ONCE UPON A HIGHLAND SUMMER
LECIA CORNWALL
DEDICATION
To Griffin, my own Scottish lad, and to the people of High River, Alberta, where part of this book was written before the flood. Stay strong!
CONTENTS
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Epilogue
An Excerpt from What a Lady Most Desires
Chapter One
An Excerpt from The Secret Life of Lady Julia
Chapter One
Chapter Two
About the Author
Also by Lecia Cornwall
An Excerpt from Rescued by a Stranger by Lizbeth Selvig
An Excerpt from Chasing Morgan by Jennifer Ryan
An Excerpt from Throwing Heat by Jennifer Seasons
An Excerpt from Private Research by Sabrina Darby
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
“Angus MacNabb!”
Was there no peace in his own grave?
He’d been tormented enough in life. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to ignore the soft voice calling him, drawing him, pulling him back into the world, even knowing she was the one and only person who could.
“MacNabb, I know you can hear me. Stop being stubborn and come out. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your foolish curse, and you’re going to help me fix it.”
“Stubborn!” Angus snapped, unable to resist the goad. “Isn’t that a case of the pot calling the kettle—” He stopped and stared. Georgiana stood shimmering in the air before him.
He blinked, wondering if he was seeing a ghost, then recalled that he was.
Even dead, Georgiana had the power to steal his breath away—if he’d had any breath to steal. She tilted her head and smiled at him, just the way he remembered. It had been nearly sixty years since he’d seen that smile, but he’d never forgotten it. It smoked through him now like life itself, filled him with passion and pain.
Georgiana Forrester, the late Countess of Somerson, raised her eyebrows as if she was waiting for him to finish his comment, but he didn’t. How could he speak while her eyes roamed over the plaid he’d been buried in? He’d looked his best when they’d laid him out, and he straightened his shoulders proudly now, and pushed the laird’s bonnet back on his brow.
“That’s a fine gown ye’re wearing. You still look like a lass.” His lass.
Georgiana looked down at the silver satin with a moue of distaste. “I detest this gown. I married Somerson in it, and they chose it for my burial. The only good thing I can say about it is that it still fit perfectly after all those years. I don’t know how they found it. I ordered my maid to burn it.”
MacNabb frowned, and one of the eagle feathers in his bonnet fell over his eye. The three feathers proclaimed him laird of his clan, chief over every rock, tussock of grass, and starving child as far as the eye could see from the crumbling tower of old Glenlorne Castle, where they stood now. It had been their trysting place until— The old, familiar anger flared.
“Somerson!” he spat the name, filling it with sixty years of hatred. “Only a cheap fool would bury his wife in her wedding gown.”
Georgiana’s chin came up. “You said you liked it. Besides, the day of my marriage and the day of my burial were equally sorrowful. I think it was a most appropriate choice.”
MacNabb sighed, and a breeze moved restively through the treetops beyond the tower’s crumbling walls. “Aye, well, that’s not why we’re here, is it, to debate our grave clothes?”
He looked around the tower, open to the sky now, the roof long gone. The rotting stones of the windows framed a view of the glen, the loch, and the new castle of Glenlorne at the opposite end of the valley. The new keep, already over a hundred and fifty years old, looked near as decrepit as this tower, older by four centuries. He sighed again.
If he turned and looked away to the east, he’d be able to see Georgiana’s uncle’s cottage, Lullach Grange, but he kept his back to it. He’d spent sixty years watching the empty house for her candle in the window, the signal that she’d meet him here, at the tower, but that light had gone out when their families tore them apart forever. The familiar bitterness of loss filled him again, still, and he turned to glare at her.
“What do you want of me, woman?” he asked gruffly.
Her eyes remained soft, unafraid. “You cursed us, Angus.”
“I had cause enough!”
She shook her head, her smile wistful. “We were in love, and they would not let us marry, but your curse has echoed through two generations of both our families. It must end. I want my granddaughter to know the kind of happiness we shared, Angus.”
“Was it happiness? It made the rest of our lives unbearable. Well, mine anyway. I canna speak for you, of course.” There wasn’t a day he hadn’t thought of her. Her name had been the last word on his lips.
She looked down at her hand, where her wedding band had once sat. The family heirloom now graced the hand of the present countess. It was another ring she missed, the one Angus had given her to seal their love, a promise ring with a small ruby. “Neither of us had joy in our marriages.” She waved her hand to indicate the tower. “The last true happiness I felt was here, that last night, in your arms.”
Angus could see the place she meant right through her transparent body, the sheltered spot where they’d lain together, wrapped in his plaid, alternately making love and whispering about the future, pledging themselves to each other. His hands coiled, aching to touch her. Could they touch? He didn’t know, but to reach for her and close his arms on empty air yet again would be too much to bear.
“Ye’ve come at a bad time, gràdhach,” he said, the Gaelic term for “beloved” slipping off his tongue. He could have bitten that tongue in two when she smiled sweetly at him. “My son just died, and my clan’s left leaderless. My daughter-in-law is trying to sell out to Engl—”
“Not leaderless. You have a grandson, don’t you?”
“I do. But Alec left Glenlorne years ago, swearing he’d never return. Mayhap it’s better he doesn’t.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“What’s left for him to come home to?” he asked, his mouth twisting bitterly.
She floated over to stand beside him. “There’s the land, Angus. And there’s love. Love can rebuild anything.”
He stared at her, saw the foolish hope in her eyes. That look, that hope had made him fall in love with her, made him believe anything was possible. He shut his eyes against the feeling stirring in his breast. “Ye can’t truly think I believe in love, do ye?”
She reached out a hand, laying it on his arm. He couldn’t feel it, but light flared where their shadows touched, glowed. “You did once—an Englishman’s daughter and a Scot—who would have imagined it in those terrible times? It was almost impossible.”
“It was impossible.”
She laughed, and the sound echoed through the tower, startling a bird to flight. It flapped into the night with a frightened cry. Georgiana ignored it. “It was only impossible for them, not for us. I doubt we’d be here now, together in this place again, if our love had died too.”
No, his love for her had never died. Not even here, on the other side of death. He loved her still, yet what point was there in that? Was it to be an eternity of pain instead of a mere lifetime? “What has any of this to do with Alec?” he demanded. Was it his imagination, or could he smell her perfume?
“My granddaughter’s name is Caroline.” Her voice was soft, fond, gentle.
“Caroline? You want to match her to my grandson? How can you be sure they’d even suit? Wouldn’t the current Earl of Somerson object to a match with a penniless Scots laird o’ nothing?”
“Leave him to me. We need only bring my Caroline and your Alec together, remind them, perhaps, of—” She cast a meaningful look at their trysting place.
“Has she any money?” he asked ruthlessly, trying to ignore the tender memory. “He needs to marry a lass with a bloody fortune if he’s to save this place!”
She dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. “She has a respectable dowry, of course, but that hardly matters. They’ll find a way, but not because of money—love, Angus, love.” The sound of the word swirled in the air around him. It softened his heart.
“I’m not against trying, gràdhach, but we can’t force them to fall in love, or be sure it’ll last.”
She smiled sweetly and sighed, and the white heather growing under the walls shivered restively. “ ’Tis almost summer, Angus. Remember how easy it was to be in love in the summer? All we need do is bring them here. The rest will take care of itself.”
Angus frowned, still dubious that anything to do with love or marriage could ever be that simple.
Beyond the sanctuary of the tower, belligerent clouds covered the moon, and thunder muttered a dark warning.
A storm was about to descend on the peaceful valley of Glenlorne.
CHAPTER ONE
“I’ll have your decision now, if you please.”
Lady Caroline Forrester stared at the carpet in her half brother’s study. It was like everything else in his London mansion—expensive, elegant, and chosen solely to proclaim his consequence as the Earl of Somerson. She fixed her eyes on the blue swirls and arabesques knotted into the rug and wondered what distant land it came from, and if she could go there herself rather than make the choice Somerson demanded.
“Come now,” he said impatiently. “You have two suitors to choose from. Viscount Speed has two thousand pounds a year, and will inherit his father’s earldom.”
“In Ireland,” Caroline whispered under her breath. Speed also had oily, perpetually damp skin and a lisp, and was only interested in her because her dowry would make him rich. At least for a short while, until he spent her money as he’d spent his own fortune on mistresses, whist, and horses.
“And Lord Mandeville has a fine estate on the border with Wales. His mother lives there, so she would be company for you.”
Mandeville spent no time at all at his country estate for that exact reason. Caroline had been in London only a month, but she’d heard the gossip. Lady Mandeville went through highborn companions the way Charlotte—Somerson’s countess—devoured cream cakes at tea. Lady Mandeville was famous for her bad temper, her sharp tongue, and her dogs. She raised dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of yappy, snappy, unpleasant little creatures that behaved just like their mistress, if the whispered stories were to be believed. The lady unfortunate enough to become Lord Mandeville’s wife would serve as the old lady’s companion until one of them died, with no possibility of quitting the post to take a more pleasant job.
“So which gentleman will you have?” Somerson demanded, pacing the room, his posture stiff, his hands clasped behind his back, his face sober. Caroline had laughed when he’d first told her the two men had offered for her hand. But it wasn’t a joke. Her half brother truly expected her to pick one of the odious suitors he’d selected for her and tie herself to that man for life. He looked down his hooked nose at her, a trait inherited from their father, along with his pale, bulging eyes. Caroline resembled her mother, the late earl’s second wife, which was probably why Somerson couldn’t stand the sight of her. As a young man he’d objected to his father’s new bride most strenuously, because she was too young, too pretty, and the daughter of a mere baronet without fortune or high connections. He’d even objected to the new countess’s red hair. Caroline raised a hand to smooth a wayward russet curl behind her ear. Speed had red hair—orange, really—and spindly pinkish eyelashes.
Caroline thought of her niece Lottie, who was upstairs having her wedding dress fitted, arguing with her mother over what shade of ribbon would best suit the flowers in the bouquet. She was marrying William Rutherford, Viscount Mears—Caroline’s William, the man she’d known all her life, the eldest son and heir of the Earl of Halliwell, a neighbor and dear friend of her parents. It had always been expected she’d wed one of Halliwell’s sons, but Sinjon, the earl’s younger son, had left home to join the army and go to war rather than propose to Caroline. And now William, who even Caroline thought would make an offer for her hand, had instead chosen Lottie’s hand. Caroline shut her eyes. It was beginning to feel like a curse. Not that it mattered now. William had made his choice. Still, a wedding should be a happy thing, the bride as joyful as Lottie, the future ripe with the possibilities of love and happiness.
Caroline didn’t even like her suitors—well, they weren’t really her suitors—they were courting her dowry, and a connection to Somerson. They needed her money, but they didn’t need her.
“Is it truly such a difficult choice? You are twenty-two years old. Time is of the essence.” Somerson said coldly. “Surely one gentleman stands out in your esteem. Do you find Speed handsomer, or perhaps Mandeville’s conversation is more enjoyable?”
No and no!
She looked up at her half brother, a man twenty-four years her senior, and one of the most powerful earls in the realm, ready to plead her case, but saw at once that was pointless. He’d married the daughter of an equally powerful earl, had nine children, and seemed happy enough with his wife, though Charlotte was a virago, a gossip, and a glutton. She weighed eighteen stone, and was never without a plate of sweetmeats close to hand.
Speed was the male version of Charlotte. Somerson was just like Mandeville, obsessed with his own importance.
No, there would be no point in arguing, or refusing. Somerson had decided, even if she had not, could not. Caroline’s stomach turned over, and she closed her mouth. Her half brother’s face was hard, and without the slightest bit of sympathy. She was simply a matter he wanted settled as quickly and quietly as possible. Caroline was an unwanted burden now her mother was dead. She knew he’d choose for her if she refused to do so, and it was impossible to say which gentleman would be worse. She shifted her feet, which made him stop pacing to regard her like a bird of prey.
“Caroline?” he prompted.
The curling vines in the carpet threatened to rise up and choke her, though her own misery
was already doing the job well enough.
She forced a smile. “I promised Lottie I’d help her choose a gown for her wedding trip. There really has been so much to do for her nuptials that I have not had a moment to think about my own,” she said as lightly as possible, twisting the ruby ring, her mother’s legacy, on her finger.
“It’s been two days,” Somerson admonished. “How much time could it possibly take to make such a simple choice?”
Caroline shut her eyes. It was hardly simple. She’d been a sentimental child, and had grown up to be a young woman with starry-eyed ideas of what romance and marriage ought to be. She’d always thought she’d know the moment she set eyes on the man she wanted to marry. She’d feel a surge of love that would warm her from her toes to her crown, and angels would sing. She felt only horror when she looked at Mandeville and Speed. Her skin crawled and crows croaked a warning.
Flee.
The idea whispered in her ear.
She swallowed, and met Somerson’s eyes, steeling her courage to refuse, but the ice in his expression chilled her. She had been raised to be obedient, even when the yoke chafed. “Tomorrow—I’ll give you my decision tomorrow.”
His eyes narrowed as if he suspected a trick. She widened her smile till it hurt. “At breakfast, is that clear?” he said at last.
“Perfectly,” she murmured. “May I go?”
But he’d already turned away, as if he had more important things to think about and she’d taken up too much of his time. She curtsied to his back and left the study.
Upstairs, Charlotte was shrieking at the modiste, berating the poor woman because the lace wasn’t sitting properly at Lottie’s bosom. Caroline felt sorry for the dressmaker—it was past midnight, and this was the third time Charlotte had changed her mind about her daughter’s wedding gown. Caroline had no doubt Charlotte would let her half sister-in-law get married wearing a burlap sack if it got the matter done faster, and got Caroline packed off, out of sight and out of mind forevermore.
A distant door slammed, and a maid rushed down the steps, nearly colliding with Caroline.
The poor girl was flushed, and she nearly tripped trying to curtsy and run at the same time. “Oh, excuse me, my lady—more treacle tarts are needed upstairs at once.” She bolted down the kitchen hallway like a frightened rabbit.
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