He sighed and sipped his whisky, having rejected the countess’s offer of tea. It was ever thus—gentlemen with titles must marry for money, and the young ladies with the best dowries married the loftiest titles. Cash trumped beauty on both sides.
“Alanna was caught in the storm while out taking charity to some of the local folk. She has always been so kind and caring, as I’m sure you know.”
He didn’t care one whit what the girl’s hobbies or interests might be. Her duties were to restore his fortune and breed an heir.
“The weather must have caught her unawares—storms can come suddenly in the Highlands, my lord,” Devorguilla continued. “No doubt she is staying with friends until the weather improves. We have had two days of heavy snow already.”
Wilfred set his glass down and leveled a sharp look at his future mother-in-law, who was at least five years younger than he was. “Yet I managed to get here.”
Devorguilla immediately lifted the lid on the decanter and refilled his glass. “Yes, of course—but even you were a day late for the wedding, my lord. You only arrived this morning.”
“Because I wished to be here,” he insisted. “I made every effort.” Actually, it was his coachman who’d made all the effort. Wilfred had stayed inside his plush coach with heated bricks at his feet, lounging under thick eiderdowns, sipping brandy and eating sweetmeats.
Devorguilla gave him a beguiling smile. “And I’m sure Alanna is also making every effort to return as quickly as possible as well. As much as it is a Highland custom to offer shelter and assistance to travellers in need, it’s also a Highland custom to respect the weather.”
He sipped from the refilled glass of whisky. Did anything warm so well as good Highland whisky? The smoke curled through his veins pleasantly. “But your older daughter—” he began, but Devorguilla gave him a reassuring smile that warmed him almost as much as the whisky did. “Megan is impetuous. Alanna is sensible, sweet natured, and deeply honored to be your bride. I have every expectation that she’ll walk through that door in the next minute and apologize profusely.”
They both glanced at the doorway, but it remained empty. He raised an eyebrow and looked back at Devorguilla. The clock on the mantel ticked a nervous drumbeat.
The countess let her lashes sweep down over her eyes, then bit into her lush lower lip. “If I were Alanna, I’d be counting the moments until you made me the happiest woman on earth,” Devorguilla added, her voice an octave lower, and as smoky and potent as the whisky.
He looked at her with interest. “Would you?”
She smiled. “Of course. You must be aware of your charms without my needing to describe them. Your good looks, your noble nature, your devastating wit . . .”
He was forty-six and balding, with a large mole on his nose. He was widely regarded as the most humorless man in all England. He looked more deeply into the countess’s green eyes, seeking subterfuge, and found only admiration. His chest swelled. Perhaps he could afford to wait a day or two after all.
“Alanna has not said anything of my . . . charms,” he said.
Devorguilla tilted her head. Her golden hair gleamed in the light of the fire. “Oh, but she is young and shy.”
He leaned forward. “While you, dear countess, are a woman of experience.”
A blush bloomed over her high cheekbones. “Not that much experience, my lord. I was only seventeen myself when Alanna was born. Women marry young in the Highlands, and we choose men of distinction and maturity, such as yourself.”
“You flatter me, Countess.” Perhaps she did, but he liked it.
Her smile spread like a slow seduction. “Do call me Devorguilla, my lord.”
“Then you must call me Wilfred.”
“It will be my pleasure, Wilfred.”
“Lovely,” he murmured, wondering when he’d last heard his given name on a beautiful woman’s lips. “May I say you look more like Alanna’s pretty sister than her mother?” He preferred older women, actually. They were experienced, knowledgeable in bed, and they understood how to please a man. Virgins were for marrying, but women like Devorguilla McNabb were for pleasure.
She didn’t simper at his compliment. She looked him square in the eyes for a moment before she lowered her lashes again in a long sweep. “There you see—you are very charming indeed, Wilfred.” She set her cup down. “What shall we do while we await Alanna? Perhaps a hand of cards, or a game of chess?”
She said the word as if chess meant another game entirely, and Wilfred got to his feet and held out an arm to his lovely hostess.
He helped her set up the chessboard on a table in front of the fire, their fingers brushing.
As the snow fell outside, the glamorous dowager Countess of Glenlorne poured him another brimming glass of whisky and smiled, and he didn’t give the weather or his missing fiancée another thought.
Chapter Fifteen
Craigleith, seventeen days before Christmas
SANDY SHOOK THE snow off as he entered Jock MacIntosh’s snug cottage the morning after Alanna McNabb’s arrival at Craigleith. “I’m glad to still find you here. Any news from your daughter?” he asked as he hung his plaid by the fire to dry. Jock’s wife nodded a wordless greeting and poured him a dram of whisky before going back about her work, knitting something, no doubt for her new grandchild.
“No, but the babe is due to come anytime now. I promised her I’d bring her mother to help, but the storm’s delayed us. We’ll go today, snow or no snow.” Jock said. “If the babe gets time to be born amidst all the blethering the pair of them will be doing, it will indeed be something to see.” His wife sent him a scowl and tossed another stitch over her knitting needles.
Sandy chuckled. “You make it sound as if you’ve no interest a’tall in seeing your first grandchild. I’m waiting on the arrival of my fourth. I like bairns best when they’re old enough to hold their tongues and give a man some peace.”
“You can no more resist a new babe than I can, Sandy MacGillivray,” Jock’s missus scolded.
Jock grinned. “Each grandchild is a blessing at our age. Auld Annie says this one will be a boy, so of course I’m interested. And I don’t share a cott with my daughter, so I won’t have to have my sleep interrupted a dozen times a night like you will.” He lit Sandy’s pipe, then his own. So what brings you out on a day like this?”
Sandy stretched his feet to the fire to warm them. “I’ve come to ask if you’ll carry a letter when you go to see your daughter. I assume your son-in-law will be making the journey to Loch Rain to take the news of the birth to his own kin. Perhaps he could take the letter that far, and find someone to take it on from there.”
“Aye, and gladly, but who are you writing to?”
“Not me. There’s a lass at the castle. Iain found her lost in the snow and brought her home. They were forced to stay the night at Ewan’s old cott because the storm was so bad. He came back yesterday morning holding her in his arms, wrapped up safe in his plaid, wearing his handkerchief as a bandage.”
“Is that a fact?” Jock asked, his eyes bright. He rubbed his stubbled chin. “Does he mean to keep her?”
Sandy sighed. “He says not, but she’s a bonnie wee thing, pretty as the hills on a fine summer morn.”
“Then who’s he writing to?”
“Not him—her. She has a brother at Glenlorne, wants him to know she’s here and safe.”
“I remember a time when it wasn’t necessary to send a letter to say that. Everyone would know she was safe,” Jock mused.
“It’s the Highland way,” Sandy agreed.
“And Iain—there’s no better laird than Iain MacGillivray.” Jock raised his mug to the man, and Sandy raised his as well, drained his cup, and rose.
“Well, I’ll not keep you. Travel safe, and give my best to your lass and her husband when you see them.” He
handed over the letter, and Jock took it.
“Connor will find someone to take it from Loch Rain. We’ll be back by Christmas, or maybe not, if the wife has her way. It won’t be easy to part my May from the little one.”
“Or you, old man,” May said, not looking up from her knitting.
“A fine Christmas to you and yours,” Sandy said, nodding to May and clasping his old friend’s hand before heading back out into the snow.
Chapter Sixteen
Craigleith, sixteen days before Christmas
“COME IN,” ALANNA said as she pulled the covers up to her neck and held her breath, wondering if it was Iain knocking on the door.
“Am I disturbing you?” Fiona MacGillivray asked. “Annie sent me up with some clothes for you, and a comb and some hair ribbons, if you’re well enough to come down for dinner. Your own dress is torn, and Seonag’s stitching it, since she does the best needlework of anyone here at—” She realized she was babbling and colored as she fell silent.
Fiona looked like a feminine, pretty version of her brother, with the same red hair and gray eyes. “Thank you,” Alanna said with a smile, pulling herself up on the pillows. She’d been in bed for two days, and she was indeed anxious to get up.
“It’s one of my dresses, but it isn’t as fine as yours,” Fiona added, laying it over the back of a chair. “You must be used to much nicer clothes than this.”
“Not really,” Alanna said. “Well, not until my mother insisted I’d need fancy clothes to wear in England, that is.”
Fiona’s eyes widened. “Is it truly so different there? I’ve seen how Elizabeth and Penelope dress. Penelope changes her gown four or five times a day, and each one has matching shoes and shawls and bonnets. Each outfit is for a different activity—like tea, or callers, or theater parties. Even if those activities aren’t ever going to happen here, she says good manners must be observed no matter where we are.” She twisted her hands together. “I think it will be difficult to get used to doing nothing but changing my dress all day when I get to England. I doubt I’ll remember the difference between a morning gown and a tea dress.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Penelope says the English don’t tolerate mistakes, especially—” She shrugged. “I limp, you see. I’d rather stay here, at Craigleith, but Iain must go to England, and I can’t let him face it alone.”
Face what? Was he nervous, afraid, as anxious as she was? Alanna swallowed her surprise. Iain MacGillivray was a man, strong, brave, and kind. Surely he wouldn’t be afraid of anything. Like she was. Alanna gripped the folds of his shirt under the covers. “Is he—looking forward to going to England?”
Fiona’s face scrunched. “Oh, he puts a brave face on it, but I don’t think so. He visited England once before, when he was much younger. He didn’t like it.”
“Why didn’t he like it?” Alanna asked, her heart climbing into her throat, the familiar feeling of anxiety rising in her belly.
“He wouldn’t say, and I was just small. What’s England like?”
There were rules, strict ones, or so Alanna had been taught. As a foreigner, her smallest slip would be noticed and magnified, inciting gossip and scandal. As a marchioness, she would be under constant scrutiny. She swallowed a lump of sheer terror and forced a smile for Fiona’s sake, the same way she did when placating her own younger sister.
She’d already solved the problem of which gown for which activity, so she could help Fiona with that at least. She intended to label every dress in her wardrobe. “I suppose there are always things to get used to in a new place, but I’ve been told that England has many good things as well, like parties and balls, and new sights to see.” She fervently hoped that proved to be true.
Fiona bit her lip. “I think I’d like that. Not the balls, since I can’t dance, but the sights. What have you seen?”
“I’ve never been there either,” Alanna admitted. “I only know what I’ve been told.” She felt the familiar ache in her stomach at the idea of marrying Merridew. “I suppose I’ll find out once I’m married.”
Fiona’s jaw dropped. “Your fiancé is English?”
Alanna managed another smile, but it felt stiff. “Yes, just like your brother’s—”
There was another knock at the door, but this time it opened before Alanna could bid the visitor to come in. Lady Penelope regarded her from the doorway with a cool smile that did not reach her eyes as she scanned the room like a bird of prey.
“Hello, Penelope,” Fiona said, her smile fading.
“What are you doing here?” Penelope asked her young cousin.
“I came to bring Alanna one of my dresses to wear until hers is repaired.” Alanna watched the English lady’s eyes flick over the warm russet wool of the gown on the back of the chair.
“I see. I understand your gown was torn somehow,” Penelope said, color rising in two spots over her cheeks. Alanna wondered what Iain had told her.
“I fell, I think,” she said. “In the storm.”
“You don’t remember?” Penelope asked.
“No, not a thing. I recall the storm, and then I woke up in the cottage with—” She paused as Penelope’s frown intensified. “I am most grateful for the care Iain and everyone here at Craigleith has shown me,” Alanna said in careful English. “Thank you,” she said. Penelope was going to be the lady of Craigleith soon enough, and as such, Alanna owed her as much of a debt of thanks as she did Iain.
“You’re quite welcome to the dress,” Penelope said, as if the gown belonged to her, and not Fiona. “Fiona’s things should do you well enough. I’m sure you’re more used to Scottish clothes, and I doubt anything of mine would fit you.” She smoothed a hand over her more generous curves. Alanna was slender, but the comparison to Iain’s fifteen-year-old sister stung. “I just came to see if you need any assistance. I’m sure you’re anxious to be on your way home,” Penelope said, as if she expected Alanna to leap out of bed—Iain’s bed—and leave Craigleith at once. She raised her chin when Alanna remained where she was.
It seemed the safest thing to do, given that Alanna was still wearing Iain’s shirt.
“I understand your wedding plans were interrupted by this unfortunate incident,” Penelope said stiffly. “Is your intended a local lad? Perhaps he could be summoned here.”
Like a shepherd, or a gamekeeper, perhaps? Alanna’s incautious temper flared at the condescension in Penelope’s tone.
“Oh, he’s not a Highlander, if that’s what you mean. He’s English,” Fiona said before Alanna could reply.
Penelope’s eyes widened, and interest replaced suspicion in her eyes. “English? How on earth—I mean, how did you come to be betrothed to an Englishman?”
Alanna held Penelope’s eyes. Was she suggesting Alanna wasn’t worthy of an English lord, wasn’t pretty enough, or smart enough? She lifted her chin.
“He’s a marquess,” she said. “The Marquess of Merridew. Perhaps you know him, being English yourself?”
Penelope’s jaw dropped, and her voice rose an octave. “A marquess? You’re going to be a marchioness?”
“Yes. And my sister is married to an English earl—Lord Rossington. And my brother, the Earl of Glenlorne, is married to the sister of the English Earl of Somerson.”
“Kit Rossington?” Penelope gasped, and put a hand to her lush bosom. “But every lady in England wants to—” Her jaw snapped shut.
“Indeed,” Alanna agreed with the unspoken sentiment. Rossington was handsome and very rich, a prime catch, sought after by many women who’d hoped to be his bride, but he had chosen Megan. Alanna wondered if the surprise in Penelope’s eyes meant she found Scottish ladies more worthy of her respect now.
“I hadn’t even heard that Rossington had married,” Penelope murmured, her face scarlet.
“My brother is worth a dozen marquesses,” Fiona murmured in Gael
ic, folding her hands over her chest and glaring at her cousin. Alanna smiled at her.
“Of course he is,” she whispered back, also in Gaelic.
“Speak English,” Penelope demanded.
“I said I’m sure Alanna’s marquess is very charming,” Fiona said and gave her cousin an acid smile. “But Iain is better still.”
Penelope’s chin rose again, and she looked around the room. “Yes, of course,” she unknowingly parroted Alanna, sounding far less convinced. “But an English marquess . . .”
As far as Alanna remembered, Merridew was not charming in the least. He wanted a healthy young wife with a large dowry. Her mother wanted a title for her daughter. It was a match made in a counting house, rather than heaven. But while Alanna’s opinion of her future husband’s charms did not matter to him or to her mother in the least, they mattered very much to Alanna.
As a child, she had imagined marrying a handsome prince, being swept away over the hills and glens on a white horse, to a castle by a shining loch, where they would live happily ever after. Dreams didn’t always come true, it seemed.
“No wonder you speak such good English,” Penelope said. “You’ve been taught, I suppose.” She ran her hand over the fine wool of Fiona’s waiting gown. “So tell me, have you any other unmarried sisters?”
“Just one,” Alanna said.
Penelope looked relieved.
“She’ll be making her debut soon, in London, of course.” It was a lie. It would be years yet before Sorcha was old enough to wed. She was letting Penelope provoke her. “She’s the prettiest of all of us,” she added, knowing Sorcha might well be, someday.
“Oh,” Penelope’s lips pursed miserably. “And who else do you know in England? Any dukes, or princes, or the Queen, perhaps?”
“No one, really,” Alanna admitted.
“Good—” Penelope sighed in relief, then colored at Fiona’s gasp at her rudeness. “I mean, it will be better not to know everyone before you even get there. There must be some surprises.”
Once Upon a Highland Christmas Page 10