Once Upon a Highland Christmas

by Lecia Cornwall

  They welcomed her family, even if they looked at Lord Merridew with reticent curiosity. Eleanor found a place amid the grandmothers by the fire, where she joined in the gossiping and the stitching and sipping of tea well laced with whisky in honor of Christmas.

  Caroline was given another lesson on making a proper black bun, and she made Alec swear not to tell Muira. Annie placed a hand on Caroline’s belly and grinned. “A lass,” she said. “And a lad.”

  Alec blanched. “Twins?”

  Alanna smiled at the bemused expression on her brother’s face, and Caroline kissed his cheek, delighted.

  Sorcha joined Fiona and Elizabeth and the children, and helped decorate the hall while the snow swirled outside.

  Alanna forced herself to smile gaily, to laugh as if nothing at all was wrong. She sampled the treats coming out of the kitchen and did her best to ignore the whispers among the MacGillivrays as they hung the mistletoe and cast sly glances in her direction. They had hopes, perhaps, that she and Iain might have—­ She put it out of her mind. It was impossible. They would learn to love Penelope as well. Even now, knowing it would not come until the party later that evening, Alanna steeled herself for the announcement of their betrothal. She would not allow one hint of sorrow to show on her face on such a happy occasion. Her family would be watching her, and Lord Merridew, and Penelope. And Iain—­her breath hitched. She put a steadying hand to her chest and continued doing what she was doing, tying a length of MacGillivray plaid around a bouquet of fragrant greens. In a few days, she would go home to Glenlorne and never see Iain MacGillivray again.

  She could do this. She must.

  Alanna helped Seonag find rooms for the new guests—­the lord’s chamber for Lord Merridew, and the lady’s chamber for Alec and Caroline. Sorcha happily accepted space in Fiona and Elizabeth’s room. Devorguilla and Eleanor agreed to share a room. Alanna could not bear the idea of returning to Iain’s room, not now, not after the events of last night and today, so she put a pallet in the corner of her mother’s room. Iain was upstairs in the tower. Would Penelope join him there tonight, and every night from now on? Alanna found more things to do, constantly moving, helping, laughing, if only to keep from thinking or feeling. Alec knew what she was doing, how she felt, and so did her mother, and Eleanor. She saw it in their eyes. Her family wanted to be her fortress, to protect her, but she was an adult. She had her own armor.

  Of Iain, she saw nothing at all. He did not join the merry preparations. Nor did Penelope. She tried not to wonder where they were, what they were doing. Images of Iain’s body on hers, his caresses, his kisses drove her half mad, and still Alanna whirled through the day, twice as bright and gay and merry as anyone else.

  MARJORIE SAT WITH Lord Merridew and watched the hullabaloo from a safe distance. All had worked out as planned, yet there was a feeling in her belly, an uncertainty that made her uneasy. She kept Wilfred company, attempted to engage him in conversation, but he offered only short, terse replies and indulged in glass after glass of whisky punch. “It’s not quite like Christmas in England, is it?” Marjorie said sympathetically.

  Merridew filled his glass again. “I planned to be at Lyall Castle, at my father’s table, tonight. I expected I’d be married by now—­to her.” He pointed to Alanna, who was hanging greens.

  “Did you love her very much, Wilfred?” Marjorie asked.

  “Love her? I barely know her. I loved her dowry, though. Passionately.” He clasped his hand to his chest and regarded Alanna balefully. “Now I shall have to court another dowry—­bride—­in London, come spring.” He glanced at Marjorie and grinned. “It’s a pity your daughter is already spoken for.” Marjorie’s heart lurched. “What is it about Iain MacGillivray and men like him that make women love them?” Merridew slurred.

  “Not all women, Wilfred.” Marjorie said, thinking of her daughter, She filled the marquess’s glass again, and forced herself to smile.

  AN HOUR LATER, Marjorie found Iain in the solar, staring down at the wooden figure of an angel that stood amid curls of wood.

  “You’re not even dressed yet,” she said, regarding the kilt he wore. “I mean, surely you don’t intend to wear that.” The laird’s brooch he wore glittered in the candlelight, a symbol of an age gone by. The kilt made him look broad and dangerous, and devastatingly handsome.

  He met her eye only briefly, then looked away. “If you’ve come to give me a lecture, or instruct me, you needn’t bother.”

  She folded her arms over her chest. “I won’t even ask what that means.”

  “It means I won’t shame any woman, even for a lie.”

  Marjorie drew nearer. “That’s why I’ve come, Iain. Not to lie, to tell you the truth.”

  He looked up at her. “Oh?”

  “My husband, Viscount Aldridge, was the handsomest man I’d ever set eyes on. Every debutant of my Season wished to marry Aldridge. So I set my cap for him, won him. I was once as beautiful as Penelope, a diamond of the first water. I was the daughter of the Earl of Purbrick, wealthy, connected, esteemed. My friends let their parents marry them off to elderly dukes, or stodgy earls, but I wanted Aldridge. I would have done anything to get him.”

  She looked at her hands. “I didn’t discover until after the wedding that he had only married me for my money. He liked to gamble, you see. He wagered everything that wasn’t entailed, including my jewels, even my wedding rings.” She rubbed her naked finger. “It broke my heart. When he died, he left us penniless, me and Penelope and Elizabeth. We had no choice but to return to Purbrick. My uncle was the earl by then, and he needed a hostess. I had expected—­counted on—­him to leave money in trust for the girls, for dowries, so they could make suitable matches. He didn’t. So, it became essential that Penelope marry the next earl—­you.” He was looking at her now. “But you are in love with Alanna McNabb.” He didn’t speak. “If you were to provide Penelope with a dowry, I have no doubt she would release you.”

  Iain folded his arms over his chest. “All this is because of money?”

  “Perhaps it’s more important in England than in Scotland,” Marjorie said carefully. “I want my daughters to know security in their marriages, and love, if they are fortunate enough to find it. Money often substitutes for love among our class, I’m afraid. My youngest brother—­your father—­married for love. My father thought him a fool.”

  “I would have offered Penelope a dowry the day you arrived if you’d asked,” he said. “Elizabeth as well.”

  She smiled, took a breath, and laid her hand over her nephew’s. She was not a demonstrative woman—­she kept her emotions to herself—­but it seemed appropriate now. He caught her fingers in his and squeezed them. She smiled at him. “I trust there will be a betrothal announcement tonight after all?” she asked. “I think every single one of your clan expects it.”

  He rose to his feet and kissed his aunt’s forehead. “Thank you, Aunt. This is a fine Christmas present.”

  “Oh, it will still cost you rather dearly, but I think this is a price you’d much rather pay. Merry Christmas, Iain,” she said. “For what it’s worth, I think you’ll make a very fine earl, and Alanna will be a . . . worthy . . . countess.”

  He smiled at her faint praise of Alanna. “She will,” he said, and Lady Marjorie Curry smiled back and felt a thrill of Christmas joy she hadn’t known since she was a girl.

  “I WISH TO ask for Alanna’s hand in marriage,” Iain said, standing before Glenlorne in the sitting room that had once been his mother’s. It would eventually be Alanna’s, if all went well.

  “No,” Glenlorne growled.

  “Alec,” Caroline said. “Be reasonable. Alanna loves him.”

  “You may come and court her in the spring—­next spring, the one after this one,” Alec insisted.

  “I have already asked her to marry me, and we’ve already—­” He shifted his stance. He would not
use their night at the cottage to barter for her. It was too close to what Penelope had done.

  Still, he heard Glenlorne’s intake of breath, watched as the earl turned a dangerous shade of red.

  “I’ve heard the tales, MacGillivray—­stories about handkerchiefs, and Alanna being carried here over your shoulder, wrapped in nothing but your plaid, kept in your bed.”

  Iain couldn’t resist. He grinned. “I’m afraid they’re all true,” he said. “Every one.”

  He heard Caroline McNabb cry out as her husband’s fist flew, and he watched it coming, felt it land hard on his jaw. The pain was excruciating, and stars exploded in his head. Iain put a hand to his chin and grinned again. “I’ll take that as your permission.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  CHRISTMAS EVE OFFICIALLY arrived as night fell, though the sky was still bright with falling snow. The ancient hall of Craigleith Castle had been magically transformed for the celebration of Nollaig Beag. The MacGillivray plaid draped tables and wrapped bundles of greens, and the fragrance of pine and fir filled the room. Candles were placed in the windows to light the way for travellers, and the golden light reflected on the frosty windowpanes and in the eyes of every joyful member of Clan MacGillivray. The pipes played, and Alanna clapped and smiled until her face hurt.

  She watched as Iain entered the room with Lady Marjorie and the party officially began. He looked braw in his bonnet and kilt, so handsome that he stole the air from the room and left her breathless.

  She looked behind him, seeking Penelope, but Iain’s betrothed was nowhere to be seen. Surely she would arrive soon. Perhaps Penelope wished to make a more dramatic entrance, would come in on a chariot of ice pulled by seven magic stags. Nothing could surprise Alanna now, or hurt her—­or so she hoped. Her spine was so stiff it ached, and her jaw was sore from smiling. But her heart was numb, frozen and dead in her breast.

  Iain’s gaze roamed the room until he found her. Alanna felt as if lightning had struck her. Just one look made her heart pound, her body burn. She dragged her eyes away and tightened her grip on the cup in her hand. She took a bracing sip of whisky, felt it burn a path to her belly, and forced her smile back into place. She must be ready when the announcement came. There would be a toast to Christmas, one to the Cailleach Nollaigh, and then another to the betrothal of Laird Iain MacGillivray and Lady Penelope.

  Alanna wondered if anyone would notice if she slipped away or sank through the floor.

  The Cailleach Nollaigh was carried out of the armory, and ropes were tied to it. Since they could not go outside in the storm, children climbed astride the log in the hall, and it was dragged around the perimeter of the room three times for luck, men taking turns hauling it, making it a good-­natured test of strength. The children shrieked with laughter.

  With a final flourish of pipe music, the Cailleach Nollaigh came to a stop before the fireplace, and the children were lifted off the great log. Five strong men made ready to raise the tree on its end to stand before the fireplace. The Cailleach Nollaigh’s carved face would look out upon the assembly. Everyone would raise a toast to the winter goddess, take a moment to admire the laird’s carving skills, and then the log would be rolled into the fire to burn throughout the night.

  “Alanna.”

  She spun at the sound of his voice, found Iain standing behind her. “Iain, what are you doing? They’re waiting for you to raise the toast,” she said. She clenched her hands around her own cup to keep from touching him, then noticed he didn’t have a cup. She thrust it into his hands. “Take mine,” she said. But his fingers curled around hers, holding the cup between them.

  “Come outside for a moment,” he whispered. She swayed a little, surrounded by the smell of him—­the wool of his kilt, the wind in his hair, the scent of his body. She closed her eyes. Would he kiss her? Bid her a formal farewell? How foolish.

  “I can’t, Iain. It isn’t right. I wish you and Pe—­your bride—­all the happiness in the world, truly I do,” she said. She couldn’t look at him. If she did, she’d cry.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” There was the soft burr of humor in his voice, and she met his eyes. He was smiling at her. Was he daft? What if Penelope saw?

  “Go—­they’re raising the Cailleach Nollaigh!” she whispered. The great log was already being picked up, set upright. In a moment, there would be a great cheer. She waited for it.

  Instead of a cheer, there was a gasp. Alanna looked up.

  Above the crowd, the Cailleach Nollaigh stared back at her. She blinked. It wasn’t the face of a crone. The face was mischievous, fey, sweet, a young woman.

  “It’s me,” she murmured, stunned.

  Faces turned to look at her. Her heart lurched. She looked at Iain. “What does this mean? Oh, Iain, what will Penelope say?”

  He grinned and tilted his head. “I believe she’d say it’s a fair likeness of the woman I love.”

  Her face heated. She looked down at the cup in her hands—­their hands, still clasped together around the vessel—­and tried to pull away. He held her still. “But you can’t—­”

  “I’m not going to marry Penelope. I’ve spoken to her, made her understand that we—­she and I—­wouldn’t suit. Not when I love someone else.”

  The warmth of the room made Alanna’s head spin. Perhaps she’d misheard him. It was noisy in the hall. She looked around, realized that the whole room had fallen silent, and everyone was staring at her.

  “Will you kiss her, Laird?” someone asked. “Will there be a wedding?”

  He looked at the faces that surrounded them, took the cup, and handed it to someone in the crowd. “I think we’d best ask Lady Alanna,” he said. She watched in stunned surprise as he dropped to his knee. “Alanna McNabb, will you marry me, be my wife and Lady of Craigleith and Countess of Purbrick?”

  She stared at him, her tongue knotted around her tonsils.

  His hands tightened around hers. “I hope you’re not going to say no again, lass.”

  Alanna felt her heart melt. Tears filled her eyes. A rush went through her, a bolt of light and joy. It felt like sparks, shooting through her veins, filling the room. She looked into Iain’s eyes, saw her own face reflected there. “Yes,” she said.

  “What?” Sandy called from the front of the room, putting a hand to his ear. “I didn’t hear.”

  “She said yes,” Iain yelled, his eyes on Alanna’s. “She said yes.” Now the cheer rose, shaking the rafters of the ancient hall.

  Sandy raised his glass. “Here’s to the Cailleach Nollaigh and Nollaig Beag, and to the fair face of Lady Alanna McNabb, the angel of Craigleith.”

  Iain took the cup back again and held it to her lips. She sipped, laughing, then helped Iain drink. Then he passed the cup to the nearest MacGillivray and drew Alanna into his arms. His mouth met hers, hot and whisky-­sweet. Could a kiss make a lass drunk? She didn’t care. She clung to him, kissed him back, let him lift her off her feet and spin her around, still kissing her.

  She put her hands on his face as he lowered her to the floor, his arms still around her. “Yes,” she said again, laughing. “Yes.”

  She scanned the crowds. Alec and Caroline were grinning. Her mother had happy tears in her eyes. Auld Annie and Fiona and Sandy were smiling. Seonag was crying sentimental tears on Wee Janet’s shoulder. Donal winked at her as he set his pipes to his lips and began to play a merry tune. Ian was swept up by his merry clan.

  Alanna saw Penelope standing in the doorway, her expression cool, but serene. She was, as always, dressed like a princess. Alanna crossed to her.

  “I suppose you’ve come for my congratulations,” Penelope said blandly. I wish you well of him—­it cost him a great deal of money to change my mind. I could still insist . . .” She raised her chin, but Alanna squeezed her rival’s hand and smiled.

  “Thank you, Penelope. Merry Christmas,” Alanna said
.

  Penelope tossed her head and looked away. “I have dozens of other suitors, you know. I’ll have my choice of title now. Oh, look. Lord Merridew has fallen asleep in his cups. I think I will go and wake him, wish him a Merry Christmas.” She looked back at Alanna Any objections?” Alanna shook her head.

  “I wish you well, Penelope.” She watched as Penelope moved off toward the head table and the sleeping marquess.

  Iain grabbed Alanna’s hand and dragged her over to the mistletoe. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her again.

  The pipes struck up a reel and ­couples paired off, laughing, the mood all the merrier for the happiness between the laird and his lady.

  “D’you think it’s magic?” Elizabeth asked breathlessly, catching Fiona’s sleeve. Auld Annie leaned in.

  “Of course it was magic. Love is always magical, and doubly so at Christmas.”

  Epilogue

  TO EVERYONE'S SURPRISE, the weather broke the very next day—­Christmas Day, and the sun shone.

  Lord Merridew offered to escort Lady Marjorie and Penelope home to Woodford Park, where they would prepare for the new Earl of Purbrick’s spring wedding.

  His English wedding, that is. His Scottish one took place on Christmas Day, before the assembled crowd of MacGillivrays, McNabbs, MacIntoshes, Currys, and Frasers. The bride wore a blue silk gown, borrowed from Lady Penelope, and a sash of MacGillivray plaid. Lord Glenlorne placed his sister’s hand in Laird Iain’s, and when everyone saw the love and the joy in the happy ­couple’s eyes, there wasn’t a dry eye in the castle.

  There was waltzing in the great hall that night, and the laird danced with his young sister, who wore special dancing slippers that made it look like she floated on air—­more of the magic that Lady Alanna had brought to Craigleith, folk said. Magic, Auld Annie predicted, that would last as long as the love the laird had found, like his father before him, or in other words, forever, since it was now an old Highland tradition that the lairds of the MacGillivrays always married for love.