Once Upon a Highland Christmas

by Lecia Cornwall

  “I’m sure everyone will want to know Alanna,” Fiona said, her smile kind as she looked at her guest.

  “Where are Lord Merridew’s estates? I’m sure my mother knows, of course,” Penelope said.

  “Kent, I believe.”

  “Woodford Park is in Shropshire. Is that close to Kent?” Fiona asked.

  “No,” Penelope said. “The chances of our meeting again are very remote.”

  “Unless we’re all in London,” Fiona said. “Elizabeth says everyone goes to London.”

  “Not you,” Penelope told her. “You’ll be kept in the nursery with Elizabeth at Woodford until you’re old enough to be introduced to polite company. Of course, you’ll need to learn proper manners and correct English before that can happen, and even then—­” She looked pointedly at Fiona’s damaged leg.

  Alanna watched Fiona’s smile fade.

  Fiona turned to Alanna, hiding the sparkle of her tears from her cousin. “Will you help me learn, Alanna?” she asked in Gaelic. “At least a little, so I don’t embarrass Iain.”

  “Yes, of course,” Alanna said. Fiona smiled wanly, her fear evident. Alanna had learned to hide her fear. It would be the first thing she’d teach Fiona.

  Penelope moved toward the door. “I really must go. I’m sure Iain is looking everywhere for me. The poor man is lost without me. I’m helping him learn all the little things that will make him a success in London. Since you have everything you need, I’ll leave you to dress. I can see you aren’t used to having the assistance of a proper lady’s maid, or I’d offer you mine.”

  Alanna held her silence, and so did Fiona. Alanna watched Iain’s betrothed leave the room as quickly as she’d come, and let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

  “Iain’s manners are just fine,” Fiona said, glowering at the closed panels. “I think he should be teaching her some manners. She will be the wife of a Scottish laird, after all. She has refused to learn one single word of Gaelic, not even a greeting, or how to say please or thank you.”

  “I’m sure Iain will help her when the time comes,” Alanna said diplomatically. Lady Penelope was very beautiful, despite her sharp tongue, and surely Iain must love her very much.

  She must look like a hag by comparison. She sat up and began to comb her tangled hair, doing her best not to wince at the snags. “What would you like to know?” Alanna asked.

  “I would like to know how to speak better English. Elizabeth says everyone will laugh at my accent and my foreign ways. I don’t think anyone would ever laugh at you, Alanna. I wish I didn’t limp so, but I can’t help that. I think I’d like to know how to look at ­people the way Penelope and my aunt Marjorie do, make them feel as if I am much more important than they are.”

  Alanna set the comb down. “But that’s no way to gain friends. You must learn to show ­people that you are kind, and pleasant company, and that you think they are important to know.”

  Fiona smiled. “That’s just what Iain would say.”

  Alanna smiled at Fiona and patted the bed. “Come and sit beside me, and I’ll show you how to do your hair in an English style.”

  She combed Fiona’s dark red hair and coiled it into a simple, sleek style the way she’d been taught, wondering yet again just how she was ever going to fit in as Marchioness of Merridew.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “OH, MAMA, THERE ought to be a law!”

  Marjorie turned as Penelope burst into her room.. Marjorie was changing her gown for dinner with the help of her maid, and she noted first that Penelope had not yet dressed for dinner. Then she saw that Penelope was wringing her hands, her face tear-­stained. She sent the maid out of the room with a wave of her hand.

  “There’s a handkerchief in my top drawer. Calm yourself before your complexion turns blotchy. What law are you talking about?” Marjorie demanded, sitting down at her makeshift dressing table and regarding her own face in the ancient-­looking glass.

  Penelope threw herself on the bed. “A law that Scottish ladies can only marry Scottish men and Englishmen can only wed Englishwomen!” Penelope said, rubbing her eyes with the monogrammed square of fine Irish linen.

  “And where would that leave you with Iain?” Marjorie asked calmly.

  Penelope sniffed. “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Marjorie picked up her hairbrush and regarded her daughter’s reflection in the dark mirror. “Then what were you thinking?” she asked. Sometimes Penelope could be a trifle slow to explain herself.

  “Did you know she—­Lady Alanna—­is betrothed to the Marquess of Merridew?”

  Marjorie’s jaw dropped. She regarded her daughter’s reflection in the glass. “Wilfred Esmond—­that Merridew?”

  “And her sister is married to the Earl of Rossington.”

  Marjorie’s surprise deepened. “Kit? I didn’t even know he was married.”

  “Well, he is. And her brother—­the Scottish earl—­is married to the Earl of Somerson’s sister.”

  Marjorie set the brush down and turned to gape at her daughter in disbelief. “But Charlotte Somerson is a dear friend. She didn’t mention a thing.”

  “And she’ll be a marchioness, a waif dragged out of a snowdrift, wrapped in a plaid! It’s mortifying,” Penelope continued, rolling her eyes.

  Marjorie blinked. “She’s certainly a very well-­connected waif.”

  “She will have precedence over me should we ever meet in England. Her sister will be my equal as a countess. She and her sisters have stolen all the best gentlemen in England, right out from under our noses!”

  Penelope was twisting the handkerchief as if it was Alanna McNabb’s neck. Marjorie rescued the fragile cloth before her daughter shredded it. Penelope got up and paced the room instead.

  “A lady does not pace,” Marjorie reminded her. Penelope stood still and folded her arms mutinously.

  “I wonder how Wilfred met the sister of a Scottish earl,” Marjorie mused, still stunned. “And why would he marry her? I wonder if his mother knows?”

  “What does that matter?” Penelope asked.

  Marjorie studied her manicured nails. “Perhaps Wilfred will come to fetch her here. It would be nice to see him again. His mother and I were dear friends once.” They’d been fierce rivals, in truth. “The two of us and Charlotte Somerson all made our debuts in the same year. Charlotte won Somerson, of course, and Jane married Wilfred’s father, the Duke of Lyall, and I wed your father.” Her lips twisted. Aldridge had been the handsomest man Marjorie had ever seen, the most charming, the prime catch that Season. Lyall and Somerson were stodgy, ordinary men, if rich and titled. The night Marjorie accepted the charming, handsome, and youthful Aldridge’s proposal, she’d thought she’d won the game, made the best marriage of all. But Aldridge had spent her dowry within a few short years and died, leaving her with nothing. And now her daughter must wed a Scot, while the chit upstairs would win a far bigger prize in the wedding game.

  “Why can’t I have a marquess?” Penelope whined.

  “You’ll be a countess, my dear,” Marjorie said. Without a dowry, Iain was the best Penelope could do. Yet now her daughter would never be satisfied, not when Alanna McNabb had a marquess.

  “She’ll be a duchess someday!”

  Marjorie considered. When she realized she was twisting the handkerchief herself, she tossed it on the dressing table. She didn’t point out to her daughter that Lady Alanna wasn’t anything but a Scottish earl’s sister as of yet. Betrothed didn’t mean married. She clasped Penelope’s clammy hands in her own. “Go and get dressed for dinner, my dear. I understand that Lady Alanna is feeling much improved and will be joining us this evening. I’m anxious to meet her. I had no idea she was worth my notice.”

  “But she is?”

  Marjorie smiled. “Oh yes—­now she is. Wear your pink silk this evening.”
r />   She watched her daughter go, and turned to her writing desk.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “DID YOU GET some of her hair?” Elizabeth rushed across the library as Fiona came in.

  Fiona bit her lip. “I managed to get a few strands from her comb.” She held out her palm, and Elizabeth squinted at the dark strands of hair in Fiona’s palm. They glinted copper in the candlelight.

  “That isn’t very much,” Elizabeth said.

  Fiona closed her hand protectively. “How much do you think we might need? This was all I could get, short of pulling out a handful. She’s so kind—­I just couldn’t.” She patted her coiffure.

  Elizabeth drew the bundle of herbs out of her pocket with a sigh. “This won’t be easy with just three hairs.”

  “Are you sure we need to do this at all? What if her true love really does arrive before Christmas?” Fiona asked.

  “What if he does?” Elizabeth blinked.

  “He’s a marquess—­an English marquess,” Fiona whispered.

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Truly? How on earth did she—­” She took a breath. “Well, perhaps he’ll ride in like a knight on a charger, dressed in shining armor, and sweep her up into his arms.”

  “A garron would be better in all this snow, and he’d better wear something warmer than armor,” Fiona said.

  Elizabeth folded her arms and sent her cousin a sharp look. “Like a MacGillivray plaid and a handkerchief?”

  Fiona looked mutinous. “Iain is twice as good as any marquess,” she said again.

  “He’s only an earl,” Elizabeth said. “But what does that matter? It’s destiny that matters, and true love. Don’t you want to know?” She beckoned for the hair, and Fiona opened her hand.

  “Just be careful not to drop them,” Fiona warned, holding her breath.

  They were so intent on winding the hairs around the bundle that they didn’t hear Annie enter the room until she spoke right beside them. “What are you two up to?”

  Elizabeth yelped in surprise, and the bundle of herbs flew into the air. Annie reached out a hand and deftly caught it. “What’s this? More magic?” She put the herbs to her nose and sniffed. “The same spell as before.”

  “It’s not for us, Annie. It’s for—­”

  Annie folded her arms over her chest. “For Iain and the lass upstairs. You want to know whether your spell has brought her here for him.”

  “Or if he’ll marry Penelope,” Elizabeth said.

  “Yes,” Fiona said, hoping even more now that that wasn’t going to happen.

  Annie looked at them both, one after the other, her eyes bright and sharp, her expression unreadable. “Did your sister cast the spell?” she asked Elizabeth.

  “She wouldn’t do it. She’s certain Iain will propose by Christmas.”

  Annie stuck her nose in the air and waved her hand. “Then what do you need magic for? What will be will be,” Annie said.

  Fiona put her hand on Annie’s arm. “Please, Annie. I saw the way Iain looked at Alanna when he carried her upstairs.”

  “What way?” Annie demanded.

  “Different from the way he looks at me, or you, or even Penelope. I’ve never seen him look at anyone quite like that before, as if he’d forgotten every sensible thought in his head, or he’d lost something.”

  “Or found it,” Annie said.

  Elizabeth sighed. “I have a spaniel who looks at me with complete adoration when I rub his ears—­was it that kind of look?”

  Annie and Fiona frowned at her. “No,” they said in unison. Elizabeth looked disappointed.

  “Then how?” she asked them.

  “Iain’s not a dumb beast, for one thing. He’s a man,” Fiona said.

  “How is that different?” Elizabeth asked.

  Annie patted Elizabeth’s arm. “You’ll know soon enough, lass.”

  “What about now, and Lady Alanna?” Elizabeth asked.

  “There isn’t time now,” Annie said. “It’s almost time for supper, and Iain’s gone up to fetch her downstairs. Besides, the lass really should cast the bundle into the fire herself, or the spell won’t work.”

  “But it was the spell that brought her here, wasn’t it?” Fiona argued. “And the storm . . .”

  Annie’s smug expression faded, and she looked into the fire for a moment.

  “What do you see?” Fiona asked her breathlessly. She’d seen that look in Auld Annie’s eyes before—­as if she could see the past, the present, and the future all in one moment, as if she was reading it in the air before her eyes, or listening, or watching something happening, something no one else could see or hear. Annie’s head cocked to one side, like a bird’s, and the firelight reflected in her eyes. “Annie?”

  Annie turned slowly, as if she was waking from a long sleep. “Jock MacIntosh has a new grandson,” she murmured.

  Elizabeth frowned. “Who’s Jock MacIntosh?” she asked, but no one answered.

  Annie put the bundle of herbs into Fiona’s hand with a sober look and folded her fingers over it. “Put it away, lass. Best leave magic out of this.”

  With that, Annie turned on her heel and left the library. The girls hurried after her, begging for more, but Auld Annie’s lips were tightly sealed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  IAIN TOOK THE stairs two at a time. He had promised Annie he’d fetch—­escort—­Alanna down to the dining room for dinner. She’d slept for most of the last two days, but Annie had assured him that was perfectly normal, that Alanna was mending and there was nothing to fear. “The roses are back in her cheeks, and the swelling is going out of her knee,” was all she’d told him before continuing on with her chores. Did Annie expect he’d forget about her, be content to leave her to the womenfolk, closeted in his bedroom?

  That should have been the way of it, perhaps, but he’d thought of nothing else but Alanna in the three days since he’d found her. He dreamed of her face, white as the snow, her lips rose red and soft, surrounded by sparkling crystals of ice—­an ice maiden, ready to be woken and revived by a kiss. He woke alone in the tower room, reaching for her, desire making him breathless, with the wind laughing at the window.

  When he was awake, he saw her face in the frost patterns etched on the windowpanes of the castle, remembered the curves of her body when he looked at the sinuous snowdrifts that reclined over hills and walls and the black branches of trees. He saw the reflection of her eyes in the fire. In three short days, Lady Alanna McNabb had become an obsession.

  He paused outside the door of her room and drew a deep breath before he knocked, and waited for her to bid him enter.

  She was sitting in a chair by the fire, with a book in her hand—­his chair, his book. Her eyes were expectant, shining as she met his gaze. Her hair gleamed in the firelight, dark shadows and bright copper, elegantly braided and coiled up behind her slender neck. She wore one of Fiona’s gowns, red wool trimmed with dark green ribbons. Not an ice maiden at all. She looked soft, sweet, and right, as if she belonged here in this castle, this room.

  His castle, and his room. His mouth dried.

  He was aware he was staring, and she was waiting for him to say something. “I came to see if you’re ready to come down for supper.”

  She got to her feet a trifle awkwardly, holding the back of the chair. He crossed to take her elbow and steady her.

  She was inches from him now. He could smell the soft scent of the heather soap Annie made, so familiar, yet exotic on this woman, tantalizing. Had he ever noticed it before? He was noticing it now. He swallowed, felt his whole body warm.

  She blushed, looking up at him. “I’m all right—­just stiff from lying in bed for so long. I’m not used to doing so.”

  He let go at once, stepped back, clasped his hands behind his back. “Of course. If you were home, you’d be married by now, a new bri
de.” He could have bitten his tongue in two. If she were his bride, she’d spend longer than two days in bed and get no rest at all.

  Her skin flushed again. “Oh—­of course. I was actually thinking about being home at Glenlorne, with my brother and his wife, and my sisters. There’s always so much to do at this time of year. I’ve never spent a Christmas away before. My brother’s wife is expecting her first child in the spring, and it will be a very happy Christmas for them.”

  “There’s still time to get you home,” he said.

  She shook her head. “His lordship—­my fiancé—­wishes to spend Christmas at his home in England.”

  His brows rose. “In England? Your intended is English?”

  She swallowed before nodding. “Aye. A marquess.”

  He felt his brows shoot upwards.

  “Are you impressed? You needn’t be. I didn’t mean—­” She shrugged, and he detected a hint of bitterness in her tone.

  “It’s not that . . . I simply imagine English marquesses are as rare as wolves in the Highlands.”

  She forced a smile that didn’t meet her eyes. “Yes. I suppose I’m just—­”

  “Lucky?” he supplied.

  She didn’t reply to that. She lowered her eyes to stare at her hands. “We’d better go downstairs,” she said instead.

  “Shall I carry you?” he asked, his tone stiff.

  “No, I can walk, though I will limp, like—­” She bit her lip.

  “Like Fiona,” he finished for her, scanned her face, looking for mockery, disdain. There was only interest.

  “Has she always limped?”

  He felt the familiar anger in his breast, that ­people judged his sister as daft or slow because of her infirmity. He considered not replying, but she waited. “No. Fee had an accident as a child. She fell down the steps of the old tower, and even Annie couldn’t get the bone to set straight again. The stones are worn and dangerous after centuries of use. No one is allowed up there now—­just me. Shall we go?” He held out his arm, and she slipped her hand under his elbow.