My Father Forced Me Into An Arranged Marriage — So I Escaped To The Mountains And Met Someone Forbidden
Part 2
“You do not have to go back,” Tyler murmured, his voice cutting through the howl of the storm outside.
I stared up at him, the heat from the hearth doing nothing to stop the shivering in my limbs.
“Craig will destroy me,” I whispered, the ingrained fear of my father’s power still holding tight to my throat.
“He has no power here,” Tyler replied, closing the distance between us.
He reached down, his rough fingers gently brushing a half-frozen tear from my cheek.
“Stay in this castle as my guest, and let him rage all he wants.”
My breath hitched at the sheer audacity of his proposal.
Remaining unchaperoned in a remote fortress with an unmarried Duke would obliterate whatever shreds of respectability I had left.
Society would label me ruined before the snow even melted.
“People would talk,” I managed to say, clinging to the rules I had been raised to obey.
“Let them talk,” he countered, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate circle against my skin.
“I have never cared what people think of me, and I refuse to watch you be suffocated.”
The intensity in his storm-colored eyes stripped away every rational thought I possessed.
I had spent my entire life being careful, making the expected choices, and it had left me hollow and miserable.
Looking at Tyler, I saw a man who offered sanctuary without asking for anything in return.
I slowly stood up from the chair, closing the small gap between us.
My hands found the lapels of his heavy coat, the coarse wool rough against my palms.
“I am so tired of being afraid,” I confessed, my voice barely audible over the roaring fire.
He didn’t hesitate.
His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me flush against his solid chest, and his mouth crashed down on mine.
It was a kiss built on desperation and fire, a physical breaking of every chain that had bound me.
For the first time in my existence, I felt entirely alive, completely tethered to the wildness of the man holding me.
When morning finally broke, the storm had passed, leaving behind a pristine white landscape and a heavy decision weighing on my chest.
Would giving up my entire inheritance and severing all family ties be worth risking everything for a chance at true freedom with a man I barely knew?
Part 3
The carriage rattled over frozen ruts as it climbed higher into the Scottish Highlands, and Lady Megan Smith pressed her gloved hand against the frosted window, watching England disappear behind her.
Two years of mourning, two years of whispered sympathies and pitying glances.
Two years of being called the widow, who almost became a duchess.
She was done with it.
“My lady, are you certain about this journey?”
Her lady’s maid, Heather, clutched the velvet seat as the carriage lurched over another stone.
Your father will be furious when he discovers.
My father, Megan said quietly, her breath fogging the glass, has spent the past 2 years arranging suitors as if Greg’s death were merely an inconvenience to be rectified.
Heather fell silent.
They both knew it was true.
Craig Smith, Marquis of Highwood, had never been a sentimental man.
When his daughter’s husband, Lord Greg Blackwood, Marquis of Blackwood and heir to the Duke of Ravenhshire, had succumbed to pneumonia in the damp winter of 1838, the Marquis had mourned for precisely 3 weeks.
Then he had begun making inquiries.
A young widow of good family and impeccable breeding, no children, but still of childbearing age.
A tragedy certainly, but also an opportunity.
Megan had endured the parade of eligible gentlemen with the same brittle composure she had worn through her marriage, polite smiles, appropriate conversation, and a heart locked away where no one could touch it.
Not that Greg had ever tried.
Their marriage had been everything a society match should be, respectful, dignified, utterly devoid of passion.
He had been kind in his distant way, and she had been dutiful in hers.
When he died, she had wept not for the man she had lost, but for the life she had never truly lived.
Now, as the carriage climbed into the mist shrouded mountains, Megan felt something she hadn’t felt in years.
Hope.
The landscape transformed around them.
Rolling English countryside gave way to wild windswept moors.
Ancient forests clung to steep hillsides, their bare branches reaching toward the gray December sky like the fingers of sleeping giants.
Locks appeared between the peaks, their surfaces dark and still as polished obsidian.
It’s beautiful, Megan whispered.
Heather pulled her shawl tighter.
It’s cold.
But Megan barely felt the chill.
She had spent 2 years suffocating in the overheated drawing rooms of Mayfair, drowning in the cloying scent of hot house flowers and the weight of other people’s expectations.
The sharp highland wind that seeped through the carriage seams felt like salvation.
They had been traveling for 4 days. 4 days since Megan had left a note on her father’s desk and slipped away before dawn. 4 days since she had turned her back on Berkeley Square and pointed herself north toward the one place her father’s influence couldn’t reach, the Scottish Highlands, specifically the estate of an old friend of her late mother, Lady Brenda Wallace, who had married a Scottish leair and settled in the remote village of Glenmore.
Megan had been 11 the last time she’d seen Lady Brenda, but she remembered a warm laugh and kind eyes, and a woman who had spoken of the Highlands as if they were a kind of magic.
In Scotland, my dear Megan, Lady Brenda had told her once, “A woman can breathe.
Megan desperately needed to breathe.
The sun was setting when they finally reached the village.
A collection of stone cottages clustered in a valley between towering peaks.
Smoke rose from chimneys and sheep dotted the hillsides like patches of snow.
It was small, isolated, and utterly unlike anything Megan had ever known.
Glenmore, the driver called down, Lady Wallace’s house is just ahead, my lady.
The cottage, though cottage seemed too humble a word for the gracious stone manner, sat on a rise overlooking the valley.
Warm light glowed in the windows, and as the carriage rolled to a stop, the door flew open.
Megan, my dear child.
Lady Brenda Wallace was older now, her dark hair threaded with silver, but her embrace was as warm as Megan remembered.
“Lady Brenda,” Megan said, her voice catching unexpectedly.
“Thank you for taking me in.”
“Nonsense,” Brenda pulled back, studying her with sharp, kind eyes.
“Your mother was my dearest friend.
Her daughter is always welcome in my home.”
She glanced at the carriage, then back at Megan.
“Though I suspect your father doesn’t know you’re here.
He will soon enough.
Brenda’s expression turned knowing.
Then we’ll deal with that when the time comes.
For now you’re frozen half to death.
Come inside.
Heather, see that the luggage is brought in.
Cook has kept supper warm.
The interior of the house was everything the London townhouse was not.
Cozy, lived in, filled with mismatched furniture and the scent of Pete fires and baking bread.
Megan felt her shoulders relax for the first time in months.
Over supper, hearty stew and fresh bread that bore no resemblance to the delicate courses served in Mayfair, Brenda asked no prying questions.
She spoke instead of the village, of the rhythm of Highland life, of the long winter nights and the wild beauty of the landscape.
You’ll need warmer clothes, she said, eyeing Megan’s fashionable but impractical traveling dress.
London gowns won’t do here.
I’ll have the dress maker come tomorrow.
I don’t want to be any trouble.
M Megan.
Brenda’s voice was gentle but firm.
You came here to escape something.
The least I can do is make sure you’re warm while you do it.
That night, lying in a bed piled high with quilts, Megan stared up at the ceiling and listened to the wind howling around the eaves.
It was a lonely sound, wild and mournful, but somehow it didn’t frighten her.
In London she had been surrounded by people and had never felt more alone.
Here in this remote corner of Scotland, she was finally blessedly by herself, or so she thought.
The next morning dawned cold and bright, the sun turning the frostcovered landscape to diamonds.
Megan woke early, dressed in the warmest gown she had brought, and ventured outside before breakfast.
The village was just beginning to stir.
Smoke rose from chimneys, and somewhere in the distance she could hear the bleeding of sheep.
The air was so cold it hurt to breathe, but it was clean and sharp and alive.
She walked along the narrow road that wound through the village, nodding to the few people she passed.
They stared at her, not rudely, but with open curiosity.
A stranger and an English one at that was clearly an event in Glenmore.
At the edge of the village the road forked.
One path led down into the valley.
The other climbed steeply up the hillside, disappearing into the shadow of the mountains.
Megan hesitated, then turned upward.
The path was rough, little more than a sheep track, but she was determined.
The higher she climbed, the more the village fell away below her, and the more the landscape opened up.
Endless peaks and valleys, forests and locks stretching to the horizon.
She stopped to catch her breath, her cheeks stinging from the cold.
And that was when she saw it.
A castle.
It rose from the hillside like something out of a legend.
Dark stone walls, towers that clawed at the sky, surrounded by ancient pines that seemed to guard it like sentinels.
Even from a distance, it looked formidable.
Forbidding the castle Glenmore, a voice said behind her.
Megan spun around.
A man stood on the path below her, tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a heavy wool coat and riding boots.
His hair was black and slightly too long, curling at his collar.
His face was all hard angles and sharp edges except for his eyes.
His eyes were the color of a winter storm, gray green, piercing, and entirely focused on her.
Megan’s heart stuttered in her chest.
“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to regain her composure.
“I didn’t mean to trespass.
You’re on the public path,” the man said.
His voice was low and rough with the faintest trace of a Scottish burr.
No trespassing involved.
He moved closer, and Megan found herself taking an involuntary step back.
Not from fear, though there was something undeniably dangerous about him, but from the sheer intensity of his presence.
You’re the English lady staying with Brenda Wallace, he said.
It wasn’t a question.
I am Lady Megan Smith.
His gaze swept over her, assessing.
You’re a long way from London, Lady Ellaner.
That,” she said, lifting her chin, was rather the point.
For a moment something that might have been amusement flickered in those storm-colored eyes.
Then his expression shuddered again.
“Be careful on these paths,” he said.
“The weather changes quickly in the highlands.
You wouldn’t want to be caught in a storm.”
He moved past her, his stride long and sure, and Megan watched him go, her pulse still racing.
“Wait,” she called after him.
“What’s your name?”
He paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
Tyler MacLeod,” he said.
“Duke of Glenmore.”
And then he was gone, disappearing into the forest like a shadow, leaving Megan standing alone on the mountain side with her heart pounding and the cold wind stinging her cheeks.
“A Duke, not just any Duke, the Duke of Glenmore, the man Brenda had mentioned in passing last night, the lord of these wild lands, the last of a proud Highland line, and the most dangerousl looking man Megan had ever seen.”
She walked back to the village in a days, her mind full of storm-cololed eyes and that low, rough voice.
Be careful.
But Megan had spent her entire life being careful, being proper, being exactly what everyone expected her to be.
And where had it gotten her?
When she returned to Brenda’s house, she found her hostess in the parlor reading by the fire.
“You’ve been walking,” Brenda said, looking up with a smile.
“Did you enjoy the view?”
“I did.”
Megan hesitated, then added.
I met someone on the path.
He said his name was Tyler MacLeod.
Brenda’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes.
Did he now?
He said he was the Duke of Glenmore.
He is.
Brenda sat down her book.
What did you think of him?
Megan sat down slowly.
He seemed intense.
Brenda laughed softly.
That’s one word for it.
Tyler is well, he’s not like the gentleman you’re accustomed to in London.
He was raised in these mountains.
His family has ruled this land for generations, long before there were dukes and duchesses.
He’s more Highland chieftain than English pier.
He doesn’t come to London.
Rarely, and when he does, he causes quite a stir.
The ladies find him fascinating, of course, all that dark, brooding, and barely civilized charm.
But he makes the gentleman nervous.
He doesn’t play by their rules.
Megan found herself leaning forward.
What rules?
Any of them.
Brenda’s smile turned rye.
He speaks his mind.
He has no patience for social nicities, and he absolutely refuses to be managed by anyone, including his peers in Parliament.
The last time he attended a ball in London, he scandalized half of Mayfair by telling Lord Dan that his opinion on Highland affairs was as useful as a parasol in a hurricane.
Despite herself, Megan laughed.
I can see why that would cause a stir.
The man has no filter, Brenda said fondly.
But there’s not a dishonest bone in his body.
What you see is what you get with Tyler MacLeod.
No games, no pretense.
She paused, studying Megan, which is why most of London society doesn’t know what to make of him.
Megan looked out the window toward the castle on the hill.
He told me to be careful that the weather changes quickly here.
He was right about that.
Highland storms can be deadly if you’re not prepared.
Brenda’s expression softened.
But I suspect he wasn’t just talking about the weather.
What do you mean?
Tyler MacLeod is not a man to be trifled with, Megan.
He’s loyal to his people, fierce in his protections, and he has a darkness in him that most people never see.
His father died when he was young.
His mother followed a few years later.
He’s been alone in that castle for more than a decade with nothing but the ghosts of his ancestors and the weight of his responsibilities.
Megan felt a strange tightening in her chest.
He sounds lonely.
He is, Brenda said quietly.
Though he’d never admit it.
He’s convinced himself that solitude is strength.
That keeping everyone at a distance is the same as being strong.
She met Megan’s eyes.
I suspect you understand something about that.
Megan looked away, her throat tight.
She did understand.
She understood it all too well.
That night she lay awake for a long time listening to the wind and thinking about a man with storm-colored eyes who lived alone in a castle of stone.
A man who had told her to be careful, a man who she suspected was far more dangerous than any Highland storm. 3 days passed before Megan saw Tyler MacLeod again.
She spent the time settling into the rhythm of village life, helping Brenda with correspondence, walking the hills despite the cold, and slowly building a wardrobe of practical wool gowns that scandalized Heather but kept Megan blissfully warm.
She also spent far too much time staring up at the castle on the hill.
It was impossible not to.
Castle Glenmore dominated the landscape, dark and brooding against the winter sky.
That night she could sometimes see lights in the windows, flickering candles or fire light that made the ancient fortress seem almost alive.
She wondered what he did up there alone in that vast stone pile.
She wondered why she cared.
You’re thinking about him again, Brenda said one afternoon, catching Megan staring out the window.
Elellanor felt her cheeks heat.
I don’t know what you mean.
Of course you don’t.
Brenda’s smile was insufferably knowing.
It has nothing to do with the fact that you’ve been watching that castle like it holds the secrets of the universe.
I was merely admiring the architecture.
Mhm.
Megan turned away from the window with as much dignity as she could muster.
Has he no family at all?
No one in that castle but servants.
Brenda’s expression sobered.
His mother died when he was 17.
Consumption.
His father had died 5 years before that, thrown from a horse during a hunt.
Tyler inherited the title at 12 years old, but he didn’t truly take control until his mother was gone.
Since then, she shrugged.
He keeps to himself.
He manages his estates, looks after his tenants, and guards his solitude like a dragon guard’s gold.
That’s no way to live.
Perhaps not, but it’s the way he’s chosen.
That evening, Megan made a decision.
She would accept Brenda’s invitation to attend the village Christmas gathering the following night.
It would be held in the local Kirk, a small stone church at the edge of the village, and apparently everyone in Glenmore would be there.
“Even the Duke?”
Megan asked, trying to sound casual.
Brenda’s eyes gleamed.
“Even the Duke?
He may be a recluse, but he takes his responsibilities to his people seriously.
He’ll come, make an appearance, and likely leave early.
But yes, he’ll be there.
Megan told herself she was simply curious.
She told herself it had nothing to do with the fact that she couldn’t stop thinking about storm-cololed eyes and a voice that seemed to reach right through her carefully constructed defenses.
She told herself a lot of things that night.
None of them were true.
The Kirk was ablaze with candles when they arrived the next evening, and the sound of voices and laughter spilled out into the cold December night.
The entire village seemed to be packed into the small space, families crowded onto wooden benches, children darting between the adults, and long tables laden with food and drink.
Megan felt suddenly acutely out of place.
In London, she had always known exactly where she belonged, what to say, how to behave.
Here, in this warm, chaotic gathering of people who had known each other their entire lives, she was an outsider.
But Brenda took her arm firmly and steered her inside.
“Come, I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
The next hour passed in a blur of names and faces, weathered farmers, plump matrons, shy children, and sharp-eyed elders who studied Megan with open curiosity.
They were kind, all of them, but there was a weariness, too.
She was English, after all, a stranger, and strangers were not common in Glenmore.
She was beginning to think that Tyler MacLeod had decided not to come when the room suddenly fell quiet.
Megan turned toward the door and felt her breath catch.
He stood in the entrance tall and dark and utterly commanding.
He wore no formal evening clothes, just a white shirt, a dark waste coat, and a heavy wool coat that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders.
His black hair was slightly windblown, and his eyes swept the room with the kind of assessing gaze that made every person straighten a little under his scrutiny.
He was, Megan thought distantly, the most magnificent man she had ever seen.
And then his gaze found hers, and the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then Tyler inclined his head just slightly, just enough to acknowledge her, and moved into the room.
Immediately, people surrounded him.
Men clasped his hand or clapped him on the shoulder.
Women smiled and murmured greetings.
Children stared with wide eyes.
He spoke to each of them, his expression softening in a way that transformed his harsh features into something almost gentle.
“He cared about these people,” Megan realized.
“Truly cared.
He’s a good lord,” Brenda murmured beside her.
“Whatever else he may be, he takes care of his own.”
Megan watched as Tyler crouched down to speak to a small boy who had been tugging on his coat.
The child said something that made Tyler’s mouth curve in a rare smile, and Megan felt something inside her chest shift and resettle.
“Dangerous,” she reminded herself.
“This man was dangerous.
Not in the way a footpad or a rakeel was dangerous, but dangerous in the way that mattered most to her heart.
Her carefully constructed defenses, her determination to never ever let anyone close enough to hurt her again.”
“Lady Megan.”
She jumped slightly and found Tyler standing in front of her.
Up close, he was even more overwhelming, taller than she’d realized, with a presence that seemed to fill all the air around him.
“Your grace,” she managed.
His eyes were the exact color of the lock she’d seen that morning, gray, green, and deep and utterly unfathomable.
“Brenda tells me, you’ve been walking the hills.”
“I have.
They’re beautiful.
They’re dangerous,” he corrected. especially for someone unfamiliar with the terrain.
Megan felt a flicker of irritation.
I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.
Are you?
There was no mockery in his tone, only genuine curiosity.
London is a long way from here, my lady.
The rules are different in the Highlands.
Then perhaps, Megan said, meeting his gaze steadily, you could teach me the rules.
Something flickered in his eyes.
Surprise perhaps, or interest.
Why would you want to learn them?
Because I’m tired of living by rules I never chose for myself.
For a long moment he simply looked at her.
Then slowly he nodded.
Tomorrow, he said, “If you want to see the Highlands, I’ll show you.”
“Tomorrow,” Megan agreed, her heart racing.
He held her gaze for another heartbeat, then turned and moved away, drawn into conversation with an older man who wanted to discuss something about sheep and grazing rights.
Brenda appeared at Megan<unk>’s elbow.
Well, well, that was interesting.
What was he never offers to show anyone the Highlands?
He’s far too protective of his privacy.
Megan watched Tyler across the room, the way he moved, the way people naturally deferred to him.
Perhaps he’s simply being courteous to a guest.
Perhaps, Brenda said in a tone that suggested she didn’t believe that for a moment.
Or perhaps you’re the first person he’s met in a very long time who looks at him like he’s a man instead of a legend.
Megan had no answer to that.
She spent the rest of the evening trying not to watch Tyler MacLeod and failing miserably.
He stayed for an hour, then slipped away as quietly as he’d arrived, disappearing into the night like smoke.
That night, lying in her warm bed, Megan stared at the ceiling and wondered what she’d just agreed to.
A ride through the Highlands with a man who made her heart race and her carefully constructed walls tremble.
A man who seemed to see right through every defense she’d ever built.
A man who was, she was beginning to suspect, exactly what she’d been searching for without even knowing it.
Tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow everything would change.
She just didn’t know how much.
He arrived at Brenda’s house just after dawn, riding a massive black horse that looked like it had stepped out of an ancient tale.
Megan was waiting, dressed in her warmest riding habit, a dark green wool ensemble that Heather had helped her modify for Highland weather.
Tyler dismounted in a single fluid motion, and studied her.
“You ride since I was six,” Megan said, lifting her chin.
“I may be from London, your grace, but I’m not helpless.”
His mouth twitched.
“I never said you were.”
He gestured to a second horse, a gray mare with kind eyes.
“This is Misty.
She knows these hills better than most people.
She’ll keep you safe.
Megan approached the mayor, letting her sniff her hand before stroking her velvet nose.
“Hello, beautiful.”
When she turned back, she found Tyler watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
He moved to help her mount, his hands strong and sure as he lifted her into the saddle.
For just a moment she was acutely aware of how close he was, of the warmth radiating from him despite the cold morning air.
Then he stepped back and swung onto his own horse.
Stay close.
The paths are treacherous this time of year.
They rode out of the village as the sun was just beginning to paint the eastern sky with golden pink.
The world was achingly quiet, just the sound of hoof beatats and their own breathing and the occasional cry of a bird.
Tyler led her up into the hills, following paths that seemed invisible to Megan’s eyes, but were clearly as familiar to him as the lines of his own hand.
They climbed higher and higher until the village was just a scatter of stones far below, and the mountains rose around them like sleeping gods.
There, Tyler said, pointing, Megan followed his gesture and gasped.
They stood on a ridge overlooking a vast valley.
A lock stretched out below them, its surface like hammered silver in the morning light.
Beyond it, mountains climbed toward the sky, their peaks dusted with snow.
Forests blanketed the lower slopes, and here and there she could see the ruins of ancient structures, stone circles, and crumbling towers that spoke of a history far older than anything in England.
“It’s incredible,” she breathed.
“It’s home,” Tyler said simply.
They dismounted and Tyler led her to a flat rock where they could sit and look out over the landscape.
He’d brought a flask of something warm.
Whiskey and honey, he told her, and they passed it back and forth as the sun climbed higher.
“How long have your family held these lands?”
Megan asked.
“Longer than anyone can remember.
Before there were dukes and marquises, there were clan chiefs.
My ancestor was chieftain of Clan MacLeod when the Romans were still trying to conquer the South.
We’ve been here ever since.”
That’s remarkable, he shrugged.
It’s a responsibility.
Every man who has held this land has had to decide what he was willing to sacrifice to protect it.
My father died because he refused to sell timber rights to an English lord who wanted to strip the forests bear.
My mother died because she poured everything she had into keeping the estate solvent after my father was gone.
His jaw tightened.
I will not let their sacrifices be in vain.
Megan heard the steel beneath his words and understood suddenly why he seemed so isolated.
He wasn’t just guarding his solitude.
He was guarding his entire world.
“Is that why you stay here?” she asked quietly.
“Why you don’t go to London?
London has nothing I want,” he said flatly.
“Endless parties where people say things they don’t mean.
Alliances built on lies and convenience.
Men who’ve never worked a day in their lives making decisions about lands they’ve never seen.”
He looked at her, his eyes fierce.
I have no use for that world.
Not everyone in London is like that, aren’t they?
He held her gaze.
Tell me, Lady Ellaner, when you were in London, how many people truly saw you?
Not your title, not your position, not what you could do for them, but you.
Megan’s throat tightened.
None of them.
Exactly.
He looked back out over the valley.
Here, people are what they are.
A shepherd is a shepherd.
A blacksmith is a blacksmith, and a man’s worth is measured by what he does, not what he was born into.
Then what does that make you?
Megan asked.
You were born a duke.
I was born a boy, Tyler corrected.
The dukedom came later.
But before that, I learned to track deer with my father.
I learned to read the weather from the old shepherds.
I learned which plants could heal and which could kill from the village wise woman.
The title is just a word.
What matters is the land and the people who depend on it.
Megan studied his profile, the hard line of his jaw, the way the wind caught his dark hair, the intensity in his eyes as he looked out over his domain.
“You love it,” she said softly.
“You love this place.”
“With everything I have,” he said simply.
They sat in silence for a while, passing the flask back and forth, and Megan felt something inside her begin to shift.
This man, this fierce, lonely, uncompromising man, was nothing like anyone she had ever known.
He wasn’t polished or polite or careful with his words.
He didn’t flatter or cajol or play games.
He simply was as solid and immovable as the mountains themselves.
And she found herself drawn to him with a force that terrified her.
Why did you leave London, Tyler suddenly?
Megan took a breath.
Because I was suffocating. because everyone kept telling me who I should be and what I should do, and I realized I had no idea who I actually was beneath all of that.”
She looked at him.
I didn’t love my husband, not the way I should have.
And when he died, I felt relief instead of grief.
What kind of person does that make me?
An honest one, Tyler said without hesitation.
Better that than spending your life pretending.
London society wouldn’t agree.
London society, he said with a trace of contempt, cares more about appearances than truth.
If you’d wept for a man you didn’t love, they would have praised your devotion.
If you’d remarried immediately, they would have called you heartless.
You can’t win that game, Megan.
The only way to survive it is to stop playing.
It was the first time he’d used her given name, and the sound of it on his lips sent a shiver down her spine.
“Is that what you did?” she asked.
“Stop playing?
I never started.
He looked at her, his eyes intense.
I’ve always known who I am and where I belong.
Not everyone has that certainty, but you.
He reached out slowly, as if giving her time to pull away, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
His fingers were rough and warm against her skin.
“You’re still looking for it, aren’t you?
That place where you belong.”
Megan couldn’t breathe.
His hand lingered near her cheek, and she found herself leaning into the warmth of his touch without conscious thought.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Then look,” he said quietly.
“Really, look.
The answer might be closer than you think.
For a moment, one perfect crystalline moment.
They simply existed in that space together, his hand against her face, her eyes locked with his.
The vast Highland wilderness spread out before them like a promise.
Then Tyler pulled back, standing abruptly.
We should return.
The weather’s turning.
Megan blinked.
The spell broken.
She looked up and saw that he was right.
Clouds were building on the horizon, dark and ominous.
They rode back to the village in silence, but it wasn’t an awkward quiet.
It was the silence of two people who had said too much and not enough all at once.
When they reached Brenda’s house, Tyler helped Megan dismount.
For just a moment, his hands lingered at her waist, and she felt the warmth of him, even through layers of wool.
“Thank you,” she said softly, “for showing me your home.
“Thank you,” he replied just as quietly, “for seeing it.”
He mounted his horse and rode away without another word, disappearing up the path toward his castle.
Megan stood in the cold wind, watching him go, and knew with absolute certainty that she was in terrible, terrible danger. not from him, from herself, from the way her heart had leaped when he touched her.
From the way she had wanted to close the distance between them, and discover what his lips tasted like, from the realization that in just a few short days, this hard, fierce man had made her feel more alive than 2 years of marriage ever had.
“Well,” Brenda said from the doorway wrapped in a shawl.
“That looked intense.”
Megan turned to her, and Brenda’s expression softened at whatever she saw in Megan’s face.
“Oh, my dear,” she said gently.
“You’ve gone and fallen for him, haven’t you?”
“That would be remarkably foolish of me,” Megan said.
“Yes,” Brenda agreed.
“It would be, but they both knew it was already too late.”
The letter arrived 3 days later.
Megan was in Brenda’s parlor, attempting to focus on a book, and failing miserably when Heather brought in the post.
One envelope bore her father’s seal, the distinctive crest of the Marquis of Highwood pressed into dark blue wax.
Her hands trembled slightly as she broke it open.
Megan, your behavior is beyond comprehension.
To leave London without proper escort, without informing me of your destination, and to take refuge in that god-forsaken wilderness is an insult to your late husband’s memory and a disgrace to our family name.
I have made arrangements for your immediate return.
Lord Dan has expressed continued interest in a courtship, and I will not have you jeopardize this opportunity with your irrational flight to Scotland.
You will return to London within the fortnight.
A carriage will be sent to collect you from that village.
Glenmore, I believe it’s called.
I expect no further argument on this matter.
Your father, Craig Smith, Marques of Highwood.
Megan read the letter twice, each time feeling her chest tighten with a mixture of anger and something that felt terrifyingly like panic.
Lord Dan, a widowerower of 53 with a reputation for propriety and a personality as dry as old parchment.
Her father had been pushing the match since Greg’s death, convinced that a swift remarage would erase the unfortunate interruption of her widowhood.
The thought of returning to London, of submitting once again to her father’s dictates and society’s expectations made her feel physically ill.
“Bad news?”
Brenda asked gently from across the room.
Megan handed her the letter without a word.
Brenda read it, her expression growing progressively more grim.
When she finished, she set it down with care.
What do you want to do?
I don’t know.
Megan stood, pacing to the window.
Outside, snow had begun to fall.
Soft, fat flakes that blurred the landscape into watercolor.
I cannot marry Lord Dan.
I won’t.
But my father, she pressed her hand against the cold glass.
He controls everything.
My inheritance from Greg.
What little independence I have.
If I defy him openly, he could make my life unbearable.
You’re not a child, Megan.
You’re a widow with rights of your own.
Legal rights perhaps, but social rights, financial rights.
Those belong to my father until I remarry or reach 30.
Megan turned back to Brenda.
I have three more years of being under his control.
Three years of being pushed toward men I don’t love, of being treated like a problem to be solved rather than a person.
Brenda’s expression was thoughtful.
There is one solution.
If you were to marry again to someone of your own choosing, your father’s control would end.
I have no intention of marrying anyone,” Megan said sharply.
“I’ve been married.
I know what that means.
Duty and obligation and slow suffocation.
Not all marriages are like that.”
Megan thought of Tyler’s hand against her face, of his fierce eyes and fierce loyalty, of the way he’d looked at her as if she were something precious and dangerous all at once.
No, she said quietly.
I suppose not.
She hadn’t seen Tyler since their ride through the hills.
He’d sent no messages, made no attempt to call.
It shouldn’t have stung.
She was nothing to him after all, just a curiosity, a brief distraction from his solitary life.
But it did sting, more than she wanted to admit.
That afternoon, despite the snow, Megan wrapped herself in her warmest cloak and walked into the village.
She needed to think, needed to move, needed to do anything but sit in that parlor and contemplate the prison her life had become.
The village was quiet, most people sensibly staying indoors.
Megan walked past the kirk, past the blacksmith’s forge, until she found herself once again on the path that led up toward Castle Glenmore.
She told herself she wasn’t going to the castle.
She told herself she was just walking, but her feet carried her upward anyway through the falling snow until the castle loomed before her, massive and dark and somehow alive in the winter storm.
She should turn back.
She should Megan.
She spun around and found Tyler standing behind her, materializing out of the snow like some spirit of the mountains.
He wore no coat, just his shirt and waist coat and snowflakes caught in his dark hair.
“What are you doing out here?” he demanded.
The storm’s getting worse.
I needed to walk.
His eyes narrowed.
Something’s happened.
It wasn’t a question.
Somehow he just knew.
My father, Megan said, her voice rough.
He’s demanding I return to London.
He wants me to marry Lord Dan, Tyler’s expression darkened.
Do you want to marry him?
No.
Then don’t.
It’s not that simple.
It is exactly that simple, Tyler said, his voice hard.
You’re a grown woman.
You have a choice.
Do I? Megan’s control finally snapped.
What choice do I have?
Defy my father and be cut off from everything.
Stay here and become a burden on Brenda.
Go back to London and marry a man I don’t love because it’s expected of me?
She felt hot tears sting her eyes and hated herself for it.
I have been making the expected choice my entire life and where has it gotten me?
Alone, trapped, suffocating.
Then stop making the expected choice, Tyler said, stepping closer.
Stop living for everyone else and start living for yourself.
Easy for you to say.
You’re not a woman.
You don’t know what it’s like to have every option, every freedom contingent on someone else’s approval.
You’re right, he said quietly.
I don’t.
But I know what it’s like to be trapped by duty.
To feel like your entire life isn’t your own.
The difference is I chose this.
I chose my duty to this land and these people.
You never got to choose anything.
Megan looked away, blinking hard against the tears.
The snow was falling faster now, the wind picking up.
She could barely see the village below through the white curtain.
Come inside, Tyler said, his voice gentler now.
You’ll freeze out here.
I should go back to Brenda’s.
You’ll never make it in this storm.
Come.
He held out his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Megan took it.
His hand was warm and rough and sure, and it felt like the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly become untethered.
He led her through the massive doors of Castle Glenmore, and Megan stepped into another world.
The interior was nothing like the austere fortress she had imagined.
Yes, the walls were stone and ancient, but they were softened by tapestries and rugs, by the warm glow of fire light and the scent of Pete smoke and pine.
The great hall was enormous with a vated ceiling that disappeared into shadow and a fireplace large enough to roast an ox.
“It’s beautiful,” Megan breathed.
“It’s cold,” Tyler said dryly.
“But it’s home.”
He guided her to a chair near the fire and disappeared for a moment, returning with a thick blanket that he draped around her shoulders.
“I’ll have tea brought.
You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
He crouched before her, his eyes searching her face.
“But I want to.”
A servant appeared, an older woman with kind eyes, who clucked disapprovingly at Megan’s damp cloak, and hurried away, presumably to prepare tea.
Tyler settled into the chair across from Megan, the fire crackling between them.
“Tell me about him,” he said.
“This Lord Dan your father wants you to marry.”
Megan pulled the blanket tighter.
He’s respectable wealthy appropriate everything a match should be.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Megan met his eyes.
“He’s boring.
He speaks in platitudes, and cares more about his parliamentary committees than people.
He’s never asked me a single question about myself, only about my father’s political alliances.
She took a shaky breath.
He would be kind, I suppose, not cruel, but there would be no passion, no connection, just two people living side by side until death parts us.
Then why would your father push for it?
Because it’s advantageous.
Because Lord Dan has influence in Parliament and connections my father wants. because I am a commodity to be traded for the benefit of the Highwood name.
The bitterness in her voice surprised even her.
Tyler was quiet for a long moment.
When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous.
If I ever meet your father, it will take considerable restraint not to plant my fist in his face.
Despite everything, Megan almost smiled.
That would certainly cause a scandal.
I’m well acquainted with scandal.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
Megan, look at me.
She did.
You don’t have to go back.
He said, you don’t have to marry anyone you don’t want to marry.
You can stay here.
I can’t impose on Brenda forever.
I’m not talking about Brenda’s house.
His eyes were intense, burning.
Stay here at Castle Glenmore.
Megan’s heart stopped.
“What?
Stay,” he said again.
“As my guest, for as long as you like.
Your father can rage all he wants, but he has no power here.
This is my land, my rule, and I say you’re welcome.
People would talk.
The scandal, let them talk.
He reached out and took her hand, his touch sending electricity up her arm.
I have never cared what people think of me.
Why should I start now?
Megan stared at their joined hands, her mind reeling.
Why?
Why would you do this for me?
His thumb traced a gentle circle on her palm. because when I look at you, I see someone fighting to breathe, and I cannot, I will not stand by and watch you be suffocated.”
The tea arrived, interrupting the moment.
They sat in silence for a while, drinking the strong, sweet brew, and Megan tried to make sense of the chaos in her chest.
Stay at Castle Glenmore with Tyler.
It was madness.
It was improper.
It was social suicide.
It was also the first thing that had felt right in years.
Outside the storm howled.
The snow had become a blizzard, and even through the thick stone walls, Megan could hear the wind screaming.
“You’ll have to stay the night,” Tyler said, following her gaze.
“It’s too dangerous to return to the village in this.”
Megan knew she should protest.
Should insist she’d be fine, but she was tired of doing what she should.
“All right,” she said quietly.
Something flickered in Tyler’s eyes.
“Relief, perhaps or satisfaction?
He stood.
I’ll have a room prepared for you.
There are guest chambers in the east wing.
Thank you.
He paused at the door, looking back at her.
Megan, you deserve better than a life you didn’t choose.
You deserve better than a man who sees you as a convenience.
You deserve, he stopped, something raw and uncertain crossing his face.
You deserve everything.
And then he was gone, leaving Megan alone with the fire and the storm and the wild hope blooming dangerously in her chest.
The room Tyler’s housekeeper showed her to was magnificent.
A large bed chamber with mullion windows overlooking the valley, a four-poster bed piled high with furs and quilts, and another fireplace already blazing cheerfully.
The Duke said to provide anything you need, my lady, the housekeeper, Mrs.
Fraser, said with a warm smile.
I’ve laid out a clean night dress and robe.
Supper will be served in an hour in the small dining room.
I don’t want to be any trouble..
No trouble at all, my lady.
Mrs.
Mrs.
Fraser’s eyes twinkled.
It’s nice to have a guest in the castle.
The Duke is far too solitary for his own good.
After Mrs.
Fraser left, Megan moved to the window.
The storm had intensified.
The world outside was nothing but swirling white.
She couldn’t even see the village anymore.
She was trapped here, she realized, at least until the storm passed.
Trapped in a castle with a man who made her heart race and her carefully constructed defenses crumble.
A man who had just offered her sanctuary without asking for anything in return.
A man who looked at her like she was something worth protecting.
Megan pressed her hand against the cold glass and admitted the truth she’d been avoiding for days.
She was falling for Tyler MacLeod.
No, that wasn’t quite right.
She had already fallen.
Supper was served in a small dining room that was much cozier than the great hall, a round table set for two, candles flickering in silver holders, and a meal that was simple but delicious, roasted venison, root vegetables, fresh bread, and a wine that tasted of berries and smoke.
Tyler had changed into a clean shirt and a dark coat that emphasized his broad shoulders.
His hair was damp, as if he’d recently washed, and Megan found herself staring at the way it curled slightly at his collar.
Mrs.
Fraser is an excellent cook, Megan said, trying to focus on something other than how attractive he was.
She’d be pleased to hear you say so.
Tyler refilled her wine glass.
She’s been with my family since I was a boy.
She mothers me relentlessly.
Someone should, Megan said without thinking, then flushed.
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean Don’t apologize.
He smiled.
A real smile that transformed his face.
You’re probably right.
I’ve been alone up here too long.
Why?
Megan asked.
Brenda told me you rarely go to London, but surely you must have friends, peers you could visit.
I have acquaintances, Tyler said carefully.
People I’m cordial with.
But friends, people I trust.
He shook his head.
That’s a much shorter list.
Why?
He considered the question swirling his wine.
Because most people want something from me.
An alliance, a favor, access to my lands or my influence.
They see the title, not the man.
And I learned early on that it’s easier to keep everyone at a distance than to be disappointed when they prove they’re only interested in what I can do for them.
Megan’s chest achd.
That’s a lonely way to live.
It’s a safe way to live, he counted, then meeting her eyes.
Or it was, until you.
The air between them seemed to thicken, charge with something electric and dangerous.
What makes me different?
Megan whispered.
You don’t want anything from me.
Tyler leaned forward slightly.
You’re not trying to charm me or manipulate me or gain my favor.
You’re just yourself, honest, direct, unafraid to tell me when you disagree with me.
His mouth curved.
It’s refreshing.
I argued with you the very first day we met.
I know.
His eyes gleamed.
It’s one of the things I liked about you immediately.
Megan’s pulse thundered in her ears.
What were the others?
Your courage.
The way you looked at these mountains as if they were a gift instead of a wilderness.
The way you saw the beauty in this place instead of just the isolation.
He paused.
The way you see me.
How do I see you?
Like I’m a man, he said quietly.
Not a duke.
Not a legend or a curiosity or a problem to be solved.
Just a man.
Megan couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t look away.
You are a man.
She managed.
A good one.
Am I? There was something vulnerable in his expression now.
Something that made her want to reach across the table and take his hand.
I’ve spent so long building these walls, Megan.
So long telling myself I didn’t need anyone.
But then you appeared on that path looking lost and determined and absolutely fearless.
And something in me just he stopped, searching for words.
Woke up, Tyler.
I know this is madness, he continued, his voice rough.
I know you’re here fleeing one unwanted match, and the last thing you need is another complication, but I can’t.
He broke off, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration.
I can’t stop thinking about you.
About the way you laughed when Misty tried to eat your glove, about how you looked standing on that ridge with the whole world spread out before you.
About how it felt to have you look at me like I wasn’t some half- wild Highland duke, but just someone worth knowing.
Megan’s hands trembled as she set down her wine glass.
“You think this is one-sided?”
He looked up sharply.
“You think I haven’t been lying awake at night thinking about you?”
Megan’s voice shook.
“You think I didn’t feel it, too, that moment on the ridge?
You think I don’t know exactly how dangerous this is?”
She stood, her chair scraping against stone.
“I came to Scotland to escape, Tyler, to find some kind of peace.
Instead, I found you.
And you’re the least peaceful thing I’ve ever encountered.”
He was on his feet now, too, moving around the table toward her.
“Megan, I’ve been married,” she said, backing away, even as every cell in her body wanted to move closer.
“I know what it means to be bound to someone.
I know what it’s like to wake up everyday and realize you’re trapped in a life you never wanted.
I swore I would never do that again.
Never let anyone have that kind of power over me.
I’m not asking for power over you,” Tyler said, still advancing.
I’m not asking for anything, aren’t you?
Megan’s back hit the wall.
Because it feels like you’re asking for everything.
He stopped an arms length away, his eyes stormy and intense.
What if I am?
Megan’s breath caught.
Then I’d have to be mad to give it to you.
Are you?
His voice dropped to a rough whisper.
Mad?
She looked up at him at this fierce, lonely, impossible man who had somehow slipped past every defense she’d ever built.
Yes, she whispered.
I must be.
And then she reached up, tangled her fingers in his hair, and pulled his mouth down to hers.
The kiss was nothing like the chased pecks she’d exchanged with Greg.
This was heat and hunger, and two years of pentup longing exploding into flame.
Tyler made a sound low in his throat and hauled her against him, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other spanning her waist.
He kissed her like a man starving, like she was air, and he’d been drowning. and Megan gave back everything he offered and more.
She’d been so cold for so long, frozen in the prison of propriety and expectation, and now she was burning.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Tyler rested his forehead against hers.
“Megan,” he said roughly.
“We should stop.”
“Why?”
“Because you deserve better than this.
Better than a stolen kiss in a drafty castle with a man who has no right to touch you.”
Megan pulled back enough to meet his eyes.
What if I don’t want better?
What if I just want this?
Want you?
His jaw tightened.
You’re vulnerable right now.
Frightened.
I won’t take advantage.
I’m not vulnerable, Megan said fiercely.
I’m angry.
I’m tired.
I’m done with letting other people tell me what I should want and who I should be.
And right now, in this moment, I want you.
She laid her palm against his chest, feeling his heart thundering beneath her fingers.
Unless you don’t want me.
Don’t want you.
He laughed a harsh, broken sound.
Megan, I’ve wanted you from the moment you told me you were perfectly capable of taking care of yourself.
I’ve wanted you every moment since.
But wanting isn’t enough.
I need to know you’re certain.
I need to know you won’t wake up tomorrow and regret this.
Megan thought about London, about her father’s letter and Lord Dan’s lukewarm courtship, and less suffocating weight of expectation.
Then she thought about Tyler’s hand against her face on the ridge, about the way he looked at her like she mattered, about how alive she felt when she was with him.
“I’m certain,” she said quietly.
“For the first time in my life.”
“I’m absolutely certain.”
Something in Tyler’s eyes shifted, the last of his resistance crumbling.
He kissed her again, slower this time, but no less intense, and Megan felt herself melting into him.
“Stay,” he murmured against her lips.
Not just tonight.
Stay.
Yes.
Megan breathed.
Yes.
The storm howled outside, shaking the ancient stones of Castle Glenmore.
But inside, wrapped in Tyler’s arms, Megan had never felt safer or more terrified or more alive.
Megan woke to pale winter sunlight streaming through the windows and the disorienting realization that she was not in her room at Brenda’s house.
She was in Castle Glenmore, in Tyler’s castle, in his bed.
Memory flooded back.
The kiss, the desperate need.
The way he’d carried her up the stone stairs to his chambers as if she weighed nothing.
The way he’d loved her with a fierce tenderness that had shattered every remaining piece of her careful control.
The way she’d given him everything, and felt not diminished, but whole.
She turned her head and found him watching her, propped up on one elbow, his dark hair tousled and his expression unguarded in a way she’d never seen before.
“Good morning,” he said softly.
Megan felt heat flood her cheeks.
“Good morning, regrets.”
“Should I have them?”
His mouth curved.
“Most women in your position would not most women.”
“No,” he agreed, reaching out to trace the line of her jaw with one finger.
“You’re not.”
They lay there in comfortable silence for a moment, and Megan tried to reconcile the magnitude of what she’d done.
She’d spent the night in the Duke of Glenrey’s bed.
She’d given herself to a man she’d known for barely 2 weeks, and she didn’t regret a single moment of it.
“The storm’s passed,” Tyler said, glancing toward the window.
“The path to the village will be clear by midday.”
“Oh,” Megan felt an unexpected pang of disappointment.
“Then I should return to Brenda’s.”
“You should,” he paused.
But you don’t have to.
Megan sat up, pulling the sheet around herself.
Through the window she could see the valley spread out below, snow covered and pristine in the morning light, beautiful and wild and utterly foreign to everything she’d known in London.
Tyler, she said carefully, last night was extraordinary, but we both know it can’t happen again.
Why not?
Because I’m a widow.
Because you’re a duke?
Because if anyone found out I’d spent the night here, the scandal would destroy whatever reputation I have left.
I don’t care about scandal.
But I do.
Megan turned to face him.
Or rather, I care about my choices.
If I stay here, if we continue this, it has to be because I choose it, not because I’m running from my father or rebelling against expectations.
It has to be real.
Tyler sat up as well, his expression serious.
What are you saying?
I’m saying I need time.
I need to think about what I want, separate from what I’m running from.
She reached out and took his hand.
What happened between us last night was real, but I need to make sure it’s not just desperation.
He was quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing circles on her palm.
I understand.
Do you?
Yes.
He met her eyes.
Because I need to be certain, too.
I’ve spent years keeping everyone at a distance.
Letting you in, really letting you in, terrifies me.
I need to know if what I feel is real or if I’m just lonely.
Megan felt tears sting her eyes.
You’re a good man, Tyler MacLeod.
So, you keep telling me.
He leaned forward and kissed her forehead gently.
Take your time.
Think, and whatever you decide, I’ll accept it.
Even if I choose to leave, his jaw tightened.
Even then, Mrs.
Fraser had Megan’s clothes cleaned and pressed by the time she came downstairs, and a horse was saddled and ready to take her back to the village.
Tyler insisted on escorting her himself, and they rode down the mountain path in comfortable silence.
Brenda was waiting at her door, her expression hovering between relief and exasperation.
“I thought you’d been buried in the snow,” she said, pulling Megan into a hug.
“When you didn’t return last night, I sought shelter at the castle,” Megan said.
The storm was too dangerous to attempt the path.
Brenda’s eyes slid to Tyler, still mounted on his horse, and something knowing flickered in her expression.
“Of course, very sensible.”
“Lady Wallace,” Tyler said with a nod.
Then to Megan, “If you need anything, send word.”
“I will.”
“Thank you, your grace.”
He held her gaze for a moment longer, then wheeled his horse and rode away.
Brenda watched him go, then turned to Megan with raised eyebrows.
Well, that was interesting.
Brenda, inside now.
And don’t even think about claiming nothing happened because your face is telling me everything I need to know.
Over tea in the parlor, Megan told Brenda everything.
The letter from her father, the conversation at the castle, the kiss, the night.
To her credit, Brenda didn’t look shocked.
She simply listened, occasionally refilling Megan’s teacup until the story was finished.
“So Brenda said finally, you’ve fallen in love with the Duke of Glenmore.”
“I don’t know if it’s love,” Megan protested weakly.
“Megan, I’ve known Tyler MacLeod since he was a boy.
I’ve never never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”
“And you,” she smiled gently.
“You’re glowing.”
Megan looked down at her teacup.
“It’s too fast, too complicated.
Love usually is, but I don’t trust it.
I married Greg after a perfectly reasonable courtship, and that turned out to be a disaster.
How can I trust feelings that developed in a matter of days?
Because, Brenda said, “You married Greg for all the wrong reasons duty expectation your father’s approval.
You didn’t choose him.
You accepted him.
There’s a difference.”
Megan felt tears threaten again.
“I’m so tired of being afraid.
Then stop being afraid.
Brenda reached across and took her hand.
Megan, you asked me why I left London and married a Scottish lair 30 years ago.
Do you want to know the truth?
Please, because I was suffocating because my family had my entire life planned out and none of it included what I actually wanted.
So I ran.
I came to Scotland, met a man who saw me for who I was instead of what I represented, and I chose him.
It was scandalous.
My family disowned me for a year, but it was the best decision I ever made.
Her eyes were bright.
Don’t let fear steal your chance at happiness, my dear.
You’ve been given a rare gift.
A man who sees you, who wants you, and who’s brave enough to admit it.
The question is, are you brave enough to accept it?
Megan thought about Tyler’s eyes as he’d watched her sleep.
About the way he’d held her as if she was something precious, about the life stretching out before her, a choice between safety and risk, between what was expected and what she truly wanted.
I need to go back, she said suddenly.
To London, Brenda blinked.
What?
I need to face my father.
Need to end this on my terms instead of running away.
Megan stood, her decision crystallizing with sudden clarity.
If I’m going to choose Tyler, and I think I am, I need to do it freely, not as an escape, but as a genuine choice.
Your father will try to stop you.
Let him try.
Megan felt something fierce and bright unfurling in her chest.
I’m done being managed.
Done being a porn in his political games.
If he cuts me off, so be it.
I’ll find a way to survive.
That’s quite a risk.
I know.
Megan smiled, and it felt like the first real smile she’d managed in years.
But I think I’m finally ready to take it.
The letter she wrote to Tyler that afternoon was brief.
I’m returning to London to end this properly, to face my father and make my own choice, free of coercion or fear.
Wait for me, please.
E. His response arrived the next morning, delivered by one of his men.
I’ll wait as long as it takes.
C. Megan left for London two days later.
The journey south felt endless, each mile stretching out as she rehearsed what she would say to her father, how she would stand firm against his inevitable fury.
She arrived at the Highwood Townhouse in Berkeley Square just as dusk was falling.
The butler’s eyes widened at the sight of her, but he ushered her inside without comment.
Her father was in his study, as she’d known he would be.
Craig Smith Marquis of Highwood looked up from his correspondence with an expression of cold fury.
So you’ve decided to grace us with your presence, father.
Megan stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.
We need to speak.
Indeed we do.
Your behavior has been unconscionable.
Megan to flee to Scotland like a common.
I’m not going to marry Lord Dan.
Megan said clearly her father’s face reened.
How you will do as you’re told.
No.
Megan interrupted her voice steady.
I won’t.
I’m done being told what to do, father.
Done being treated like a commodity to be traded for political advantage.
I’m a widow.
I have rights, and I’m exercising them.
Rights?
Her father stood, his chair scraping against the floor.
You have no rights beyond what I allow you.
I control your inheritance from Blackwood.
I control your social standing.
Cross me and you’ll have nothing.
Megan felt her heart pounding, but she kept her voice level.
Then I’ll have nothing but I’ll have my freedom.
Freedom?
He spat the word like a curse.
Freedom to what?
Become a spinster.
Live on charity.
You’re not thinking clearly, Megan.
This Scottish heir has addled your mind.
No, Megan said quietly.
It’s cleared my mind.
For the first time in my life, I can see exactly what I want.
Her father’s eyes narrowed.
And what is that? to make my own choices, to live my own life.
And she took a breath, to marry a man I actually love.
Love, her father’s lip curled.
Love is irrelevant.
Marriage is about a lions.
About He stopped, his expression sharpening.
Who is he?
This man you claim to love?
Megan lifted her chin.
Tyler MacLeod, Duke of Glenmore.
For a moment her father simply stared at her.
Then he laughed, a harsh, bitter sound.
The Highland Duke, that half- wild Scotsman who refuses to play by civilized rules.
You cannot be serious.
I’m entirely serious.
He has no interest in London society.
No political influence.
What could he possibly offer you that Lord Peon cannot?
Honesty, Megan said, “Respect, a life where I’m valued as a person, not as a porn.”
She paused.
“Love?”
Her father shook his head.
You’re a fool.
Dan would give you stability, security, a position in society.
This Scotsman will give you nothing but isolation and regret.
Then I’ll live with isolation and regret on my own terms.
Megan moved toward the door.
I came here to tell you in person, father, I’m returning to Scotland.
I’m going to marry Tyler if he’ll have me, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.
I’ll cut you off, her father said coldly. every penny of your inheritance, every connection, you’ll be dead to this family.”
Megan felt tears sting her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
“I know, and I’m choosing him anyway.”
She left the study, climbed the stairs to her old room, and packed a single trunk with the things that mattered, her mother’s jewelry, a few beloved books, letters from friends who had shown her true kindness.
The next morning, before her father could make good on his threats, or attempt to physically restrain her, Megan left London.
She left behind her father’s house, her position in society, her carefully constructed life, and she pointed herself north toward the mountains, and the man who had shown her what it meant to truly live.
The journey back to Scotland felt twice as long as the journey south.
Megan’s nerves were stretched to, worry gnawing at her.
What if she’d been wrong?
What if Tyler had changed his mind?
What if the connection they’d felt had been nothing but an illusion born of isolation and circumstance?
By the time the carriage finally rolled into Glenmore, Megan was exhausted and terrified in equal measure, Brenda met her at the door, her expression unreadable.
“Well, that was quick.
Is he here?”
Megan asked.
“Calum, is he at the castle where he’s been pacing like a caged wolf for the past week?”
Brenda smiled.
“Go put the poor man out of his misery.”
Megan didn’t wait for the carriage.
She simply started walking, then running up the mountain path toward Castle Glenmore.
The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson, and the ancient fortress rose before her like something out of a dream.
She was breathless and disheveled by the time she reached the main doors, and she didn’t care.
She burst through them and nearly collided with Tyler himself.
He caught her, his hands strong and sure on her arms, his eyes wide with shock.
Megan.
I told him no, she gasped.
I told my father I wouldn’t marry Dan.
I told him I was choosing you.
He cut me off.
Said I’d have nothing.
But I don’t care.
I don’t care about the money or the position or any of it.
I just Tyler kissed her.
It was fierce and desperate and full of relief.
And Megan melted into him, her hands fisting in his shirt.
When they finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers.
“You chose me.
I chose you, Megan confirmed breathless.
If you’ll have me.
I know I come with nothing now.
No dowy, no connections, no.
You come with everything I want, Tyler interrupted.
Megan Smith, you are brave and fierce and stubborn and absolutely magnificent.
I don’t care about your dowy or your connections.
I care about you.
I love you, Megan whispered.
I know it’s fast and probably mad, but I love you.
His eyes blazed.
I love you, too.
From the moment you looked at me on that path and told me you were perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, I was lost.
“Then marry me,” Megan said.
“Not because it’s sensible or advantageous or proper, but because you want to, because we choose each other.”
“Yes,” Tyler said roughly.
“Yes, a thousand times, yes.”
He kissed her again.
And Megan felt something inside her chest unfurl and bloom. something that felt like joy, like freedom, like coming home to a place she’d never known she was searching for.
When they finally pulled apart, Tyler kept her wrapped in his arms.
“Your father may have cut you off, but you’re not penniless.
I have more than enough for both of us, and once we’re married, you’ll be the Duchess of Glenmore.
That comes with its own resources.”
“I don’t care about being a duchess,” Megan said honestly.
“I just want to be with you.
You’ll have both.”
He smiled and it transformed his face.
We’ll marry here in the village Kirk surrounded by these mountains and these people.
And then his expression turned wicked.
Then I’m keeping you in this castle for at least a month, possibly longer.
Megan laughed, feeling lighter than she had in years.
Scandalous.
I’m a scandalous man.
He swept her up into his arms, making her squeal with surprise.
And you, Lady Megan Smith, are about to become a scandalous woman.
I can live with that, Megan said, wrapping her arms around his neck.
And she could.
She truly could.
One year later, the winter sun streamed through the windows of Castle Glenrey’s nursery, and Megan MacLeod, Duchess of Glenmore, stood by the cradle, watching her son sleep.
He was 3 months old, with a cap of dark hair and his father’s storm-colored eyes.
They’d named him Brian after Tyler’s father, and he was already showing signs of his father’s stubborn temperament.
“Is he down?”
Tyler asked, appearing in the doorway.
Megan turned and smiled.
“Finally, he’s decided that sleep is for lesser mortals.
Tyler crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder as they both gazed down at their sleeping son.
“He’s perfect,” Tyler murmured.
He’s stubborn and contrary and absolutely exhausting,” Megan corrected, just like his father.
I take offense to that, but his voice was warm with laughter.
They stood there in comfortable silence, and Megan thought about the year that had passed, about the small, beautiful wedding in Glenra’s Kirk, surrounded by villagers who had welcomed her as one of their own, about the slow, sweet process of learning to live with another person, not as an obligation, but as a choice renewed every single day, about the morning she’d realized she was pregnant, and the way Tyler had stared at her in wonder before sweeping her into his arms, and spinning her around until they both were dizzy and laughing.
Any regrets?
Tyler asked quietly as if reading her thoughts.
Megan turned in his arms, reaching up to cup his face.
Not a single one.
Not even about your father.
Megan’s expression sobered slightly.
The Marquis of Highwood had indeed cut her off as promised.
She’d written him once after Brian was born, enclosing a miniature portrait of his grandson.
He hadn’t responded, but she’d made her peace with that.
Some bridges were meant to burn.
Not even about him, she said firmly.
I have everything I need right here.
Tyler kissed her soft and lingering.
I love you, Megan MacLeod.
I love you too, you impossible Highland Duke.
From the cradle, Brian made a small sound, not quite crying, but a warning that he might start.
Tyler moved to pick him up, and Megan watched as her fierce, stubborn, wonderful husband cradled their son with infinite tenderness.
This, she thought, this was what love looked like.
Not the polite, distant arrangement she’d had with Greg, not the oppressive control her father had called family duty, but this.
Two people choosing each other everyday, building a life together in the wild beauty of the Scottish Highlands, raising their son to know both strength and gentleness.
“What are you thinking?”
Tyler asked, noticing her expression.
Megan smiled.
“That I’m glad I took that walk up the mountain. that I’m glad I met a duke who told me to be careful.
And did you?
Tyler asked, his eyes gleaming.
Did you take my advice and be careful?
Not even a little bit, Megan said.
And thank heaven for that.
Brian yawned, his tiny fist waving in the air, and both his parents laughed.
Outside the first snow of winter began to fall, blanketing the highlands in white.
But inside Castle Glenmore, wrapped in the warmth of love and family and home, Megan had never felt safer or freer or more completely utterly alive.
She had fled London seeking peace and found instead passion, purpose, and a love that defied every convention.
And she would choose it, choose him every single day for the rest of her life.
THE END
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Disclaimer
This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. If you would like to share your story, please send it to [email protected].
