The Scottish Duke’s Substitute Bride (Preview)

Chapter One

Diana

Diana had not been to Guildeforde Manor in nearly a year.

Widowhood had taught her its rhythms the way the body learned pain—through repetition. At first, the days felt too large for their contents. William’s chair remained untouched by habit rather than sentiment. His coat still hung where he had left it, though she had long since stopped brushing her fingers against the sleeve when she passed. Each morning began with the same fact waiting for her: she was there, and he was not.

She had not expected joy. That would have been foolish.

But the sharp edges had dulled. She slept through most nights now. She no longer reached for him in the dark, half-waking and breathless, before remembering.

Jeffrey had done that.

Her son had become the axis of her days, the bright, stubborn little sun around which everything else revolved. He was five; long-limbed in the way children became without warning, his hair the same pale gold as Diana’s sister Stephana and his eyes a warm brown like Diana’s own. He spoke without fear to strangers and to cats alike, and he asked questions with the unshakable confidence of a child who believed the world existed to answer him.

And Diana, in loving him, had found something steadier than her marriage had ever given her.

Which was why the letter had struck like a hand around her throat.

Come at once.

No explanation. No softening phrase. Her father’s hand was as unmistakable as his imperiousness; the ink pressed hard enough that the nib must have scratched the paper. When Baron Guildeforde summoned his eldest daughter, he did not ask. He expected obedience.

And he never summoned her when all was well.

The carriage wheels crunched over the gravel drive as the manor rose ahead—familiar gables and chimneys, the wide front steps, the pale stone that looked almost golden in the weak afternoon sun. Diana sat upright despite the ache in her shoulders from the journey, her gloved hand resting lightly atop Jeffrey’s small fingers, as if to anchor them both.

He leaned against her, heavy with sleep, his cheek warm where it pressed to her sleeve.

“Wake, my love,” she murmured, though she did not truly want him to. Not yet. Not until she had stepped back into the house she had once escaped and could see what waited inside.

Jeffrey blinked, then yawned so widely she could see the back of his throat. “Are we at Grandpapa’s?” he asked, already brightening.

“We are,” she said, smoothing his hair. “And you must remember your manners.”

“I always remember,” he declared with great confidence, and she almost smiled despite herself.

The footman opened the carriage door. Cold air rushed in, smelling of damp earth and smoke. Diana drew her cloak closer and stepped down, Jeffrey beside her, his hand tucked into hers.

The front door was already open as they approached, as if the house itself had been holding its breath for their arrival.

Inside, the entrance hall was dimmer than Diana remembered, though perhaps that was only a reflection of the weather. The great chandelier above remained unlit. A fire burned in the hearth, but low—more embers than flame. Servants moved quietly through the space, their expressions carefully neutral, their eyes sliding away before meeting hers.

Not the lively bustle of a household preparing for guests. Not the warmth of a home expecting family.

Something had happened.

A footman stepped forward at once to take her cloak. Diana surrendered it automatically, her attention already drawn to the closed door of her father’s study. It stood shut, deliberate, as though guarding whatever decision had summoned her home in such haste.

The door opened.

A gentleman emerged from the study, fastening his gloves as he stepped into the hall. He was well dressed in dark blue, his linen neatly tied, his manner easy and assured. He paused when he noticed her, then bowed with practiced politeness.

Diana registered him only in fragments—the cut of his coat, the confidence of his posture, the faintly fashionable scent that clung to him. One of her father’s business acquaintances, no doubt. Men like this came and went from Guildeforde Manor with hopeful smiles and ledgers tucked beneath their arms.

“Are you a lord?” Jeffrey asked bluntly, peering up at him with open curiosity.

The man laughed, short and amused. “I am afraid not,” he said smoothly. “Not yet.”

He tipped his hat in farewell and continued down the corridor without waiting for further conversation.

Diana did not look back.

“Oh, Diana.”

Her father’s voice came from the study doorway—cool, assessing, entirely without warmth.

He stood behind his desk, as he always did, as though the room belonged to him by divine right rather than inheritance. He was still tall, though age had begun to bow his shoulders in a way he would never acknowledge. His hair had gone iron-grey, his features sharp enough to cut.

He did not come around the desk to embrace her. He did not step forward at all.

His gaze flicked briefly to Jeffrey. “So.”

“Father,” Diana said, inclining her head. “You wrote that I must come at once.”

“I did.” His fingers tapped once on the desk, impatient. “And you have come.”

Diana tightened her hold on Jeffrey’s hand. “May I know why?”

Her father’s expression did not change, but something in his eyes sharpened. “In due time. Your mother is indisposed at the moment. You will dine with us, and your sister will join us. Until then, you may refresh yourself from your journey.”

It was dismissal, nothing more.

Jeffrey shifted, beginning to fidget. Diana felt the familiar urge to keep her voice calm, to keep her child from sensing the tension in the adults.

“Very well,” she said. “But Father—”

“Later,” he cut in.

Diana inclined her head and turned toward the door. As she reached it, she paused.

“The gentleman in the hall,” she said evenly. “May I ask who he was?”

Her father did not look up from the papers before him. A faint sound left him—something between assent and impatience. “An investor. A man with useful connections.”

There was the slightest tightening in his voice on the final word, as though the necessity of such connections sat ill with him.

“I see.”

She did not inquire further. Her father had never welcomed scrutiny, and she had long ago learned when questions would go unanswered.

She only nodded and led Jeffrey upstairs.

But her unease had turned into something colder. Something with edges.

In her old bedchamber, the maid avoided her gaze. The room had been aired, the sheets changed, but the air still held a faint scent of lavender and age.

Jeffrey immediately ran to the window, pressing his face to the glass. “Is Stephana here?” he asked. “Will she play with me?”

“She will be delighted to see you,” Diana said, though she could not be sure.

Stephana had been thirteen when Diana married William and left their house—old enough to feel the loss keenly, young enough to pretend she did not. Diana had visited when she could, but widowhood had altered the shape of everything. It had made travel more difficult. It had made her father’s demands easier to ignore.

Perhaps that was why he had summoned her… because she could no longer ignore him.

Diana found Stephana in the morning room, seated near the window with an embroidery hoop in her lap.

She was humming—a thin, careful sound that did not match the tension in her fingers.

Stephana did not hum while she worked. She talked, abandoned projects, laughed too loudly. Now she stitched with careful precision, the soft thread of music barely audible.

“You grow industrious in my absence,” Diana said lightly.

Stephana started, nearly dropping the hoop. “Diana!”

She rose at once, crossing the room before decorum could restrain her. Diana opened her arms instinctively, and Stephana embraced her with sudden warmth, the familiar scent of lavender and starch clinging to her gown.

“You came,” Stephana said, drawing back just enough to search her face.

“Of course I did.”

Jeffrey wedged himself between them without ceremony. “Aunt Stephana!”

Stephana laughed then—a sound far more natural—and knelt to hug him properly. “You have grown.”

“I am nearly six,” he informed her with gravity.

“You are ancient.”

When they separated, Stephana resumed her seat and lifted the embroidery hoop once more, though her needle did not immediately find the thread.

Her gaze flicked toward the drive beyond the window.

Once.

Twice.

“Are you expecting someone?” Diana asked.

“No,” Stephana said at once.

A folded paper lay half-hidden beneath the edge of the frame. Stephana’s hand shifted over it instinctively.

Diana did not comment.

When the dinner bell rang, Stephana set the hoop aside and rose.

The dining room was already lit when they entered Diana took her seat slowly, as dinner began.

At first, it was all the usual motions—servants moving soundlessly, soup served, her mother asking Jeffrey a question with strained sweetness, Jeffrey answering with blunt honesty. Diana watched her father over the rim of her glass, waiting for the blow she sensed would come.

It came with the first course cleared away.

Her father set down his fork with deliberate precision. “We have arranged a match for Stephana.”

Lady Lettice’s fingers tightened around her napkin.

Stephana’s gaze dropped to her plate.

Diana felt her stomach tighten. “A match,” she repeated.

“A brilliant one,” the baron said, and there was pride in his tone—too bright, too sharp. “The Duke of Dunmore has agreed to take her as his wife.”

The words hung in the air.

Even Jeffrey went quiet, sensing the shift.

“A duke,” Diana said slowly, because it was the only sensible thing to say.

“A Scottish duke,” Lady Lettice added faintly, her voice trembling as if she might break. “Very wealthy. Very—very well situated.”

“The wedding must take place immediately,” her father continued, as if timing were an inconvenience rather than a life. “The duke arrives within days.”

Diana turned her gaze to Stephana. Her sister’s face had gone the color of cream. She looked as if she had stopped breathing.

“Within days?” Diana echoed.

Her father leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Our position requires it.”

There it was.

Diana’s throat tightened. “What position?”

“The Guildeforde estate is in difficulty,” Lady Lettice whispered, and at last tears gathered in her eyes, clinging to her lashes.

“In difficulty,” Diana repeated, the words tasting strange. “Father, you have always—”

“Managed?” Her father’s mouth tightened. “Yes. And now I require a solution, not a lecture.”

The baron’s gaze flicked to Jeffrey, and Diana felt it like a blade.

“A duchess in this family restores our standing,” he said. “Extends our credit. Secures our future.”

And, unspoken but obvious: secures Jeffrey’s future too.

Diana’s fingers curled against her napkin until the linen bit into her skin.

“A noble lineage,” her mother said, forcing brightness into her voice. “A vast estate. It is everything a young woman could want.”

Stephana’s breath shuddered.

Dinner continued as if nothing had happened.

Diana did not remember tasting a single bite after that.

Stephana spoke only when spoken to, and even then her voice sounded faint, as though coming from far away. Jeffrey, increasingly bored by adult conversation, began to ask the footman questions about the roast. Diana tried to answer him when she could, but her attention remained fixed on Stephana’s hands—trembling, twisting together in her lap.

When at last the meal ended, Diana rose immediately.

“I should like a word with Stephana,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

Her father’s gaze hardened. “She is fatigued.”

“Then I shall not keep her long.”

Lady Lettice looked as though she might object, but she said nothing.

Stephana rose on unsteady feet, and Diana took her arm, guiding her from the room as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

They did not speak until Stephana’s door closed behind them.

Then Stephana turned and pressed her back to it, as if bracing herself against the world.

“Tell me,” Diana said, keeping her voice low, controlled. “Tell me what is happening.”

Stephana swallowed. Her eyes were bright, too bright. “He is coming,” she whispered. “He is coming in days, and Father expects me to—”

“Stephana.” Diana stepped closer. “Who is he?”

“The duke,” Stephana breathed, and her voice trembled on the word. Her hands fluttered to the small escritoire by the window, then to the bed, then to her own throat as if she could not find where to put them.

Diana’s gaze snagged on a folded letter lying on the writing desk, half-hidden beneath a book. Stephana’s hand darted out and covered it, protectively.

“What is that?” Diana asked.

Stephana shook her head, violently. “Nothing.”

“Stephana.”

“I cannot show you,” Stephana whispered, and something in her expression made Diana’s skin prickle. Fear, yes. But also shame. As if the contents of that paper were a stain she could not wash away.

Diana’s voice gentled. “All right. You need not show me. But you will tell me why you are frightened.”

Stephana’s breath hitched. She turned her face away toward the window, as if looking for an escape that did not exist.

“I cannot marry him,” she said, the words falling out like a confession. “I cannot. I would rather—” Her voice broke. She pressed her hand to her mouth, as if holding something back.

Diana’s stomach sank. “Rather what?”

Stephana looked at her then, eyes wild. “I would rather die.”

The room seemed to tilt.

Diana moved without thinking, catching her sister’s hands. They were icy. “Stephana, do not say such things.”

“It is true,” Stephana whispered, and her grip tightened, nails digging into Diana’s gloves. “You do not understand what they say about him.”

“What they say,” Diana repeated slowly, the words heavy with dread. “Who says?”

“The servants. The village. The people who have worked for Scots lords, who have heard things.” Stephana’s voice dropped, each word darker than the last. “They say he is scarred. That he never appears in society. That he lives like a ghost in his own castle.”

Diana’s breath caught.

“They say there was a fire,” Stephana continued, and her face turned ashen. “A terrible one. It killed his sister.”

Diana felt a strange chill run along her arms. “His sister.”

“Catriona,” Stephana whispered. “She was sixteen.”

Diana could not seem to swallow. “And what has that to do with him?”

Stephana’s eyes filled, tears spilling over at last. “Everything. The rumors—Diana, the rumors are monstrous.”

Diana held her sister’s hands tighter, as if she could anchor her.

“They say he locked her in the east wing,” Stephana said, voice shaking. 

Diana tightened her grip. “Stephana.”

Stephana shook her head, breath stuttering. “Some say he started the fire himself. And the darkest ones…”

She squeezed her eyes shut, as if the words hurt her to speak.

“And the darkest ones?” Diana asked quietly.

“They say he stood and watched while she burned. While she screamed for him.”

Diana felt her own skin go cold, gooseflesh rising beneath her sleeves.

Stephana’s voice dropped to a whisper. “They say the castle is haunted. That her ghost still wanders the corridors. That you can hear her at night, screaming.”

Diana stared at her sister, trying to reconcile the bright, laughing girl Stephana had been with the trembling figure before her now.

“A Scottish duke,” Diana murmured, and it sounded less like a title and more like a threat.

Stephana nodded, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Father does not care. Mother does not care. They hear ‘duke’ and ‘wealth’ and think it means salvation. But I cannot go there. I cannot go to a place where a girl died, and no one knows if her brother killed her.”

Diana’s mind flashed, unbidden, to the gentleman in the corridor. His pleasant smile. His polished ease. Her father talking of investments.

The manor was in trouble. Her father was desperate. And Stephana was being traded like currency.

Diana’s hands shook, but she forced her voice calm. “Listen to me. You will not do anything foolish. Do you understand?”

Stephana’s eyes flicked toward the window.

Toward the darkness outside.

“I do not know what else to do,” Stephana whispered.

Diana pulled her into her arms, holding her tightly. Stephana clung to her with desperate strength.

“You will come to me,” Diana murmured into her hair. “If you are frightened, you will come to me. We will find a way.”

Stephana did not answer. Her breath shuddered against Diana’s shoulder.

Later—much later—when Diana finally returned to her bedchamber with Jeffrey asleep beside her, the house felt wrong.

The silence was too heavy. The shadows too deep.

She lay awake, listening for the sounds of the manor settling. The crackle of distant fire. The creak of old wood. The faint footsteps of servants.

But her mind replayed Stephana’s words until they turned into a chant.

Scarred. Fire. Sister. Screaming.

At last, unable to bear it, Diana rose and wrapped herself in a shawl. She moved into the corridor, the candle in her hand casting flickering light against the wallpaper.

She told herself she was only checking on Stephana.

Only making certain her sister slept.

Stephana’s door stood ajar.

Diana’s heart lurched.

She pushed it open, candlelight spilling into the room.

The bed was untouched.

The coverlet smooth. The room empty.

“Stephana?” Diana whispered, and her own voice sounded too loud.

No answer.

A cold dread spread through her limbs, swift and sickening. Diana stepped inside, crossing to the window, then the wardrobe, as if Stephana might be hiding like a child.

But the emptiness was absolute.

And on the writing desk, the folded letter was gone.

Diana stood there, candle trembling in her hand, and knew—knew with a certainty that made her stomach twist—that her sister had not simply risen for a glass of water.

She had left.

Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed the hour.

Diana did not remember returning to her room. Only the endless stretch of night that followed, her mind racing faster with every minute that passed.

At dawn, a groom’s shout tore through the house.

Diana was awake at once. She scarcely knew how she crossed the room—only that she dragged on the first woolen gown her hands found, thrust her feet into slippers, and seized her cloak from its peg.

Her hair hung loose down her back. She did not stop to bind it.

The corridor was already in uproar.

“Milady—”

“My sister.”

She was halfway down the stairs before the maid could answer.

The morning air struck her as she pushed through the yard doors, cold and biting.

In the stable yard, a horse stood trembling and foam-flecked, saddle still in place.

Stephana’s horse.

Diana’s lungs seemed to stop working. She moved as if in a dream, following the cluster of men toward the river beyond the trees.

The water ran fast there, swollen from winter rains. It churned against the rocks with cruel indifference.

Broken branches littered the bank.

And caught on a jagged stone, half-submerged and fluttering weakly in the current, was a familiar length of fabric—soft wool, pale blue.

Stephana’s shawl.

Lady Lettice collapsed to her knees with a sound that was not quite human. The baron stood rigid, his face blank, his hands clenched at his sides as if he could still command the world to obey.

Diana stared at the river, at the rushing water that swallowed everything it touched.

And in her mind, her sister’s voice rose again, clear as a bell, the words she had spoken in the safety of her chamber.

I would rather die.

Her knees weakened.

She had taken Stephana’s trembling hands between her own. She had promised—softly, urgently—that she would find a way. At the time, she had believed there was still time. Morning, she had told herself, would be soon enough.

Instead, while fear tightened its hold in Stephana’s chamber, while a letter was folded and concealed, while a horse was led quietly from its stall in the dead of night, Diana lay warm beneath blankets, trusting that dawn would mend what night had unsettled.

She kept no vigil at the door. She did not return to listen. She did not hear the yard stir, nor the sound of hooves upon the stones.

The river did not pause for intention. It did not consider promises made in whispers or plans postponed until morning. It only ran—fast and indifferent—carrying secrets beyond reach.

And beneath its surface lay the cost of that trust.

Chapter Two

Lachlan

The journey south unfolded in long stretches of silences.

Lachlan MacLeod, Duke of Dunmore, had never been inclined toward excessive conversation, and the further the carriage rolled from the Highlands, the less he felt disposed to attempt it. The November wind scoured the moors with tireless persistence, pressing coarse grasses flat and tugging at the carriage as though the land itself objected to his departure. The sky hung low and iron-grey, unbroken by sun.

Opposite him, his uncle Hamish shifted with increasing restlessness.

“You might consider it an adventure,” Hamish said at last, after several miles had passed without speech. “England in autumn. A change of air. A change of company.”

Lachlan’s gaze remained fixed on the blurred horizon beyond the window. “I do not require a change of air.”

“No,” Hamish replied dryly. “But you could benefit from a change of company.”

Lachlan inclined his head, acknowledging the remark without encouraging it.

Hamish studied him for a moment, then tried another approach. “I am told the Guildefordes keep a respectable house. The estate is said to be well-managed. Your bride will be accustomed to order.”

“I require competence,” Lachlan said evenly. “Not charm.”

“Competence may come with charm,” Hamish countered.

“Sometimes,” Lachlan allowed.

The carriage rocked over a rut in the road, and Hamish braced himself against the seat. “You cannot pretend this is merely a transaction,” he continued, more quietly now. “A household is not a ledger. You will have a wife.”

“I am aware.”

“You may even discover you prefer it.”

“I doubt it.”

Hamish’s mouth twitched, though his eyes remained thoughtful. “You were not always so devoted to doubt.”

That earned him a glance at last—brief, unreadable.

The silence that followed was heavier than the wind outside.

After a time, Hamish tried again. “You might at least attempt civility when you meet her. The girl has done nothing to deserve severity.”

“I have no intention of severity.”

“Indifference, then.”

Lachlan’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Indifference is kinder than false warmth.”

Hamish leaned back with a faint sigh. “You make it difficult to defend you, nephew.”

“I did not ask you to.”

The words were not sharp, merely factual, and somehow that made them heavier.

They rode on.

Lachlan did not dispute the necessity of the marriage. He had agreed to it for reasons that required no embellishment. The estate accounts had suffered under years of neglect and rumor. Tenants watched him from a respectful distance, uneasy despite their loyalty. Servants spoke in lowered voices when they believed he could not hear. The east wing still stood blackened and hollow, its charred timbers visible from the main drive like a wound that refused to close.

A wife would alter that.

A duchess presiding over Dunmore would signal stability. Continuance. Life resuming.

It was not romance or hope that drove him southward, but necessity.

They crossed into England by the following afternoon. The land softened in contour, fields more orderly, hedgerows trimmed with careful regularity. Lachlan scarcely marked the difference. He had not left Scotland in years, and he found he did not miss it when it receded behind him.

He missed only what had been lost within it.

They stopped at an inn before dusk. Hamish insisted upon dining in the common room.

“Visibility,” his uncle said with deliberate firmness. “It is well for people to see you. You cannot remain a shadow forever.”

Lachlan did not argue. He removed his gloves before entering, conscious of the habitual movement. The scar along his left cheek caught the firelight immediately. It ran in a pale, uneven line from temple to jaw, the skin drawn tight where the flames had taken hold. He no longer flinched at the sensation of air against it, yet he felt the shift in the room as keenly as if a draft had passed through.

Conversation faltered. Then resumed.

They took a table near the hearth. Hamish ordered ale; Lachlan requested water. He was aware, without looking, of the glances that returned again and again to his face.

At a nearby table, two gentlemen leaned toward one another with the subtlety of men who believed themselves discreet.

“That is him,” one murmured. “Dunmore.”

“Aye. The sister burned alive in the east wing.”

“I heard he locked her in.”

“So did I.”

“Others say he stood outside and watched the place go up.”

A soft laugh followed. “A cursed house, they say. Haunted still.”

Lachlan lifted his cup and drank.

He did not look at them. He did not acknowledge the words. He had long ago learned that silence unsettled gossips more effectively than anger.

Five years had passed since the fire. Five years in which grief had hardened into rumor and rumor into legend. The simplest truth—that tragedy did not always require villainy—held little interest for those who preferred a darker tale.

Hamish’s jaw tightened, though he kept his voice low. “You need not endure this indefinitely.”

“It is endured,” Lachlan replied.

“That is precisely my concern.”

Their meal arrived, and Lachlan ate with mechanical composure. He had heard worse. In the early months following the fire, he had been accused openly. Men had spoken of recklessness, of negligence, of temper. Women had crossed themselves when he passed.

Time had not erased the story; it had embellished it.

When they rose to leave, Lachlan placed coins upon the table and stepped back into the evening air. The damp chill struck his face, sharp and bracing. He drew a steady breath.

Hamish joined him, adjusting his gloves. “This is why the marriage must proceed,” he said quietly. “A proper household. A duchess visible at your side. Children in time. The tenants will settle. The village will tire of their own inventions.”

Children.

The word stirred something unsteady beneath Lachlan’s restraint. He did not permit it to surface. Instead, his hand rose, almost unconsciously, to brush the scar along his cheek.

“She will see it,” he said.

Hamish did not pretend ignorance. “She will.”

“And she will not be pleased.”

“You are a duke.”

“I am scarred.”

The truth lay between them, blunt and immovable. The fire had not merely taken Catriona. It had altered the man he had been before it. Laughter came rarely now. Ease, never. He remembered a time when he had ridden recklessly across the moors, when his sister had raced him on horseback and shouted with triumph when she outpaced him. He remembered teasing her for stealing his books, for humming loudly and off-key in corridors.

He remembered smoke.

“Marriage is not a matter of beauty,” Hamish said gently. “It is a matter of order.”

“Yes.”

They returned to the carriage.

The road stretched southward beneath a darkening sky. At one point, they were forced to halt when a farmer struggled with a lame horse in the middle of the track. Lachlan descended without hesitation. He examined the animal’s leg, spoke in a low, steady tone, and helped ease the creature to the side so the cart could pass safely. He left a coin in the farmer’s hand without comment and resumed his place in the carriage before thanks could grow effusive.

In another village, a beggar approached as the horses were watered. Lachlan did not meet his eyes for long, but passed him a folded note without spectacle.

Hamish watched these small acts with quiet approval.

“You are a better man than you credit yourself,” his uncle remarked when they were once more in motion.

Lachlan did not answer.

He was not interested in moral evaluation. He had failed where it mattered.

By the time Guildeforde Manor came into view two days later, the air had shifted again. The grounds were well-kept but subdued, the trees stripped nearly bare of leaves. Lachlan noted at once the black crepe hanging from several windows.

He felt the change before he understood it.

No footman hurried forward at their arrival. No stable lad approached with customary briskness. The drive lay unnaturally quiet, the gravel undisturbed except by their own wheels.

Hamish frowned.

“That is unusual,” he said.

The carriage slowed, and Lachlan stepped down first.

The house stood before him in solemn dignity. The black ribbons at the windows were unmistakable now.

Mourning.

The front door opened at last. A servant emerged, face pale, and bowed with visible strain. Moments later, Baron Guildeforde appeared behind him.

Lachlan had expected a calculating man. A cautious one, perhaps eager. What he saw instead was a figure diminished.

The baron’s hair seemed whiter than correspondence had suggested. His shoulders bowed. His face had taken on the ashen cast of a man who had not slept.

“Your Grace,” he began, his voice roughened.

Lachlan inclined his head. “Baron.”

“There has been… a tragedy.”

The word did not strike him as sharply as it once might have done. Tragedy had become familiar ground.

“My daughter,” the baron continued, swallowing visibly. “Stephana. She—” His voice faltered. “She drowned. Four days ago. The river took her.”

Silence expanded.

Hamish drew a breath, slow and measured.

Lachlan did not move. For a moment, the words seemed distant, as though spoken across a great span of water.

Drowned.

Four days.

The baron pressed on, as if compelled to fill the stillness. “The river was dragged. There was… evidence. Her shawl was found caught upon the rocks.” His gaze flickered briefly, as though ashamed of what he could not provide. “We are in mourning.”

Lachlan looked past him, toward the darkened windows, the drooping arrangements of flowers no one had thought to tend. The house itself seemed suspended in grief.

He felt something unexpected, and the unfamiliarity of it unsettled him.

Not relief. Not even disappointment.

Recognition.

The weight that settled in his chest was not surprise but weary acknowledgement.

Death followed him.

It had followed him from the east wing at Dunmore, from the smoke and splintering timber, from the echo of his sister’s voice swallowed by flame. It had followed him into inns and villages and now to this English estate where a young woman had drowned before ever seeing his face.

Hamish touched his arm lightly. “Lachlan.”

He did not answer at once.

The baron stood before him, hollow-eyed and diminished, awaiting response.

At length, Lachlan inclined his head again, voice steady though something colder had lodged beneath it.

“You have my condolences.”

The words felt insufficient.

He looked once more at the black crepe stirring faintly in the wind and understood, with a clarity that left no room for protest, that he had arrived too late for yet another life.

Death followed him everywhere.

And he did not know how to outrun it.