Page 4 of A Match Made in Heather

The lantern extinguished as the first punch slammed into his gut.

Day One

Village Kincardine

August, 1819

Arabel Rowland’s mouth fell open as she stared at the solicitor sitting across the desk as the terms of her uncle’s will was read. Great Uncle Malcolm had been ill for months before finally passing on to heaven six months ago. His death had been expected.

Butthiscertainly wasn’t.

“I beg your pardon?” Her mind swam. “I’ve inherited . . .”

“Castle Highburn, yes,” Mr. Davidson confirmed. He pushed his spectacles into place on his nose and repeated, “Laird Rowland has bequeathed the property to you.”

“Highburn,” she repeated, her chest tightening with both disbelief and grief.

The ancestral home of the Rowland clan, Castle Highburn had been where Arabel spent a great deal of time as a girl visiting her uncle and auntie, riding horses across the hills, and climbing in the castle ruins. Even now, she could practically smell the sweet scent of heather rising from the fields and the earthy aroma of peat fires in stone cottages. She’d been free in the highlands in a way she couldn’t be after her family was forced to move to Edinburgh. Even this short trip to Kincardine felt like returning home.

Her grieving heart warmed, as it always did when she thought of Highburn, and her eyes blurred with emotion.

“You are the last Rowland relation still in Scotland,” Davidson continued. “The land would have passed to distant cousins—in the McDougal clan, I believe—so you understand why he left it to you.”

Oh yes. Because the only thing more loathsome to Uncle Malcolm than leaving property to a woman was leaving it to a McDougal.

“What wonderful news.” Her fiancé reached over to squeeze her hands as she held them lightly folded in her lap. She found no affection in his touch, but then, neither did she give any in return. She’d agreed to marry Ewan Murray only because he was proving to be her last chance at a suitable husband, and because her family now needed both the financial support and the respectable reputation he could provide. “And a proper wedding gift for you, too.”

“Yes, a gift,” she whispered, her heart too full of loss and gratitude in equal measure to find her voice. “But not for our wedding.”

He stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“We cannot wed as planned,” she explained softly. “Not next month. Not so quickly on the heels of this.”

“His death was six months ago,” Ewan reminded her. “Everyone will understand.”

“The delay in notifying you of your inheritance is my fault, I’m afraid,” the solicitor interjected, misunderstanding their argument.

Arabel breathed out a silent sigh of relief, glad for the interruption. Lately, as their wedding day approached, she and Ewan argued more and more. Certainly, it was only due to her nervousness over the upcoming ceremony, but she did so wish he would stop telling her what to do.

But if he didn’t want a woman with spirit and a mind of her own, he had no business marrying her. A man could take the lass out of the highlands, but he could never take the highlands out of the lass.

“Settling the estate took longer than anticipated,” Davidson explained. “There was a problem with the entailment.”

“Problem?” Arabel blinked. “What kind of—”

“I believe he means me,” a masculine voice answered from behind her.

The deep voice curled down her spine with a forgotten heat that set her trembling, one that pulsed electric through her and stirred up long-dead emotions. The same voice that had once inhabited her dreams . . .

“Garrick,” she breathed, his name barely forming on her lips.

He strode into the office as if he owned it, full of confidence and exuding the same quiet strength she remembered from ten years ago.

Ten years . . .Good God.How could it seem as if she’d last seen him only yesterday, when she was still a girl and he barely more than a lad? Now, though, there was nothing boyish about him. More broad and solid than she could have imagined, he filled out the gray cashmere jacket he wore over a ruby brocade waistcoat and snow white cravat, decorated with a single ruby pin. Every inch of him bespoke wealth and fine taste, right down to the shine on his black boots. He dominated the small office, and the air crackled with his presence.

Yet it was his eyes that captured her, holding her stunned and breathless. They were the same emerald green she remembered, the ones she’d stared into for hours. But now their green pools held only a cold contempt as he deliberately raked his gaze over her, scalding her with its iciness.

Mr. Davidson nodded. “Lord Townsend.”