Once Upon a Highland Christmas

by Lecia Cornwall

She bit her lip. “Do you intend to punish him? It was an accident.” Iain was a proud man. Would he welcome help from Alec? She hadn’t thought about it. She had plunged in, done what seemed right at the moment. It was an unfortunate habit she had, trying to fix what was wrong between ­people she loved.

  The firelight caught in the creases of Iain’s frown as she deflected his question. ­“People could have died.”

  “But they didn’t. Everyone is safe. Cottages can be rebuilt. If Sandy hadn’t sounded the alarm, then it would have been worse.”

  “He’s the villain here, not the hero,” Iain said.

  “Oh, but it might have been anyone—­”

  “Do you see the good in everyone so easily? If you do, you’re a remarkable woman indeed, Alanna McNabb,” he said softly.

  She felt her heart climb into her throat. “I was brought up to be the one—­well, Megan was the family beauty, the one who told stories, but her temper was fiery indeed. Sorcha was the adorable one, always into trouble, but easy to forgive.”

  “And you?” he asked.

  “I was the one in the middle. I made peace when Sorcha stole Megan’s ribbons, made things right again when Megan—­” She closed her mouth. She was the useful, dutiful McNabb sister, the one who did as she was told, did her best to please everyone, even at the expense of her own happiness. What would Megan have done last night, or Devorguilla? She looked at the frown on Iain’s face. He was wondering too, no doubt—­not about her kin but about his own.

  “Poor Penelope. She’s a stranger here, not used to Highland ways. I daresay she needs—­wants—­a chance to help, a task, and she’ll surprise you . . .”

  He folded his arms over his chest. “You surprise me. These aren’t your ­people either. And yet, even injured—­”

  She looked at him fiercely. “But they are my ­people. Lottie MacGillivray might have been Morag McNabb, from Glenlorne village. Sandy might be Leith Rennie, our gamekeeper, his cottage lost in the fire. How could I not help? I miss them all, love them, see them in the faces and words and deeds of the MacGillivrays.” She felt tears fill her eyes, the horror of what might have happened filling her chest.

  He knelt beside her, wiped her tears away with the pad of his thumb. “So brave, and yet you ran away.” He held up a hand when she opened her mouth to deny it again.

  “Whether you’re willing to admit it or not, you don’t want to go to England, do you, and marry Lord Wilbur?”

  She closed her eyes. “It’s Wilfred, and I gave my word, promised.” How often had she recited those words in her mind? They sounded less noble spoken aloud, a weak reason to marry any man.

  “Promises can be hard to keep when regrets crowd in,” he said.

  “I am told that you can grow used to anything if you wish to do so. It won’t be so bad.” She met his eyes, saw the doubt there, but not for her—­why would he worry about her? She recalled what Fiona had said, that she feared Iain didn’t want to go to England, dreaded it. She put her hand over his, squeezed. “It won’t be the same for you, Iain. You’ll be an earl, and Penelope is beautiful. She’ll make a good countess—­” Perhaps by reassuring him, she might reassure herself, make it bearable. Touching him, even his hand, just made her regret worse.

  “Don’t pity me,” he said, mistaking her intent.

  “But I—­”

  He withdrew his hand and went back to the fire, stared into the flames, his expression harsh, his fist clenched on the mantel. “I never expected to be an English earl. I hadn’t heard from my English kin for years, not since my father died, never thought I would. I thought my life was here at Craigleith, doing my best to be a good laird, a good husband and father when—­if—­the time came for it, and I told myself that I’d be content with that.” He swallowed, his throat bobbing, gilded golden by the firelight. “And yet—­” He paused.

  “And yet?” she prompted.

  “And yet there are possibilities that come with this, the chance to do more, be more. An opportunity to build things, change things, to help Fiona make a life for herself, and find out what I—­” He turned to look for her, his hands clasped behind his back. “What I want, what I’m capable of,” he finished.

  She smiled. “You’re a remarkable man, Iain MacGillivray. You’re a fine laird, and you’ll be a finer earl.”

  “What if I’m wrong, and Marjorie is right? What if they won’t accept me, a Scot, as the new Earl of Purbrick?” He ran his hand through his hair and shook his head. “I’ve practiced the damned word over and over again, and I still can’t say it properly. Poor-­breck.”

  She smiled softly. “I like the way you say it. It sounds like a warm, inviting place instead of—­” She looked away. “My aunt Eleanor says you need to start as you mean to go on, show folk from the outset who you are.”

  “And how will you begin?” he asked. “The moment you step out of your carriage, Lord Merridew’s bride, the eyes of his ­people upon you. How will you begin?”

  She took a deep breath. It would begin long before that moment. She had thought it would be enough to simply do as she was told, to don her wedding gown and speak the vows that would bind her to Lord Merridew. She hadn’t considered the moment Iain had thought of, the instant she would truly become a marchioness, a wife, the mistress of a great estate.

  She bit her lip. She should have begun by saying no when her mother insisted she take Megan’s place.

  “I think I wish I could start again,” she whispered.

  “Perhaps you already have,” Iain replied. “Perhaps that’s why you ran away, came to—­”

  The door opened before she could reply, and Penelope came in, freshly bathed and elegantly turned out in frothy pink muslin, her hair artfully styled. Her placid expression instantly shriveled as she looked at the children, then at Iain and Alanna, and her nose wrinkled with distaste. “What’s going on here? There are ­people everywhere. I hear animal noises across the hall, and the smell is dreadful. Why are these children here?”

  “There was a fire last night,” Iain said, not bothering with “good morning,” his tone sharp. “Did you not hear the commotion?”

  “Of course I did. Elizabeth woke me. I assumed the tenants would handle it on their own. They would have in England. No one would think to wake their betters for a simple fire in a cottage.”

  “Six cottages, and the barn,” Iain corrected her. “If such a thing ever does happen at Woodford or any other Purbrick estate, then I will expect to be woken, insist upon it. I will be the one to see to it, no matter how many servants I have,” Iain said. Penelope shut her mouth with a snap, but she glared at him indignantly.

  “It made the ­people feel less afraid to have Iain there,” Alanna said soothingly.

  Penelope made a moue of distaste. “Your face is dirty.”

  Alanna resisted the urge to run a hand over the soot stains on her skin, the tangles in her hair. She raised her chin. “Aye, I need a bath, no doubt.”

  Iain turned toward her. “Shall I carry you upstairs?” he asked, and Alanna heard Penelope’s strangled gasp, though he ignored it. She felt her whole body heat now. She’d made the disagreement worse.

  She glanced at the child in her lap. “Better to carry the wee ones, I think, put them to bed.”

  “Perhaps they could sleep here a while longer. It’s warm, and quiet,” Iain said, lifting the little girl off Alanna’s lap carefully and laying her down on the settee next to her sister. The brush of his hands on Alanna’s sent sparks flying through her veins. He turned to his cousin—­his fiancée—­and said, “Perhaps Penelope could stay and watch them.”

  But Penelope frowned. “Me? I think not. If there’s another room, then by all means they should be taken there. Surely they are all old enough to walk. They don’t need you to carry them, Iain. Nor does Alanna. This is the only decent room in the castle for their betters, since
there is no proper salon. Shouldn’t these urchins be with their parents, their own kind?”

  Iain straightened. “My kind, you mean?”

  Penelope looked startled.

  “My kin, my clan.”

  “Not mine,” Penelope said.

  “No, not yours,” he agreed. The tension in the room was so thick it hurt to breathe.

  Alanna rose to her feet. “But surely—­” A sharp look from Iain warned her to be silent. They were not her clan either.

  Seonag came in, carrying the babe in a fold of plaid against her chest, fast asleep. “I came to see if the little ones were hungry. There’s porridge ready for them, but I see they’re asleep. Best to let them rest, since there’ll be chaos when they wake up again.”

  Penelope glared at the woman. “You will keep them out of the way, is that clear?” she ordered, drawing herself up. “They are not to bother their betters. I—­” She cast a quick glance at Iain. “—­we do not wish to see or hear them.”

  Seonag blinked at her. Alanna saw the cook’s eyes slide to Iain, then to her, but she kept silent, her expression flat. Iain silently glared at his wife-­to-­be and said nothing.

  “Yes, my lady,” Seonag said at last, an edge to her voice. “We’ll see to it at once, just to please you.” She turned to Alanna. “Annie has a bath ready for you upstairs, Alanna, and—­”

  “Lady Alanna,” Penelope interrupted. “There must be some rules here, some deference.”

  Alanna limped across the room and squeezed Seonag’s hand. “Thank you. I’ll go up at once. I’ll be back to help once I’ve changed my clothes.”

  “You’ll go to bed and sleep,” Iain snapped. He shut his eyes. “You’ve done enough,” he said more gently. “More than enough.”

  He strode past his betrothed without a glance and scooped Alanna into his arms. She could feel the anger in every line of his body, though his touch was careful. She lay as stiff as a block of wood in his arms. He paused at the door. “Do you know how to make tea, Penelope?” he asked.

  Penelope glared daggers at him. “Of course not.”

  “Then I suggest you might wish to learn if you want anything to eat this morning,” Iain said and strode out of the room.

  Chapter Thirty

  Dundrummie Castle, eight days before Christmas

  DEVORGUILLA MCNABB STARED out the window, across the orchard. Snow blanketed the trees, made everything soft and white and lovely, offered the anticipation of Christmas.

  But she wished it were foggy, or raining, or any other form of weather that better suited her mood. She wondered where Alanna was, felt pain in her chest, pressed the heel of her hand to it. It had been eleven days since she’d disappeared. She looked across at the desk, where she’d left the letter she’d begun writing to Alec, her stepson. She’d started the same letter a hundred times over the last two days. How did one break such dreadful news? She was still hoping that Alanna would return and make the note unnecessary. Her heart dragged in her chest. The maids were whispering about snow-­filled gullies, sharp rocks, the killing power of cold and snow. They passed her with pity in their eyes, as if there was no hope left.

  Devorguilla turned away from the desk again, rubbed her temples.

  She couldn’t think of that now, the fact that Alanna might be—­ She swallowed and looked across the orchard again, hoping to catch a glimpse of Alanna’s red cloak among the bare black trees. She rested her forehead on the glass, felt the cold seep into her skull. Was this her fault?

  Devorguilla had been ashamed and furious when Megan had eloped, rejecting Merridew. She had thought—­known—­that she was doing the right thing for her daughters, marrying them to the loftiest English title she could find. They would outrank their brother, be richer and better than if they remained in Scotland. Had she been wrong?

  Merridew was upstairs, still asleep, though it was nearly noon. He viewed Alanna’s disappearance as an inconvenience, but nothing more. He was happy enough to sit and drink Dundrummie’s cellars dry while he waited for his bride. He showed no interest at all in joining a search party. Eleanor had wondered yesterday if he would sit at Dundrummie until Sorcha was old enough to marry him if Alanna didn’t return.

  Devorguila closed her mind to that terrible possibility. Somewhere, Alanna was safe—­she must be. Devorguilla could see now that perhaps the marquess wasn’t the best choice of husband for her middle daughter, any more than he’d been for her eldest. He was pompous, self-­centered, and opinionated. He had never had to work for anything in his life, including his bride. She should have made him win Alanna, prove himself, but she could see now that Wilfred Esmond was not that kind of man. He wasn’t much of a man at all. Better Alanna had married the gardener—­ No, she didn’t mean that. It’s just that she had imagined the kind of life she wanted for herself and had decided it would be best for her daughters. She had schemed and planned and lied to achieve it, and at what cost?

  Alanna was missing, and Megan had run away. Upstairs, Sorcha was in tears, refusing to eat, pleading to be allowed to go home to Glenlorne.

  Devorguilla couldn’t go back to Glenlorne, not now that she’d failed. How Alec would gloat. She couldn’t bear it. Nor could she bear losing Alanna, her gentle, shy, kind, clever daughter. Devorguilla had barely taken notice of Alanna until she was gone. She’d stood in the shadows behind Megan, waiting for her turn in the spotlight. Would she have liked a Season in London? Devorguilla hadn’t asked her. She sighed and crossed back to the desk, sat down and picked up the quill, her hand shaking, and began again. Dear Alec. . .

  Jeannie appeared in the doorway. “My lady, there’s a man to see Lord Merridew. He has a letter for him.”

  “He’s still asleep. Have him leave the letter and go.”

  “He said he was told to wait for a reply, to offer the marquess transportation if necessary.”

  Devorguilla felt her heart constrict. She dropped the pen and rose. “You’d better ask him to come in,” she said.

  He was covered with snow, his face red with cold, his heavy redingote marking him as a coachman. He looked at the fire longingly.

  “Jeannie, have the cook prepare a meal in the kitchen—­hot soup, ale.” She turned to the coachman. “What news have you?”

  “I’ve come with a letter for Lord Merridew, if he’s here.”

  “Who sent you?” Devorguilla asked, her back stiff, not daring to hope that it was news of Alanna. The servant was English, not a Scot. Perhaps Merridew was being called back to England, though the coachman wasn’t wearing Merridew’s colors, or the Duke of Lyall’s.

  “I come from Lady Marston, who is presently staying at Craigleith.”

  The name meant nothing to her, but curiosity bloomed in her breast. “I see. The marquess is unavailable at the moment. May I convey your message to him?”

  Eleanor hurried into the room. “I heard there’s a visitor—­is there news of Alanna?” she asked, looking at the man eagerly.

  “I came from Craigleith Castle,” the man said again. “Lady Marston—­”

  “Craigleith?” Eleanor put a hand to her heart. “Why, it’s scarcely fifteen miles from here. Is my niece there? Lady Alanna McNabb?”

  The man nodded. “She is, my lady.”

  Devorguilla felt her knees weaken with relief. She sat down on the settee.

  “Is she safe, injured, ill?” Eleanor asked, advancing on the servant, peppering him with questions.

  He shifted from one foot to the other, his heavy boots leaving a puddle on the rug. “Everything is in Lady Marston’s letter,” he said. “Addressed to Lord Merridew.”

  Eleanor frowned. “Young man, my niece has been lost for eleven terrible days. We’ve had no word at all, have been out of our minds with worry. This lady is Alanna’s mother. We have no intention of waiting until his lordship deigns to rise from his bed to hear what you
have to say. Tell us what you know.”

  He scanned the faces of the two women before speaking. “Please,” Devorguilla said.

  “She’s safe,” he began. “The Laird of Craigleith found her lost in the snow, carried her home. Her leg is injured, but otherwise I believe she’s well.”

  “The laird? Iain MacGillivray?” Eleanor asked.

  “Aye, he’s Earl of Purbrick as well now.”

  “Purbrick in England? What happened to Bertie Marston? He was the last earl of Purbrick I knew of,” Eleanor said.

  The coachman pointed to the black armband on his coat. “His lordship died a few months ago, and Lord Iain is the new earl.”

  “Where is my daughter now?” Devorguilla asked. “Why haven’t you brought her home?”

  The coachman shook his head. “I was just ordered to bring a letter to his lordship, the Marquess of Merridew. It took me a week to get here, since I had to come the long way around because of the snow.”

  Devorguilla’s “Was she unable to travel?” and Eleanor’s “How badly was she hurt?” came out at the same time.

  The man looked at them with a plea in his eyes. “I only know what I was told to relate to his lordship.”

  Eleanor folded her arms over her breast and stared at him. “Nonsense. You’re a servant. You hear everything, know everything. What’s happening at Craigleith?”

  He slid his eyes from one lady to the other, and swallowed. “The laird found the lass—­the lady—­in the snow. He brought her back to the castle wrapped in his plaid. They bound up her leg, and she’s in his bed. That’s all I know of things,” he said.

  Devorguilla felt rage rise. “In his bed?”

  Eleanor raised an eyebrow, and the coachman blushed. “Do you intend to tell Lord Merridew that?” She crossed and pulled the bell. “Graves will take you down to the kitchen. There will be hot food waiting, and a bed. We’ll be ready to accompany you back to Craigleith first thing in the morning.”

  “But—­” the coachman began, then stopped when Eleanor held out her hand.