Chapter 1

1

" I t's yer duty, Scarlett. Ye will be a pleasing wife to a great man." Laird O'Neill's words hung hot in the air between them.

This was not the first time they had argued about Reuben Buchan, but it definitely felt like the last. Scarlett wrenched open the window of the carriage to clear the repetitive argument from her mind. Her father was casually tossing duty around, and it made her feel like even more of a burden to her family than usual as an unmarried lass of twenty-two.

"But he's despicable, Faither, and stuck in the drink, and—and he's violent!" Scarlett protested, appealing to one of her father's least tolerated behaviors, but her mother wrapped a hand lightly around her balled fist in a desperate effort to keep the peace.

"Scarlett, Mack, can we nae have just one day where we dinnae fight? We can talk about this later. Peace for now, please," Sienna suggested to them both and released Scarlett's hand.

Despite her mother's plea for them to remain civil with each other, Mack Paton was a prideful man. His stubbornness on the matter remained unchanged, his decision remained final, and he was set to have the last word.

"Yer maither told me that ye wished to have a say in who ye would marry, and I'll hear nay more about it. Laird Donaldson will be here tonight with his son and heir, the young Buchan of course, and ye two will be formally introduced." He punctuated his demand by pointing one of his fingers in Scarlett's face, which set her teeth on edge.

The Patons' carriage moved swiftly through the tilled fields of Clan McLaren. They journeyed from O'Neill lands with several of their clansmen in tow for a week-long feast at Castle McLaren to celebrate the end of the five-year war. This marked a time for unity, remembrance, and, of course, the first of several opportunities for the Lairds to sign new trade treaties and structure new alliances in the form of marriages. There were going to be many other clans in attendance, and Scarlett would be furious if she was betrothed to the despicable Reuben Buchan at the end of this week.

She bit her cheek and thought up a way to sway her father.

I should tell him about the story I heard of what Reuben did to that French woman. Her screams could be heard throughout the town.

Her father's boastful lecturing droned on and on as they passed through the gates of Castle McLaren. The ride was almost over, and despite her father's efforts, Scarlett was determined to get her point across.

"I'm sorry for me outburst. I've only ever been on our lands, and the Donaldson lands are so far away that they may well be on the Continent. I'm just afraid of living somewhere I wouldnae be near to ye or Maither?—"

The carriage stopped, suddenly cutting her off.

Her father held up his hand. "Thank ye, Daughter. I'm just trying to do what's best for everyone. We'll talk about this more later." The scowl on his face faded away, and he smiled, clearly appeased. "Now, let's get ready."

Lady O'Neill was visibly relieved that the conversation was over and squeezed Scarlett's hand before obeying her husband.

With a practiced inhale, Sienna Paton closed her eyes and reset her emotions. Seconds later, her eyes fluttered open, and her face was the perfect picture of the demure and agreeable wife to the Laird of Clan O'Neill.

Hopefully, she gets into his ear later about it all and helps me stop this miserable match.

Laird O'Neill watched his wife with satisfaction, and then he turned his gaze to Scarlett, expecting her to do the same. In a last-ditch effort to appeal to her father's good side, Scarlett shut the window slowly and mirrored her mother's movements. Her jaw clenched so hard that she tasted the hint of iron in her mouth as she exhaled and looked back up at her father. The O'Neills had arrived as a united front, and no one would be the wiser.

Dinner was first, as designed, because no one likes to conduct business on an empty stomach. Scarlett was positioned next to Reuben, who was on his fourth glass of the Rhenish wine, while their fathers discussed topics of trade.

While she was far more interested in listening in on the clan business, Scarlett had been repulsively sidetracked by Reuben, who was making quick work of the wine and food. A few, nauseatingly long minutes later, lively music started to echo off the stone walls of Castle McLaren, coaxing everyone into the great hall.

Soft torchlights cast shadows on the clan banners hanging on the walls, and the cool breeze danced with the white drapery in the rafters. There were seasonal bouquets bursting out from tall vases standing on either side of every doorway, and the clansmen's swords were propped up against the walls.

As if divinity itself dealt the cards for the evening, Scarlett's eyes landed on the young Buchan, who was lurching his way around the hall.

What a dobber.

She stepped around her mother, turning her back so that it faced him because she figured that Reuben would not recognize her from behind.

"Ah, look, the young Buchan! Scarlett, ye should—" her mother started to say before cutting herself off, embarrassed by something occurring behind her.

Scarlett glanced over her shoulder in time to witness Reuben aggressively groping one of the maids who was balancing chalices on a tray. It looked like he was trying to pull her into the shadows of one of the clan banners hanging on the wall.

Before anyone in their group had a chance to speak out against Reuben's actions, a shadowed figure reached out, and a rather large hand fell on his shoulder. Scarlett twisted around and tried to get a better view of the owner of that hand. She watched as the phantom's hand squeezed Reuben's shoulder hard enough to make him wince and let the maid go.

It was clear when the young woman bowed deeply before disappearing behind the banner that the owner of the hand was their host. The reclusive Laird McLaren kept to the shadows along the wall as he marched the unfazed drunkard away. Scarlett looked to see if his father was paying attention, and was unsurprised to see that Laird Donaldson hadn't witnessed his son's bad behavior because he was still talking about trade relations with her father.

Reuben had a crooked smile plastered on his face as Laird McLaren let him go. They were close enough to her group for her to hear the disdain in the Laird's voice as he warned, "Ye keep yer hands to yerself, young Buchan. I'll nae tell ye again."

He was still in the darkness between two torches, and Scarlett assessed him intently as the light danced across his broad back and shoulders, muscular neck, and stubbled face.

Laird McLaren is… young?

Her contemplation was interrupted by the aggressively possessive expression that Reuben wore on his face as his eyes fixed on her intently. Scarlett once again turned her back to him and tried to look anywhere else, even up at the ceiling, but she still felt his piercing stare, which sent a chill up her spine.

Her mother softly jabbed an elbow into her side. "Scarlett," she whispered calmly.

"Laird McLaren, thank ye for the invitation. Clan O'Neill is lookin' forward to this week of festivities," her father said loudly to the towering, tanned man who stood in front of them.

Scarlett now had a clear view of the man's sharp and angular profile but endeavored to maintain an air of propriety as he side-stepped to face her mother.

"Mack, ye fought with me faither. Ye fought for us to keep these lands. Please, call me Arran," Laird McLaren reminded her father politely.

The two briefly shook hands as old comrades before her father stepped away and continued, "I'm pleased to introduce ye to me wife, Sienna Paton."

"The Lady of Clan O'Neill, a pleasure. Me maither spoke very highly of ye and yer hospitality. I look forward to experiencing it meself one day. Arran, please, Ma'am," Laird McLaren said as he took Sienna's hand and planted a light kiss on her knuckles.

"Laird McLaren—" she started. "Arran," she demurely corrected herself with a slight tilt of her head. "I was sorry to hear about the loss of yer parents. They were such lovely people. Ye're welcome at Castle O'Neill, anytime, of course."

Scarlett let her eyes drift over the inexplicably attractive figure of her host as he shifted smoothly. His arm muscles rippled under his blouse while he gestured between her mother and his beautiful sister. The Laird's mouth was like a work of art, and his commanding voice drew her in like a moth to a flame. His cheekbones stood out prominently and cast shadows on the war-torn, ruggedness of his young face.

Heat coursed through Scarlett's whole body when his deep-set, cold amber eyes finally met hers. Her breath hitched slightly when his large, rough hands enveloped hers and he said, "Lady Scarlett."

The heat continued to crawl up her cheeks when he brushed his lips softly against the back of her hand and whispered, "At last."