“How grand that sounds!” Alanna ventured bravely, fording into the rising tide of family enmity. Devorguilla silenced her middle daughter with a lift of her brows, and Alec watched Alanna subside into ladylike silence once again. The soup suddenly became the most fascinating thing in the room.
“Alec, are the tales we’ve heard about England true?” Sorcha asked cautiously.
“What tales are those?” he asked her.
“The one about English lords having tails they keep tucked in their breeches,” Muira interrupted.
Alanna hid a giggle behind her napkin, and earned a sharp look from her mother.
Alec had often wondered if Westlake was the devil, but doubted it could be proven by such an easy method as exposing his forked tail. “Of course not.”
“How would they sit down?” Sorcha asked, unperturbed.
“I hear that English gentlemen do nothing but ride roughshod over the countryside, killing babies and eating huge quantities of beef, chicken, and pork for breakfast, lunch, and supper. They drink three gallons of ale with each meal, wash it all down with a cask of brandy, and sleep until noon,” Megan added.
Alec couldn’t help but laugh. “ ’Tisn’t far from the truth,” he said lightly.
“And the ladies,” Alanna said. “Is it true they are allowed to do nothing but sit on cushions all day, so they don’t dirty their dresses or muss their hair, and spend their time doing needlework?”
“Except gossip and drink tea,” Sorcha added. She imitated a lady sipping from her cup with pinkie outstretched. “I hear that gossip is the passion of English ladies. If they haven’t heard anything of note, they make things up to cut each other most cruelly.”
“Everyone in England has three houses—a country house, a city house, and a hunting lodge—is that correct?” Megan asked.
“That’s why London is so crowded that there’s no room for anything green to grow. Too many buildings and too many people,” Sorcha added. “Is it true there are no flowers in London, and are the houses so tall you can’t see the sky? I would be sad indeed if I could not see the sky.”
Alec realized his sisters—and Muira—were awaiting his pronouncements on the stories they’d heard.
“Miss Forrester says that Englishmen are gentlemen like any other,” Megan said hopefully, and in English too.
“Does she now?” Alec asked. “And what has she to say about the gentlemen’s tails?”
“She says the only tails are upon their evening coats,” Alanna said.
Alec nodded. “True enough.”
“She says men and ladies both sleep until noon if they’ve been out at a ball or a party. Miss Forrester says they dance until dawn and drink champagne at the best parties. She’s been teaching us English dances, though the waltz is still considered scandalous in some places,” Megan said. “Still, if we are to take our place in English society as mother believes we must, we must go to London as soon as circumstances allow.” She looked to Alec for reassurance that this fate would not be so terrible.
“What’s wrong with Scottish lads?” Muira grumbled. “There’s plenty of lords with fine, strapping sons here.”
“Penniless,” Alanna sighed, as if by rote.
“What about love?” Alec asked, sipping the claret. Leith instantly leaped forward to refill his glass. “What if you fall in love with a poor man?”
Megan looked at him as if he’d lost his wits. “I would never be so foolish as that!”
“Miss Forrester believes in love,” Sorcha said. “At least I think she does. She likes poetry and stories.”
“I certainly hope she is not teaching you any such nonsense,” Devorguilla said. “She is here to instruct you about English language and manners and customs, not fill your head with foolish notions.”
“What a dreadful thing to say at Midsummer!” Muira said, hovering behind Alec’s chair. “ ’Tis the time when a young lass should be thinking of love, reading the omens, watching for a sign of the man she’ll marry!”
The three girls looked at her with bright eyes.
“I believe we are quite finished with the soup. You may remove the plates,” Devorguilla said.
“I want to marry for love.” Alanna sighed, ignoring the brewing argument.
“Then you had better plan to fall in love with a rich English lord, for that is who you will wed,” Devorguilla said tartly.
An ancient shield that hadn’t been there that afternoon threw itself from the wall and clattered onto the floor. The girls jumped, and Alec instinctively reached for a pistol that wasn’t there. This was Glenlorne, not the dark alleys of London.
Jock picked up the shield. “Sorry, Alec. I put this up myself this afternoon. ’Tis the targe of Malcolm, if you recall. It’s been hidden away for years. Muira insisted we bring it out now ye’re home. I thought I’d done it right.”
“Yet more hidden treasures,” Devorguilla said sharply, her gaze clashing with Muira’s.
“I canna understand how it fell. That nail has been waiting for that shield to return for nigh on sixty years,” Muira said. “ ’Tis the spirits of the auld ones, come to welcome ye home, Laird.”
“Or perhaps the nail has rusted at last,” Devorguilla said. “Like the fortunes of the MacNabbs.”
Muira ignored her. “There’s more, Alec—all the old dirks and claymores and banners. We’ll put them up and make this auld place look like a home again.”
“How wonderful,” Sorcha said, her eyes shining. “Do they have blood on the blades?”
Megan sniffed. “I hear in England children are not allowed to dine with real people until they are at least seventeen,” she said in English, and Sorcha stuck her tongue out at her sister, which earned her a sharp glare from Devorguilla.
Jock pointed to the nail, still fixed firmly in the wall, and swallowed. Muira cackled. “See? The spirits return at Midsummer, look in on things, express their displeasure when things aren’t right. Perhaps I’ve mistaken it, and the targe goes over on that wall. Jock, try it there, will you?”
“You will not. We are in the middle of dinner,” Devorguilla snapped. “I will not have superstitious nonsense spoiling the meal.”
“ ’Tis Midsummer,” Muira rejoined. “The spirits will have their way, will ye or no.”
Alanna took a deep breath. “Mother, may we attend the bonfire tomorrow evening?”
Devorguilla’s lips pursed so tightly Alec wondered if she’d ever get them parted again. “No.” She pinched out the single word.
“But Miss Forrester says that in England young ladies are allowed to attend. In fact, earls and countesses make a point of joining their people at the celebrations,” Megan said. “We could surely attend with Alec, couldn’t we? I mean, it would be a good thing for everyone to see that he’s home, and all is well again—”
It was indeed possible for Devorguilla’s face to twist itself even tighter. She glared at Alec as if her daughter’s request was his fault, and he had made the pronouncement, not the phantom Miss Forrester. He imagined the governess as a lemon-faced spinster, full of advice on subjects she knew nothing about, her yearning for romance thwarted by her lack of looks and fortune.
“I would be pleased to take the girls tomorrow night,” Alec told Devorguilla. “Unless you’ve planned a ball or a soiree?”
Sorcha giggled. “No, but there will be dancing of course.”
“All the lasses will all want to stand up with you, Alec.” Muira said. “Ye’ll be the Midsummer king, as is fitting now ye’re home.”
“I hope you brought dancing slippers!” Megan added.
“For a reel in the meadow?” Alec feigned a shudder. “Isn’t it the custom to go barefoot?”
Megan gasped. “But you’re the Earl of Glenlorne. You can’t do that!”
“The earls of Glenlorne once painted themselves blue, as I recall,” Alec teased. “Muira, have we any blue paint?” The old lady cackled at the jest.
“Alec!” Megan cried. “You can’t!
”
“Never fear, lass. I shall see if the lads can play a waltz, and dance you round the bonfire for luck—properly shod, or course.”
“I have not given my permission,” Devorguilla said, sipping her wine. “It is a barbaric custom. I shall certainly have a word with Miss Forrester for encouraging such nonsense. We shall stay in tomorrow evening and read together—in English.”
“But Mother—” Alanna began, her eyes filling with tears, but Devorguilla waved her hand for silence.
“No more arguments.” Her eyes met Alec’s, hard black and shiny, daring him to contradict her. He kept his mouth shut. He looked around the table. He was not part of the old ways, nor did he wish to be part of the new ways Devorguilla was suggesting. His hand tightened on the stem of the crystal glass. He shouldn’t have come back at all. Then he remembered Sophie in the tower, her red hair loose, her face bright with sun, her body warm and soft and feminine in his arms, and sighed. Perhaps there was a way to make this work after all, with her as his wife. It wouldn’t matter about the old ways, and together they might find a way to make their own future. He was surprised at how much he wanted that, suddenly.
Was that Sophie, or Midsummer?
“We’ll see,” Muira whispered over Alec’s shoulder, and waved her hand in a magic sign of her own.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Muira waited until the household was asleep before she slipped into the stillroom and closed the door behind her. She locked it, then barred the shutters at the window as well, making certain she was alone. She lit a candle and set it on the scrubbed surface of the table that stood in the middle of the room. The bundles and bunches of herbs cast spiny shadows on the walls and floor, adding their dusty tang to the pungent scent of freshly gathered herbs.
The ghosts watched the old servant breathe deeply for a moment before she set to gathering pots and jars, bowls and measuring spoons, setting everything out on the table.
“This isn’t part of your plan, is it?” Angus asked Georgiana as Muira passed right through her to get a bowl.
“Don’t you believe in magic?” Georgiana asked.
“O’ course not. I’m a man of reason,” Angus replied, then recalled that he was a ghost, which was hardly reasonable. He folded his arms stubbornly and leaned against the door, out of the way. He watched Muira select a bundle of flowers. “What’s that she’s got there?”
“Periwinkle. If she chooses seven blossoms or more, then she’s making a love charm.”
“I count nine. Is that good?” Angus asked.
“Depends,” Georgiana said. “Does she know any real magic?”
Angus rubbed his beard. “Probably. Old Muira has birthed babies, healed the sick, and tended the dying for years now. Learned from her mother. No one would cross her, for fear of a curse. You can see how canny Devorguilla is around Muira.”
Georgiana smiled. “Then it’s good indeed.”
“What’s this love charm for?” Angus demanded. “I canna see how nine purple flowers can make anyone fall in love, especially a man of sense.”
Georgiana smiled. “Muira thinks she’s making love charms for the girls, so they’ll dream their true loves. She also thinks she’s thwarting Devorguilla’s plans to marry them to English lords by making them fall in love with local lads.”
“Aren’t they a wee bit young for such things? They should be playing with dolls, or spinning wool, or tending the sheep.”
“They’re young women, Angus. I was Megan’s age when I was already wed to Somerson. Would you see your granddaughters married away to Englishmen?” Georgiana asked.
Angus’s mouth twisted bitterly. “Nay, I would not.”
Georgiana smiled. “Nor would Muira, I think, but her plans for now will have to go awry. There are those more in need of immediate help this Midsummer.”
“Who?” Angus said like an owl, reading something arch in his true love’s eyes.
She grinned like a sailor with a secret. “Alec and Caroline, of course.”
He pushed his bonnet back on his forehead and approached the table. “Come now—Alec is a sensible lad. He’ll not be fooled by such nonsense! It takes more than a few purple pansies to make a man—”
“Periwinkles,” Georgiana corrected.
“It takes more than a few periwinkles to make a man desire a lass is what I was about to say. That’s why I pushed her into his arms in the tower. Did you see the way he looked at her?”
Georgiana dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand. “He must know her as his true love.”
“And yon purple flowers are supposed to bring all that about, as if he had no will, no wit of his own? Perhaps there’s another braw lad meant for your Caroline, another lass meant for Alec.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Of course they’re meant to be together. That’s how the curse will end,” Georgiana said. “I thought that was clear.”
“Clear as mud,” Angus muttered. “What’s that Muira’s got now?”
Georgiana leaned over the table. “Starwort, to attract love, and chicory, to transcend obstacles. For the girls, chicory will help their mother understand their choice, but for Caroline, I think we’d best have an extra dose of that.” She nudged Muira’s elbow, and the pot in her hands tipped, dropping half the contents into the bowl. Muira simply shrugged, and turned for the next herb, stripping lacy white flowers from a thick stem, filling the room with a cloyingly sweet scent.
“Elderflower, to make wishes come true,” Muira whispered, making a sign above the bowl, and Georgiana smiled. “Rose next,” she whispered in the servant’s ear, and Muira plucked the petals from a wild rose and sprinkled them over the rest of the ingredients.
Muira’s ancient hand hovered over the jars on the table. “Figwort, the herb of Venus, I think.” She opened the stopper and sniffed deeply. “Good and strong.” She cackled.
Angus wrinkled his nose. “He doesn’t have to eat this, does he? It looks vile. It’s more likely to kill him than make him fall in love.”
Georgiana tilted her head fondly. “The girls will wrap it with a lock of their hair in a handkerchief and make a wish. The rest will find its way into the ale to be served at the bonfire. Alec will drink it, but he’ll never even notice.”
Angus sighed, and the wild roses shivered in their vase. “A man never notices until it’s too late. Any herbs for caution, or good sense, or warning?”
Georgiana laughed. “We were never cautious or sensible, Angus. Do you remember?”
“Was it a spell?” Angus demanded. If it was, it was on him still. Georgiana shimmered in the light of the candle, and he felt desire smoke through him. He curled his hands against the inability to touch her, felt the old familiar loss of her.
“Of course not. We never danced around a bonfire at Midsummer, or drank wine together.”
“Meadowsweet,” Muira murmured, and they turned to watch her.
“There you are—pure magic. Meadowsweet is for casting love spells,” Georgiana added. She pointed a sheer white finger at a pair of jars on Muira’s left.
Muira turned to look. “Coriander and damiana,” she murmured. “Well, why not?”
“What’s that for?” Angus demanded.
“Desire,” Georgiana sighed.
“For lust,” Muira murmured, as if she’d heard the question too. “Lust never hurt anyone. What’s love without lust?”
“More of that, then,” Angus said, and tipped Muira’s hand himself this time. The pot overturned in the bowl, and the three stood and stared at it.
“No matter,” Muira said blandly, and retrieved the pot, and left the herbs.
“It won’t harm the lasses, will it?” Angus asked.
“Not if they don’t drink the ale,” Georgiana said.
Muira plucked a leaf from a green plant growing in a pot. “Smells like the kitchen, that does,” Angus said.
“ ’Tis basil,” Georgiana said. “For fidelity.”
“His or hers?” Angus demanded.
&
nbsp; “For both, forever, undying devotion.” Georgiana sighed.
“Undying indeed,” Angus muttered bitterly, staring at his invisible hand.
They watched Muira mix the herbs. She took small pinches and made up three tiny muslin bundles, muttering a spell as she tied them closed with red thread. She added the rest of the herbs to a jug of ale, and stared into the depths of the golden liquid as she swirled it, muttering an incantation, watching the herbs absorb the wine, and sink. She set the pitcher on the shelf and turned to fetch another bowl.
“Now what?” Angus asked. He watched Muira take down a jar of poppy.
“ ’Tis a sleeping draught,” Georgiana said.
“Och, I recall nights when I couldn’t sleep for thinking of—” He shut his mouth before admitting that once he lost Georgiana, sleep became his enemy, because his dreams were filled with her. Every time he woke without her made it worse, until he didn’t want to sleep at all. He roamed the castle at night, took long cold baths in the loch, and still couldn’t forget.
Georgiana obviously understood well enough. She smiled softly at him, her head tilted, and he might have blushed if he’d been able. Suddenly he wished for his grandson all the magic, the passion, the life he himself had missed out on. He rubbed a hand over the ache in his chest.
“I think the sleeping draught is for Devorguilla,” Georgiana said. “So the girls can go out tomorrow night. Now all is in readiness, I think.”
“Will it work?” Angus asked. “Will it bring Caroline and Alec together?”
Georgiana sighed, and the shutters rattled, making Muira look up, squinting at the shadows. “I hope it will—but Muira has no idea that the potion is for them. She made it for the girls, a love charm, and for the lads and lasses who will dance around the fire tomorrow night.”
Angus shook his head. “They’re all lost, aren’t they? Those fine braw lads who have their freedom, and their whole life ahead of them. They’ll wake up in a woman’s arms after the bonfire has died and wonder what on earth happened to their good sense. Heaven help a man when women start meddling with his life.”
“Love spells don’t work on those who have no desire, or need. True love has its own magic and it cannot be created or destroyed where it does not belong. You can’t blame love on herbs or the season, Angus.”
Once Upon a Highland Summer Page 9