Once Upon a Highland Summer

by Lecia Cornwall

Caroline’s stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten a proper meal since supper the night before last at Somerson House. How far away it seemed now, a place just as foreign as Scotland. Was her half brother looking for her? She glanced around the low-ceilinged inn, scanning the faces of the inhabitants, but they stared back dully, with little interest in who she might be.

  “When is the next mail coach going south?” Miss Best was asking the innkeeper. “I wish to purchase a ticket!” she said.

  “But you just got off the London Mail!” he said in surprise.

  “I’ve changed my mind! I want to go back to London this very minute,” she said desperately, an edge of panic in her voice.

  Caroline caught her sleeve. “Oh, Miss Best, I’m sure Scotland isn’t nearly as bad as they say!”

  Miss Best blinked away tears, and snatched her arm out of Caroline’s grip. “How would you know? You said you’ve never even been there!”

  “But—” Caroline began.

  “Do you want the ticket or not?” the innkeeper said.

  “What do you know of Scotland?” the girl asked him.

  “It isn’t England,” he said cryptically.

  “Then I’ll take the ticket!” Miss Best opened her reticule to retrieve her money. The letter fell out, and Caroline stared at it, white paper against the aged black boards of the floor. Coins rang on the wooden bar, and Miss Best snatched up her ticket and turned away.

  “Wait, your letter!” Caroline said, bending to pick it up.

  The girl backed away from it as if it were poisoned. “I don’t want it!” she said. “Burn it!”

  With that, Miss Louisa Best fled into the ladies’ waiting room without a backward glance.

  Caroline felt the letter tingle in her gloveless fingers. She glanced down at the cracked seal. Was that a lion or a bear? She couldn’t read the name, or the motto. She unfolded it.

  I am pleased to offer you the post of governess at the sum of seven pounds per year, plus your room and board here at Glenlorne Castle. You will be responsible for teaching English to my three daughters, aged eighteen, seventeen, and twelve, as well as advising them on English manners and dress. We shall expect you at Glenlorne by the first of the month.

  The letter was signed by the Countess of Glenlorne.

  “Glenlorne,” Caroline whispered. It was a destination, a respectable paying job with a mother and three daughters. The countess wanted someone to teach English and manners. Who better than an English earl’s daughter?

  She opened the Scotsman’s purse, and reached for a coin to pay for a meat pie and a cup of tea, feeling hope soar in her breast. She silently thanked her unknown benefactor once again, and the imaginary face in her mind’s eyes smiled, his hazel eyes twinkling as his red-gold locks floated on a fresh Highland breeze.

  Her heart lifted a little. This was an adventure, an opportunity, a true tale to tell her children and grandchildren, and Caroline wasn’t about to be as foolish as Miss Best and turn back now.

  In her mind, her Scottish hero chuckled, a warm, low, seductive sound. His blue eyes twinkled and a lock of blond hair feathered across his broad brow as he held out his hand to her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Alec stared into the amber depths of his whisky, ignoring the denizens of the modest gentlemen’s club. Devorguilla’s letter sat in his pocket, and he’d read it a dozen times.

  She needed money. The estate needed repairs, and all her meager funds were going to care for her young daughters. Her late husband, the seventh earl, had left numerous debts to be settled, she pleaded. If she could find a way to declare Alec dead and sell Glenlorne, she could make arrangements that would provide dowries for her girls. She wanted nothing for herself—or so she said. She said not one word of Glenlorne’s people, or the fact that the land beneath the crumbling castle represented four hundred years of MacNabb history—her daughters’ history, and his own.

  “Good evening, Glenlorne,” a fellow patron greeted Alec by his new title as he passed, heading for the gaming rooms. Alec gritted his teeth, but didn’t acknowledge the man. Within hours of meeting with Westlake, a dozen men had greeted him as Glenlorne instead of plain MacNabb. He silently cursed Westlake, and Devorguilla too. How long would it take for news to spread that his earldom was penniless, and his family would prefer it if he were as dead as his father? There was no doubt that Devorguilla wanted to sell whatever there was left to sell. Alec wondered how much the castle and the land might be worth. He’d come to one conclusion in the hours since his meeting with Westlake—when he returned to Scotland, if he returned at all, he’d need money. It was now up to him to provide for his half sisters, at the very least. He’d probably be forced to do exactly what Devorguilla intended to do and sell Glenlorne. Or—he looked at the door to the gaming room—he could go home with at least a little brass in his pocket, perhaps, if he was luckier than he’d been recently. If he was far luckier than that, he might even win enough to fool them into thinking he really had been in Ceylon. He had to try at the very least. He swallowed the last of his whisky and rose from his seat.

  An hour later, Alec stared down at the worthless cards in his hand.

  “Well, my lord earl?” Jasper Kendrick asked.

  Alec ignored the use of his title. The balance of his coin already lay before Jasper, and the man was about to win yet again. Alec felt a thin trickle of sweat crawl down his spine. He forced himself to grin, as if he’d inherited a rich dukedom instead of a penniless Scottish ruin, and laid down his cards, and tossed his remaining few guineas onto the table. “I’m leaving Town for a few weeks, so I’ll save you the trouble of carrying my vowel till I come back.”

  “You’re leaving in the middle of the Season?” Jasper’s pale blue eyes bulged. “Now? You must know a title improves a man no end in the eyes of potential brides. You’re bound to be the talk of every hen party in London now you’ve inherited. The ladies won’t be happy to see a handsome, strapping, titled bachelor leave during husband-hunting season.” He picked up the money without bothering to count it.

  Alec rose. “Flattering though the attention might be, I’m in not in the market for a wife.”

  Jasper chuckled. “You say that now, but have you considered a lady like Miss Anne Devereaux? She has a thousand pounds a year, but she’s lonely for a title. Countess would suit her nicely.”

  “Then I hope she finds a nice, willing earl to give her what she wants,” Alec said. “Good night, Kendrick. Enjoy my coin.” He eyed the pile of coin in front of his wealthy opponent regretfully and turned away, heading for the door.

  A glided cane blocked his path. “Good evening, Glenlorne. I was hoping I might have a private word before you leave.” Alec looked at the cane, considered grabbing it and snapping it over his knee. The bearer hadn’t even bothered to stand up to stop him. He sat at a table near the door, half in shadow. Alec glared at him, an obscene rebuke on the tip of his tongue. His mouth dried as he looked into the dull face of the Earl of Bray. The earl held his eyes, his expression cold and unreadable.

  He indicated a seat across from him. “Join me.”

  What choice did he have? Alec wondered if the earl knew he’d broken into his home, terrorized his wife, stolen her private letters. He sat down slowly, wondering if he was about to feel the cold steel of a knife under the table as it thrust into his belly.

  But Bray merely signaled for the waiter, a jeweled signet ring glinting in the spartan candlelight. “Whisky would be most appropriate, I assume?” he asked Alec. Alec nodded, his jaw too tight to speak. Bray smiled, and Alec recognized ruthlessness masquerading as camaraderie. His skin prickled as the earl’s gaze slid over him. Neither Westlake nor his own meager title would protect him if Bray knew. Alec searched Bray’s face, but there was no accusation there. Surely if Bray wished to ask about the break-in, he’d simply have waited outside, had a few burly footmen wrestle Alec into a dark coach, or an even darker alley. The man before him was a companion to the Prince Regent, one of the most pow
erful peers in the kingdom. But if he wasn’t here for that, then what in hell did he want?

  Bray waited until the waiter had set the drinks before them and taken his leave. He raised his glass, his eyes hard as jet as he stared at Alec over the rim.

  “Kendrick is quite right, you know. You’ll be very much in demand on the marriage mart now you have a title.”

  It was on the tip of Alec’s tongue to insist the earl call him MacNabb, but he held his tongue, curious now, as well as wary. “You didn’t do very well at the tables tonight,” Bray stated.

  “What’s this about, my lord?” Alec asked. Bray let his gaze fall to Alec’s untouched glass.

  “Tell me, do you make whisky on your estates in Scotland?”

  “No.” Alec replied shortly, though his father had drunk enough ale to fill the lake below the castle.

  “Do you raise sheep, weave wool at Glenlorne?”

  Alec was silent.

  “Cattle? Oats?”

  “Why do you ask?” Alec demanded again.

  “Because I’m curious. I wondered what kind of income a Scottish earl might have, so I looked into it.”

  It was clear enough by the smirk on Bray’s face that he knew Glenlorne was penniless. Alec had no intention of playing games with a bored English earl, or listening to another Englishman belittle Scotland—and him—for his own amusement.

  He began to rise. “Good night, Lord Bray.”

  Bray held up an imperious hand. “Do sit down. I have a proposition for you.”

  “No—” Alec began.

  “You have three young sisters, don’t you? And all of marriageable age, or very nearly, I understand. How do you provide for them?” Bray interrupted.

  That stopped Alec. Bray’s cold smile was the kind Alec would normally have taken as a warning, but he was curious now. He wondered if Bray wished to purchase Glenlorne. That would indeed solve many problems. “What do you want, my lord?”

  “As I said, I have a proposition for you. A marriage proposal, actually,” Bray replied.

  Alec resisted the urge to laugh. “You’re hardly my type, my lord.”

  Bray sent him another frost-tipped grin. “Quite. But I meant my daughter. Sophie made her debut this Season. She’s been at every ball and party of consequence. Not the circles you travel in, of course. You probably haven’t had the pleasure of an introduction.”

  New warning bells clattered in Alec’s head. “Your daughter, Lady Sophie Ellison?”

  “Yes. I want you to marry her.”

  “Marry Lady Sophie Ellison?” Alec repeated stupidly, stunned. Surely there was a mistake. Lady Sophie was the belle of the Season, destined to be the wife of a wealthy duke at the very least. There were rumors of a match with foreign royalty, not a penniless Scottish earl, but Bray nodded.

  “I trust you know her then?”

  Everyone knew the Earl of Bray’s daughter. She was widely considered the loveliest girl in London. Alec had never met her. Alec swallowed. There must be something very wrong with her indeed if Bray wanted him to marry the girl. Her father’s fortune, his royal connections, would go far in making even a plain girl lovely, and a stupid one fascinating. Pure panic raced through his veins, overriding the hope that somehow Bray’s offer meant salvation and solvency and a happy ending.

  “I’m afraid I’m not in the market for a wife,” Alec said carefully.

  “She comes with a dowry of fifty thousand pounds.”

  Alec stared. “Fifty—” He gulped.

  “Yes. Think of that. All the whisky, oats, cattle, and sheep you could want. You could make your manor house—”

  “Castle,” Alec murmured.

  “Castle.” Bray waved a dismissive hand as if it mattered little where his daughter would be housed after her nuptials. “You could make it the most magnificent castle in all Scotland—a romantic little love nest for yourself and Sophie.”

  Alec stared into his whisky. Romance? He’d never been in love, never even considered the possibility of it. Marriage was a different matter, rarely involving love. Not that he’d considered marriage either. His hand tightened on the glass. Fifty thousand pounds. He could give his sisters dowries, see them marry well—very well indeed. He could rebuild the cottages and farms of Glenlorne, see them rise once more out of poverty, give them back their pride—

  He shut his eyes. Those were his grandfather’s dreams, not his. He doubted there was anything left at Glenlorne worth rebuilding. It would be a fool’s errand, as impossible as trying to bring the dead back to life. It was certainly no place to bring a bride, especially a bride like Lady Sophie Ellison.

  “You hesitate,” Bray said.

  “Why? Why me?” Alec demanded, suddenly angry. His whole life had changed in the past day.

  Bray shrugged. “Why not? You’re a handsome young man with a title—and a castle,” he soothed. “Did I mention that Sophie comes with her mother’s jewelry? All of it, more diamonds and rubies and emeralds than any woman could wear in a lifetime.”

  “She wouldn’t have cause to wear them at Glenlorne,” Alec muttered.

  “No matter. Sophie will grow to love Scotland. I’m sure there’ll be no need at all for her to return to London.”

  Warning bells clanged again. It was clear now that the Earl of Bray wished to be rid of his daughter. He was all but selling the poor girl to a man he hoped would keep her in the farthest reaches of the kingdom, never to be seen again. It obviously didn’t matter if Sophie was happy, or if Alec could make her so. He felt pity for the girl, and wondered what she’d done to deserve such a fate. Did she even know this was happening? It struck him like a bolt.

  The letters.

  If this had something to do with the letter that he’d dropped, the one Westlake said Bray had found, then Sophie’s fate was his fault. He felt his stomach rise uneasily.

  “Think of the money, Glenlorne,” Bray urged.

  Alec swallowed. Fifty thousand pounds meant no more lies, no more stealing or spying. Instead, he could live a life of honor, wealth, and privilege. It was tempting. He rose to his feet. “I’ll need to consider this more carefully. I’m leaving for Scotland tomorrow. I’ll have my man of affairs contact you.” Waters, wasn’t that the name on Devorguilla’s letter?

  Bray’s hand on his arm stopped him. “Come now, Glenlorne. There are no banns required in Scotland. You could take her with you, marry her once you reach Scotland.”

  Alec stared down at the blue veins under Bray’s knuckles, at the jeweled rings that adorned his hands. No English father wanted his daughter marrying over the anvil. It was unseemly and scandalous, even if the groom was an earl. He thought fleetingly of the red-haired lass he’d helped on her way to just such a fate, felt guilt. If he hadn’t dropped that letter, he would never have seen her on the street, and Bray would likely be in a far more elegant gentleman’s club, negotiating a far different match for Sophie. He suddenly felt responsible for the unhappiness of both women—and for the misery of his half sisters and Devorguilla too.

  “Perhaps a long betrothal, so we can get to know one another,” Alec hedged. “When I return, we can arrange it. A year, shall we say?” He wondered where the lass he’d met in the street was now. Married, he hoped, deliriously happy with her faithful, stalwart husband. She was a brave wee thing. Love had made her willing to do anything for a chance at happiness. She’d be the kind of wife who would stand by a man in his hour of need, love him always—if things went as she hoped, of course. What kind of wife would pampered, petted Sophie make?

  She’d make him rich.

  “A year!” Bray scoffed. “You feel I’m being too hasty, do you? Shall we make it sixty thousand pounds? Here’s what I’m willing to do. Since you must leave at once for your estates—and I fully understand you must take up your duties at once—I’ll arrange for Sophie to travel to Scotland. You can show her the glories of Glenlorne before the wedding. Would that do?”

  “I’m not—” Alec began, but Bray rose to his fe
et, and held out his hand.

  “She’ll be there within a fortnight. That will give you time to break the happy news of your impending nuptials to your kin—or is ‘clan’ the right word?”

  “It was once an outlawed word, I believe, especially in England,” Alec said. Clans, the Gaelic tongue, the plaid, even bagpipes had been forbidden by the English Crown for decades after Culloden.

  Bray chuckled. “His Highness plans to change all that. He adores Highland dress. Sir Walter Scott promised to find him a tailor who could make him a proper suit of Scottish garments, and bring a bagpiper to play for him.”

  “If he can find one,” Alec muttered.

  Bray ignored the quip. “I can see you are a patriot, a man of honor. Sophie prides herself on setting new trends, starting new fashions. The prince enjoys things Scottish, but it will take a female, a lady like Sophie to bring it into style. Imagine that if you will. Every Englishman will be tracing his Scottish roots, and Scotland will rise to glory once again—with pipes, plaids, and Gaelic.”

  Alec swallowed a groan. English interest in Scotland had never, ever, boded well. He stared at Bray’s outstretched hand. Whatever reason Sophie was being married off, he was at least partly to blame. And his sisters needed the money. Wasn’t that why he’d come here tonight? He imagined arriving at Glenlorne, as penniless and useless as his father, another worthless mouth to feed, even if he was earl. Jasper Kendrick was right. Marrying money was the fastest way to a fortune, perhaps the only way. He had to marry someone, he supposed. Bray had shown him he had no choice.

  Reluctantly, he clasped the hand of his future father-in-law.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Angus’s ghost, transparent as a gauze curtain, stood staring out the window of the old tower, watching over the glen. Georgiana could see the road through his broad back as it wound past this tower on the way to the new castle. Well, it was hardly new. It was older than either of them, and they’d been dead for nearly twenty years, but it was newer than this place their ghosts inhabited.