1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

Oporto, Portugal, December 1876

" A true lady must maintain composure even when faced with the most uncivil company. " – The Polite Companion: A Lady’s Guide to Social Grace

“ H ighlanders have a disagreeable habit of tossing a woman over their shoulders and carrying her off to their caves.”

Beth’s gaze flicked to the secretary, but the haughty man gave no sign he’d heard her maid’s outrageous remark. “Dora, that’s enough. We’re not here to discuss barbaric folklore.”

Beth sat rigid, her gloved hands folded tightly in her lap. Her corset pressed against her ribs, tightening with every passing second she spent waiting.

Everything about Mr. Sandeman’s office was sharp and unadorned—no unnecessary flourishes. The dark mahogany furniture had clean lines and a polished gleam, the opposite of the old Georgian decor of her father’s wine-trading company down the street. Unbidden, a memory surfaced of her afternoon visits to Croft & Associates when Father greeted her with sweetmeats and called her his perfect little princess. That was before she’d lost the interest of the first suitor he had arranged for her.

Dora sighed. “At least they say Highlanders are handsome...”

“A lady’s concern lies not in physical appearances but in the grace of character.”

Despite Beth’s resolve to remain firm and businesslike, her mind conjured the image of Laird Mac-Ivor from her favorite novel, Waverley. A fictional hero, doubtless nothing like the man behind the closed door. Look at her, an Englishwoman who had never even seen a Scotsman. Granted, the English community in Portugal lacked such specimens, but Mr. Boyd Sandeman was to blame—he never appeared in polite society.

“Only a true lady would be so poised in this situation. Your old governess would be proud. Oh, this green silk is too soft. If only you had worn the blue velvet—much more suitable for back-carrying.”

Beth’s stomach swirled. She gave her maid a sharp glance. “No back-carrying for me today, Dora. Do you mind? This is a delicate matter.”

“Delicate is hardly a Highlander’s strongest trait.”

“I’m aware of the stereotypes, thank you. But Mr. Boyd is a businessman. I’m sure he can manage a civil conversation.”

Dora’s wide-set eyes gleamed with feigned innocence. “A businessman, aye. Who likely cuts deals while swallowing whiskey and wearing a kilt. You know they’re known for their bluntness. Ever heard of caber tossing?”

Beth smoothed her silk skirts, which were unsuitable for either caber or back tossing. “Yes, I’ve read about it. But I’m quite sure Mr. Sandeman won’t demonstrate any feats of strength during this meeting.”

Dora leaned in, lowering her voice. “Well, you never know. If the conversation doesn’t go as planned, you might have to dodge flying furniture. Highlanders, they do have tempers.”

The secretary cleared his throat and gestured to her with the finality of an executioner’s axe.

Only her good breeding kept her from flinching as he opened the door.

It gaped open, not ten feet from her. What awaited inside?

Beth rose, gripping her muff so tightly she feared she might ruin the fur.

Dora fluttered about, smoothing Beth’s gown and adjusting the plume of her toque. “Good luck,” the maid whispered, like a second offering last words before a duel.

Beth nodded. It was a universal truth that a woman jilted by her fiancé could not afford to be a chooser. Still, nausea churned in her stomach as she entered Boyd Sandeman’s office, her gait heavy as a funeral march.

The Scotsman was there, behind a massive desk. Frowning, he applied his quill to an unsuspecting paper.

Beth halted atop the Persian rug. Her palms grew clammy inside her gloves, and her corset seemed intent on depriving her of air. If only the carpet’s thick fibers could hide her discomposure.

How in the world would he receive her proposition? At least the furniture looked too heavy for even a man of his stature to toss.

Her heartbeat thudded loudly in her ears, a relentless pounding she was sure he could hear. When the clock ticked the half-hour, and he still didn’t look up, Beth drew a sharp breath. The barbarian was ignoring her!

She had been warned he lacked social graces, but sitting while a lady stood seemed the epitome of ill-breeding.

She blinked once, then twice, her spine straightening. If she stood tall enough, perhaps she could impose the decorum he so clearly lacked.

Perhaps this was how business was conducted in the Highlands—brusque and brutish—but there were standards. Etiquette. Respect.

And yet...

Her gaze snagged on his features, her indignation faltering. Dark hair curled just enough at his temples to soften the sharp angles of his jaw. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had the physique of a warrior from one of Sir Walter Scott’s novels.

Still, she had imagined Highlanders wild and untamed, their kilts swaying in the wind, their faces rugged from battle and weather. But here sat Mr. Sandeman—impeccably groomed. No kilt. No tartan. His tailored black frock coat and precisely tied silver cravat spoke of wealth. New money, certainly. He didn’t look the romantic Highlander—he looked a modern, calculating businessman.

But what of the man beneath the polished surface? Could he be as loyal and tender-hearted as Scott’s heroes—the kind who lived and died by their clans? She doubted it. From what she’d heard of Boyd Sandeman’s ruthless deals and amorous conquests, he was more rogue than gallant. Yet here she was, about to propose an impossible arrangement.

A brisk ocean breeze carried the briny scent of the sea, pushing the unruly feather of her toque into her eyes. Beth had been satisfied with her choice of attire: the rich forest-green gown hugged her figure with a perfect balance of elegance and modesty.

The toque, however—heaven help her. Why had she chosen such a fanciful thing? It had seemed like a whimsical addition to her winter wardrobe, something to set her apart. Now, as the feather arched precariously over her brow, tickling her forehead, she regretted the impulsive purchase.

Just as she blew the plume away, Mr. Sandeman finally lifted his head, his blue eyes piercing through her.

“What do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Miss Croft?” His voice was deep and smoky, yet shockingly refined—not a trace of a Scottish brogue.

Her brow shot up. Now he decided to acknowledge her? Beth pressed her lips into a firm line, forcing her indignation under control. A lady’s virtue lay in mastering her temper. Calm composure, after all, was true strength. Besides, she had promised her father she would try her best. She should do this quickly, like drinking foul medicine, and then he could say no. She would return to her house and pretend this had never happened.

“I came in the name of my father, Mr. Sandeman. I have a business proposition to make.”

“I don’t have deals with Croft.”

Of course, they didn’t. Her father despised the ‘Uncouth Scotsman’, and by Mr. Sandeman’s expression, the feeling was mutual.

“I’m aware of that, yes. But conditions change, don’t they?”

This felt wrong to her in so many ways, but a lady’s first loyalty was to her family, was it not? What of her own sense of pride? Nonsense. Pride was a sin. Hubris. People had burned at the stake for less.

Mr. Sandeman leaned back in his chair, one hand slipping into his coat pocket. His tanned complexion was a disconcerting detail in winter. Portugal’s sun was merciless, true, but his bronzed skin seemed an effrontery.

“What could your father possibly offer me, Miss Croft? I already own vineyards here and in Spain. I dominate the port wine and cherry market, while Croft & Associates flounders.”

The disdain in his voice pierced her chest, but she maintained her calm facade. A lady might feel as fragile as crystal, but she kept her cracks well hidden.

“My father’s health is failing,” she said carefully. “He needs someone to assume control of the company.”

His expression iced over, his stare unrelenting.

“Is he offering me a job? Tell him he is sixteen years too late—”

“He is offering my hand, Mr. Sandeman. In marriage.”

The moment the words left her mouth, she had to use all her composure to keep from cringing. This was a mistake. Even if her father required it, if their future required it. Gripping her muff, her eyes darted to the door. If she crawled out now, would he forget all about this mortifying situation?

The silence was deafening. He stared at her, a muscle ticking in his jaw. If he could just please say no and relieve her misery.

He rose from his chair. Beth held her breath, dreading the moment she would glimpse naked knees. But alas, he wore no kilt. His perfectly tailored frock coat marked him as a modern businessman, devoid of the romantic wildness she’d imagined. Instead of Laird Mac Ivor from Waverly, he was a slick tycoon—the type who stuttered along the street, pockets loaded with new money and self-importance.

Sans a kilt and long legs encased in fitted black trousers, he left his trench. There had to be a finishing school for Highlanders. In the absence of manners, it taught them how to lift their weight to a standing position and stride toward a woman with an intensity designed to make her stomach flutter.

When he stopped before her, far too close, she swallowed hard.

His arresting blue eyes burned bright against his sun-darkened skin. If she were feeling fanciful, she might compare them to a Highland loch—clear, yet hiding untold mysteries. But fanciful, she was not. His eyes were sardonic at best, cruel at worst, and they were fixed on her as he circled her slowly.

Her breath hitched as his fingers grazed the edge of her sleeve. The touch was fleeting yet deliberate, and her skin prickled where it had been.

“Do you have what it takes to be a winemaker’s wife, Miss Croft?” His beard, neatly trimmed, framed full lips that quirked as though savoring some private amusement.

Beth lifted her chin, merely to avoid speaking to his buttons, not to look down at him. No, that would’ve been an impossibility because he towered over her.

“I am skilled in managing a household, I play the piano with some talent, I’m fluent in French, of course, and I can be an asset as a hostess.” Her voice did not falter, though she knew well the precariousness of her position. A woman jilted by one suitor had little choice but to recite her qualifications with dignity—or risk sounding desperate.

“I have no doubt you would be the perfect Lalique wife to adorn an aristocrat’s hall, Miss Croft. But that wasn’t my question.”

Her feather chose that moment to flit into her eyes. She brushed it away with a sigh. “I’m sorry if I missed your meaning, sir.”

“What use do you think a man like me could have for an aristocratic wife?”

He got her at that, didn’t he? She looked at her polished slippers, waiting for him to refuse her then. Her chin trembled. Which was quite ridiculous and uncalled for, but she managed to keep the horrifying spurt of emotion by taking a deep breath and holding her muff as if it were a lifeline.

He stared at her, his gaze unsettling. Speak, then. Say no. Instead, he whirled on his heels and returned to his desk.

Would he not even deign to give her a reply? Would he work again and ignore her? The image of her, her back stooped with age, her red hair turned grey, staying at the same spot swept over her mind, and hysterical laughter bubbled in her chest.

But no. After writing something, a public refusal, perhaps? He came back to her.

“This is the address of my new vineyard by the Douro River. I expect you there in a week.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He glanced at his pocket watch with exaggerated impatience. “It is simple, Miss Croft. You want to be a winemaker’s wife. I won’t marry unless I find out if my intended has what it takes to be my partner. I’ll give you three days to prove yourself.”

“This is highly irregular. I can’t spend Christmas unchaperoned with you anywhere, least of all the Douro—”

“You won’t be unchaperoned. I’ll have friends for the holidays.”

“What friends?” She couldn’t congregate with ruffians and women of ill repute.

“Julia and Griffin Maxwell.”

Beth stilled.

He studied her like a peregrine, drinking her reactions. Did he know? Of course, he knew. The whole of Oporto knew she had been engaged to Mr. Maxwell... before he married a Portuguese woman.

For a moment, the emotions swirling in her breast seemed too much for whalebone and velvet to contain. Perhaps if her corset was made of steel... She gazed away from him, anywhere but at his curious, matter-of-fact eyes.

“Will their company be a problem, Miss Croft?”

“You’re nothing like the Highlanders in Sir Walter Scott’s novels.” She blurted and cringed. Why in heaven’s name would she say such a thing?

“Och aye, lass, maybe I should be swingin’ a claymore an’ drinkin’ whiskey all day. But then, who’d run my vineyard?”

She had longed to hear a Highlander’s brogue, but his mocking tone sent a shiver down her spine. She didn’t reply. Instead, she clutched her muff tightly, her fingers trembling against the fur. Then he touched her. The rough pad of his fingertip grazed her lips. Beth froze, her heart pounding like a war drum. She was not accustomed to being handled in such a way.

“How badly does your father want you to marry me, Miss Croft?” His voice was velvety.

She dropped her chin. What could she possibly say? That after her failed engagement, rumors had spread from Portugal to England, tarnishing her family’s name? That her father was accused of dishonesty, of trying to swindle Mr. Maxwell’s new wife? That her mother raved day and night, cursing their misfortune, while her father’s health deteriorated? And that his instruction to her was not to leave Mr. Sandeman’s office without securing a proposition?

Mr. Sandeman chuckled. “Badly, indeed.”

He was not a Highlander from Scott’s novels. Not on the outside, and certainly not on the inside. She hated him then—his arrogance, his knowing smirk. But she’d be damned if she let him see even a flicker of the tempest swirling beneath her corset.

Lifting her chin, she straightened her spine. “What sort of attributes must a winemaker’s wife demonstrate, Mr. Sandeman?”

The way he smiled at her reminded her of a large cat, eyes narrowing as it played with a mouse, trapping the tiny creature under soft paws. “You will have three days and three nights to prove your worth.”

“How is that even—”

“Three challenges, one for each day, to see if you are a suitable partner in my business. And three nights—”

She gasped, her voice catching as the unruly feather brushed against her nose, obscuring her left eye. “Three nights?”

He stepped closer, and Beth knew she should stop breathing, but her lungs betrayed her, drawing in his scent—earthy musk and the faint tang of crushed grapes.

His gaze flicked to the treacherous feather, and though his face remained impassive, she swore his eyes twinkled with restrained amusement. “Three days and three nights,” he repeated, his voice laced with a disarming lightness, as if the notion amused him.

He reached for the feather in her toque, his fingers brushing it gently. The contact sent an unexpected ripple down her spine, as though he’d touched bare skin. “To see if you will suit me in the bedroom, Miss Croft.”

She jerked back. “You mean to visit me in my bedroom? No! If I lose my virtue—”

“You won’t.” With a swift flick of his fingers, he plucked the feather from her hat. “More importantly, I won’t. And If I do, I will marry you, of course. I’m a man of honor, Miss Croft. I break it, I pay for it.”