straight as he placed the saucer and teacup on the table. He reached past the delicate raspberry tarts and strawberry scones for a small, triangle-cut sandwich. Smoked salmon and dill—his favorite. Though, as always, he wished the kitchen would make the sandwiches substantially larger. He never came away satisfied from eating such tiny morsels.

“I do not carry on.”

“Aye, you do, because you’re always too invested in your story.” He popped the sandwich into his mouth in one bite and practically swallowed without chewing. Lady Belle watched him with amused disapproval. “You never notice everyone else eyes rolling in the back of their heads.”

“You’re a wicked, insolent man, MacKinnon.” Lady Belle scowled at him though her eyes were twinkling at his teasing. “I should say yes to you today if only to finally put an end this friendship.”

“Cor, you’ll not be saying yes today.”

“Then why do you still come to ask?”

Graham considered it, choosing his words carefully. Though he had become fond of the older woman, he didn’t quite know how to explain to her that even though she would always refuse his request, it wasn’t in him to stop trying.

“Well, I suppose it’s because I enjoy your company, as annoying as you are. And because I would be lacking if I didn’t at least ask. Once a month. For the rest of your life.”

Lady Belle seemed pleased with his honest answer and leaned over the table.

“You’re a sweet boy, Graham. If I was fifty years younger, I think I would have set my cap for you.”

Graham smiled, moving his hand over the apricot tarts. Deciding instead on a petite raspberry pastry, he plucked it from the tray before replying.

“If you were fifty years younger, I’d be running in the other direction.”

Lady Belle chortled with unrestrained joy.

Theirs was an odd relationship and Graham hadn’t always liked her, but with fair reason. When he was ten, his uncle, Laird McTavish, explained to him how Lismore Hall had been lost. For years, Graham had disliked Lady Belle for being the victor of that card game, but there was an undeniable charm about her, and he could not help but be won over.

She wiped a tear away from her cheek as she laughed, trying to settle herself down.

“Andrews?” Lady Belle said, her brow creasing as she stared down at the slice of almond-topped Dundee cake on her plate. “Did the cook do something different with the recipe?”

“I don’t believe so, my lady.”

“Are you sure?”

“Would you like me to ask, my lady?”

“Yes,” she said. Andrews left the room and she pointed her fork at Graham. “You know, I remember the first time I had Dundee cake. It was right here, the night you were born.”

Graham had heard this story before.

“Oh?” he said, feigning interest.

“Your father insisted we have cake and champagne while we waited for word that you had been delivered.”

An irrational bitterness settled in his gut. James should have been upstairs with Graham’s mother, but instead he was in this very dining hall, gambling away Graham’s future. His father had lost Lismore in an ill-fated hand of cards while his wife died in childbirth. The shame had drove his father mad with guilt and he drank himself to an early death not a year later. Little wonder, then, that Graham had grown up feeling a lack of pride in his own name.

“Well, he did enjoy a drink or two, from what I’ve been told.”

Belle gave him a piteous look just as Andrews returned.

“My lady, there has been no change to the Dundee cake recipe.”

Lady Belle waved her hand absently at the butler as if she had half forgotten that she had even had him inquire about it.

“Tell me,” she said, her bracelets jiggling together as she carved into another pastry with her fork. “How is my friend McTavish? You know, your uncle has not been to see me for some time.”

“He’s very well,” Graham said, shifting in his seat. “Although he is cross with you.”

“With me? Why so?”

“He said you ignored an invitation of his last month.”

Lady Belle rolled her eyes.

“I was unwell,” she said, putting her fork down. “I thought I sent my regards. Do apologize on my behalf. I hate to think that he’s upset with me.”

“Uncle has never managed to stay mad at you long.”

Graham was very familiar with his uncle’s temperament since the man had raised him, alongside a brood of his cousins. It had been a happy childhood. Though he knew he wasn’t a McTavish, Graham had been grateful for the acceptance he’d found in his mother’s kin. But the shame of his father’s sins had weight heavily on Graham, even in his youth. He had made a promise that one day a MacKinnon would regain ownership of Lismore Hall, no matter what it took. But no amount of begging, threats, payment, or promises Graham had tried over the years could get the older woman to budge when it came to selling the property back to him. She had the deed and a clause written in the king’s own will that she controlled Lismore Hall, and she would not relinquish it.

Graham leaned over the table. “Ready for my offer?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “Yes, go ahead.”

“Very well,” he said, taking a deep breath.

Even though Graham knew the answer, a flutter of nerves always settled in his stomach before he started. “Lady Belle, it has been thirty years since you took the deed to Lismore Hall. This is my family’s home. My ancestors built it. The rock we’re standing on was placed here by their very hands. My own great-grandfather,” he said, pointing to the portrait he had been staring at moments ago, “hangs from these walls.”

Lady Belle nodded, smiling sweetly at him as though she were an understanding grandmother.

“Yes, I know, dear.”

“Now I’ve grown fond of you, Lady Belle. I have, truly. I’ve no wish to take anything from you that you do not freely consent to give. But I’m more than willing to offer a fair price. Do you think you can ever find it in your heart to sell my home, a home I have never been permitted to fully know, back to me?”

There was a slight pause before she spoke.

“You know, MacKinnon, it’s getting harder to say no to you,” she said softly, a strange twinkle in her eye. “I think I should very much like to give this home of yours back to you.”

He knocked over his teacup but quickly caught it. What had she just said?

“Excuse me?” he asked roughly, sure that he had misheard her.

Was she jesting with him? Or making him out to be some fool? She never said things like that. She always declined and they would resume their pleasant conversation.

“But I should like something in return.”

Graham’s ears began to buzz as if his bees were swarming around him. As he stumbled to his feet, a swell of hope and yearning exploded in his chest. He felt dizzy as emotion welled up within him.

“Are … are you serious?” he managed to croak out.

“I said I should like something in return,” she repeated sternly, though he sensed she was pleased with herself for surprising him. “And you’re not going to like it.”

“Name it,” he said quickly, hurrying to her side. “Any price, I promise.” She knew he was more than prepared to be generous—but offers of money had never swayed her before. What had changed?

She smiled the same way that his aunt had when she demanded he and his cousins stop playing and take a bath when they were children.

“Well, this would be an exorbitant price, but not measured in gold. Her name is Hope. Hope Sharpe, and I’d like it very much if you marry her.”

Graham gaped at Lady Belle for a moment before letting out a bark of laughter. But when she didn’t move to join him in laughter at her joke, he frowned.

“Excuse me? Are you serious?”

“Oh, I’m quite serious.”

“Who is she?” Graham demanded. And then, “I mean, I can’t marry a lass I don’t know.”

“Well, I know her, and I’m an excellent judge of character,” Lady Belle stated, waving her emerald clad hand as she refocused her attention on her tea, causing the carved jade bracelets to clang together. The varying gemstones rather clashed with each other, but Lady Belle was an eclectic woman, having become more so in her old age. It mattered little to her whether her jewelry matched or not. She wore her favorite pieces often and in defiance of complimenting style.

She took a sip before acknowledging Graham’s frozen stance. “Yes? Is there something wrong?”

“Aye, there is,” he said slowly, his temper rising. “I just told you that I can’t marry a woman I’ve never met before.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, setting down her cup. Taking up a linen napkin, she gently wiped the corners of her crinkled mouth. “Because you are in love with someone else?”

“No, I—”

“Well then, I see no obstacle in your way that would keep you from marrying my Hope.”

“Look harder,” he growled. “I’ll not have my conjugal life managed by some ancient Englishwoman.”

“It doesn’t matter what you will or will not do,” she said pointedly. “Because you do not understand what I’m saying.”

“And what are you saying?”

“You have to marry Hope to get Lismore Hall.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I’m leaving it to her,” Lady Belle said.

For the first time in a long time, Graham’s cheeks heated uncomfortably. He usually had better self-control, but he felt genuinely hurt at being deceived. He had assumed that after years of friendly banter and conversation, Lady Belle would eventually concede and leave Lismore Hall to him in her will. She had alluded to that once or twice, and now she was telling him it wouldn’t happen. This Hope woman was going to inherit what should have been his.

“Mealladh nathair!” he bit out, both glad and disappointed she didn’t speak Scottish.

“I know nathair means snake, so I can only imagine what mealladh means, but I won’t hold it against you,” she said, twirling one of her large emerald rings around her finger. “I know this has come as a bit of a shock.”

“A shock?”

“She is a lovely girl, and I know you will suit very well together.”

“I’ll not be match-made, so you can forget it.”

“No, you’ll be foolhardy instead. Very well,” she said, focusing her attention back to the dish before her, though she didn’t seem too interested in eating the tiny sandwich. “If you’re so incensed about it, we won’t discuss it further.”

“Then I don’t have to marry her?” Graham asked, his mood as foul as the weather.

“Of course not. No one is holding you hostage.”

“Then you’ll leave Lismore Hall to me?”

She did not face him, but instead focusing on the branches from a Scotch broom whipped against the window. The snapping against the glass echoed between them.

“No.”

“Ack! Bloody English!” he shouted, pivoting on his heel as a roll of thunder sounded from overhead. “You’re all a bunch of backstabbing, unloyal bastards!”

“You Scottish are nothing but a roaming bunch of hotheads, unwilling to compromise.”

“Aye, I’ll not compromise my soul for you or any other damned English.”

Lady Belle tapped her walking stick three times on the floor. Within seconds, Andrews appeared.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Andrews, could you see Mr. MacKinnon out? He’s taken ill.”

“Ack, I don’t need to be tossed out of my own damn home,” he said, furious. “This is treacherous, and you know it, Lady Belle.”

“The girls arrive tomorrow around midday, I believe. If you wish to meet them—”

“What girls?”

She rolled her jade bracelets around her wrist and pursed her lips, visibly perturbed at his interruption.

“My nieces. The Sharpe sisters. Hope, Faith, and Grace.”

Graham just stared at her.

“You are joking,” he said. “Since when do you have nieces?”

“Well, Hope is twenty-six, so for about twenty-six years now,” she said sarcastically before continuing. “They suffered a tragic loss several years back, and they have been under the protection of my sister, their grandmother, ever since. Unfortunately, my sister took ill a fortnight ago and has passed away. They are now under my care and are on their way to Lismore at this very moment.”

Graham glared at her, unwilling to believe it. She had never said a word about family for as long as he knew her.

“Have you ever met them before?”

“Of course I have,” she said, sticking her chin up in the air, offended. “I spend every winter with them in Cornwall.”

“I thought you went to Italy in the winter.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

He glared at her.

“ You did ,” he said.

“Oh, well, it’s no matter,” she said hastily. “The girls arrive tomorrow, and I hope you will at least meet them—after your temper subsides, of course—before you make any rash decisions.”

“You’re out of your bloody mind if you think I’m going to marry one of your conniving kin. Curse James MacKinnon forever playing whist with the devil herself.”

“Scots,” she breathed, bring her index and middle finger up to rub at her temple as if she were fighting off a headache. “All of you are so dramatic.” She stood slowly, driving her cane into the stone to steady herself. “I’m simply offering you a chance to reclaim your ancestorial home—a home, I might add, that you’ve claimed repeatedly you were willing to do anything and everything to get back into your possession.”

“Aye, but—”

“And here I have a perfectly suitable offer, and you refuse it without even meeting the girl.”

“Now, wait just one minute—”

“All I ask is that you meet Hope and see if you suit. If you do, then I don’t know why a marriage wouldn’t follow.”

“Because I’ll not have my fate dictated by the likes of you.”

“Oh, MacKinnon, who better than me?” Lady Belle quipped. “I’ve managed several generations of men in my lifetime. I held a king in the palm of my hand, MacKinnon. A king.”

He scoffed.

“An English king,” he countered with disgust, shaking his head. “And you’ve lost your mind if you think I’m going to play your games.”

“I’ve not lost my mind. I’m merely hopeful.”

He shook his head.

“I can’t stand this. Good day.”

“MacKinnon—”

“I said, good day.”

Graham didn’t look back. He couldn’t. The sheer audacity of that woman floored him, and he would not give her the satisfaction of seeing him so unsettled—nor would he let her glimpse his heartbreak at the realization that he wouldn’t inherit his ancestorial home. It was too much. He had put up with Lady Belle for years and while, yes, they had come to have a tentative friendship, he had always believed she knew that he had been wronged and that she was an honorable enough person to one day give him a chance to get the home back. It’s what he deserved.

But an ultimatum? No, that was one thing he wouldn’t stand for.

Graham busted through the front doors and into the pouring rain. A footman spotted him and hurried back to the stables to fetch his mount, but Graham wouldn’t wait. He headed towards the stables himself, eventually meeting the footman as he brought around Graham’s horse, a Clydesdale named Redcap. In an instant, he was on the horse’s back and riding away from Lismore Hall. He tore off down the drive, eager to get away from this place.

How could Lady Belle have believed that he would agree to such an outrageous proposal? It was 1855, for God's sake, not the dark ages. He wouldn’t be cowed into marrying some homely English bride to get what was rightfully his.

Riding as fast as he could through the storm, Graham ignored the hundreds of sharp stings as the raindrops slammed into his body. He rode along the crest of the rocky range that would take him back south to Loch Awe, where his uncle lived at Elk Manor. He needed to vent, to rage out loud at Lady Belle’s audacity and swear never to deal with the likes of her again.

Because if there was one thing he knew for sure, it was that Graham MacKinnon would never marry Hope Sharpe.