Once Upon a Highland Summer

by Lecia Cornwall

  She felt the blood drain from her limbs. “That’s why you proposed, I suppose.”

  “Proposed? I did no such thing. I may have said a great many things in the heat of passion last night, but I am damned sure I did not propose to you!”

  She shook her head. “No, at the tower, the day you arrived. You said the chapel was all ready for the wedding ceremony.” She held up a hand when he began to object. “There’s no need to worry—I thought it was some kind of Highland Midsummer prank, to propose to the first lass you see, or something of the sort. The girls and I had been talking about the Midsummer celebrations, you see.”

  “I thought you were Sophie. I thought I had . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Thought what?” she demanded.

  “That I had the right to . . . I decided to marry you—her—for the sake of Glenlorne. I wasn’t even certain I would marry her until I met you.”

  “Her,” Caroline corrected.

  “You,” he said. “Sophie has money and position, and I need both—for my people, this damned pile of crumbling rocks, and my sisters. They deserve a future. What I don’t need is complications, or problems. What exactly do you intend to do?”

  Caroline stared at him. “I? Did you really imagine that I would force you to marry me?”

  She began to laugh. She couldn’t help it. If only he knew the truth—she’d come here to the ends of the earth to avoid marriage. “I am your sisters’ governess!” she said at last.

  He leaned against the table, and folded his arms over his chest, his long legs stretched out before him. “That’s another thing. Do you truly expect me to believe that the Earl of Somerson allowed you to take a post as a governess?” he asked. “If not for marriage, is this some kind of adventure, a family scandal I’ve somehow stumbled into the middle of?”

  She lowered her eyes, all mirth fading.

  He uttered a sharp oath and took a step toward her. She moved to the other side of the bed to avoid him, and he stood staring at her across the narrow width of it. The scent of her perfume rose around him. “Don’t tell me—he doesn’t even know you’re here, does he?”

  She raised her chin. “I am an independent woman.”

  He narrowed his eyes in disbelief. “Ah, but would Somerson agree?”

  Her cheeks filled with blood. “Of course. I am twenty-three years old.” It was a lie. She lacked three weeks until her twenty-third birthday, and Somerson was her guardian in all respects.

  He came around the bed, and she backed up again, right into the bedpost. He stood before her, and put his finger under her chin.

  “You ran away,” he said.

  She turned her head. His nearness made her mouth water to kiss him, her hands itch to touch him. “I chose to leave.”

  He lowered his eyes to stare at her mouth, and for a moment she thought he would kiss her, but he stepped back, began to pace the room. “I am going to marry Sophie Ellison,” he said fiercely, and she stared at him. “Do you understand?”

  She curled her fingers into the folds of her skirt and nodded. He stopped and looked at her, his eyes glowing with fury. “Do you happen to have sixty thousand pounds?” he asked.

  Her jaw dropped. “Sixty thousand pounds?” she parroted. She had a respectable dowry, but did not come to nearly that much. She assumed Somerson could simply refuse to pay it if she did not marry, or married where he did not wish. “No,” she said simply.

  He began to pace the room. “Have you been to the village? Glenlorne needs money. Every single cottage needs repair. Hell, they should have been torn down years ago, new ones built. Some of them are older than that damned tower!” He pointed out the window and they both looked in the direction of their trysting place. She felt blood fill her cheeks. Was this an apology?

  “Look, I’m not the kind of man the Earl of Somerson would even consider for his sister. Despite—what occurred between us—he’d never see me a fit husband for you. D’you see that?”

  She didn’t. If he knew the kind of man Somerson wanted her to wed . . . and if the Earl of Bray found Alec worthy enough to marry his only daughter, then . . . Still she nodded. He didn’t want her, was seeking an excuse. Her cheeks burned. She would not force him to do the gentlemanly thing, especially since it was so plain that he didn’t wish to marry her.

  He was staring at her again, his eyes roaming over her. She felt heat rise under her prim gown. It was hard to breathe, hard to think.

  “This is impossible,” he muttered.

  “Are you dismissing me?”

  “No!” he said, then considered. “Yes. Perhaps it would be for the best.” She felt her stomach cleave to her spine. “You should go home, back where you belong.”

  “I—” she began, but there was a knock at the door. He froze, looked panicked. If he were caught here in her bedroom, alone, their fate would be as good as sealed; she knew that. How fortunate he wasn’t caught in her arms, both of them stark naked, the night before. He must be very relieved indeed. She pointed to the screen in the corner, and watched as he dove behind it.

  She opened the door to Muira. “Is the laird here?” she asked, her bright bird’s eyes poking into every visible corner.

  “Of course not!” Caroline said, feeling her skin heat. “Why would you think he would be?”

  Muira smiled a knowing smile, but waved her hand. “Och, just an old woman’s Midsummer madness. Two more guests have just arrived at the door—more Sassen— er, English folk—gentlemen this time, insisting they’ve come to rescue Lady Sophie. Now I thought perhaps it was my poor command of the language, and ye might be able to help, since I canna find Alec. The young lady is in the blue room, unpacking, or at least watching her maids do it for her. She’s got a dozen trunks, one full of carpets and hangings and new bed curtains, as if ours aren’t good enough.”

  “Did these English gentlemen give you their names?” Caroline asked, crossing to tidy her hair in the mirror. Alec stood behind the screen to her left, but she avoiding looking there while Muira was watching. She could feel the heat of his eyes on her.

  “I believe one said his name is Mamble. The other is a viscount called Speed.”

  Caroline dropped the comb, her fingers suddenly numb. “Mandeville and Speed? One with red hair, the other wide as a barrel?”

  Muira grinned. “Aye—the very ones! Do you know them?”

  Caroline felt her chest cave in. She hurried toward the door. “Unfortunately, yes, and they aren’t here for Sophie.” She slipped around Muira and hurried down the hall. How on earth had her suitors found her here in Scotland? Somerson had long arms, it seemed, and a sharp sense of smell. No doubt he’d set them on her trail, armed with warrants, letters, and marriage licenses. She’d be wedded and bedded and gone before anyone at Glenlorne was the wiser. She paused at the top of the staircase. She could hear them in the hall below, talking loudly about disemboweling cutlasses, pistols, and rapiers. Apparently, they were armed to the teeth.

  She shut her eyes. She had to send them away.

  And if they wouldn’t go?

  She glanced at the display of ancient weapons that now adorned the wall. She could hardly walk into the room carrying a pike, and she doubted she could even lift one of the claymores. A pair of dirks flanked a battered shield—long thin knives, their hilts once jeweled, if the empty holes were any indication, but the stones long gone now. She took one down, and weighed it in her hand. Could she really— She considered the alternative, and tucked the dirk into her sleeve. She took a deep breath and went to greet her suitors.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The first thing she saw was their dress swords, laying naked on the table next to their booted feet, as if they were ready to fight—if they ever finished the tankards of whisky. She clutched the dirk a little tighter and took a breath.

  “Good morning, my lords,” she said when they did not notice her entrance into the room. She stayed a safe distance back as they leaped to their feet, reaching for their weapons. />
  They didn’t rush toward her. They gaped at her from a distance as if they were seeing a ghost.

  “Lady Caroline!” Viscount Speed cried. Mandeville’s heavy jowls flapped as he strove to speak and failed. He wheezed, turned red, and fumbled for his handkerchief. He held the lace-edged square to his nose, staring at her over the top of it, his eyes bulging with horror, not passion or even triumph.

  “May I ask if you’re quite recovered, my lady?” he asked, the question blurred behind the linen. Speed peered out from behind the protective bulk of his companion.

  “Recovered?” she asked.

  “Countess Charlotte informed us some weeks past that you had fallen ill, and had retired to the country to recover your health,” Speed replied.

  “We thought she meant Somerson’s country estate, not another country entirely!” Mandeville added.

  “There was some speculation as to the nature of your illness,” Speed said. “We were given cause to believe it was the plague. Is it plague, my lady?”

  Somerson had explained her disappearance by telling them she had the plague? She almost laughed, but Speed looked mournful. “It has been some weeks since we’ve had any news of your condition. We assumed you were—” Mandeville elbowed him hard enough to knock him back into the chair he’d so recently risen from.

  “We feared you were lost to us forever, shall we say?” Mandeville said, lowering his handkerchief an inch.

  “Yes, we feared you were dead, especially when Lady Lottie canceled her wedding so suddenly,” Speed said, getting back on his feet.

  “As you can see I am far from dead, gentlemen,” Caroline said.

  “Indeed—we are indeed joyful that the Scottish air, damp and unwholesome though it is, has been kind to you,” Mandeville finished, but he didn’t venture any closer to her, or put away his handkerchief.

  She took a step toward them, and they retreated. “Still, I am afraid your journey has been in vain—”

  Speed put a hand to his heart. “The wedding has already taken place? We are but a day behind!”

  “I assure you I have not—” Caroline began, but Mandeville reached for his sword.

  “Where is the blackguard Glenlorne? I swear I shall make Lady Sophie a widow, and wed her then.”

  “Sophie?” Caroline cried. “You’ve come to marry Sophie?”

  “I know she must be here,” Speed said. “We saw Lord Bray’s coach come this way. I’d know his matched cattle anywhere! Finest in London!”

  “Scotland,” Mandeville reminded him.

  “Anywhere!” Speed replied, raising his finger in the air for emphasis. The loose skin under his chin wobbled like a rooster’s wattle.

  “Where is the fair Lady Sophie? I swear I can smell her perfume in this very room—that is, I’m certain I would be able smell it if I knew her perfume!”

  “You’re here to marry Sophie?” Caroline asked again, baffled. “Lady Sophie Ellison?”

  Speed drew himself up. “Forgive me, my lady. I do understand your dismay, but we must withdraw our offer for your hand. I am the last of my line—I cannot take a chance on a bride who has had the plague so very recently, even if you appear recovered. You may turn out to be a poor breeder.” He sighed, and put a bony hand over his heart. “Lady Sophie was in the bloom of health last I saw her.”

  Mandeville looked at his friend fiercely. “I will marry Lady Sophie if it is the last thing I do!” Speed glared back.

  “Then I am not . . .” Caroline paused. She smiled. “You are not here to—?”

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Alec descended the stairs behind her.

  “Why it’s Alec MacNabb!” Mandeville said, grinning. “How odd to find you here as well. I had no idea you’d left London. Tell me you are not in pursuit of the Lady Sophie as well—we fear that the black lord of this castle has married her already!”

  Alec raised one eyebrow and looked at Caroline, but she was as baffled as he was.

  Speed picked up his sword and brandished it. “I swear I shall run this impudent Scottish earl through and claim the lady back for England!” the viscount said. “Where is Glenlorne? Simply point out his direction!” Mandeville picked up his sword as well.

  Alec opened his mouth, but Caroline pointed away from Alec, out the window, over the hills. “That way. At the, um, Glenlyon Inn. It’s only a dozen miles away.”

  “The Glenlyon?” Speed said, swinging his gaze to the horizon.

  Alec was silent, watching her with amusement.

  Mandeville brandished his sword in the direction of Caroline’s point. “Then we shall go forth to the Glenlyon Inn, and we will drag the fair Lady Sophie from his bed if we must, and run him through if the match has already been—”

  “Gentlemen, there is a lady present,” Alec said.

  They both bowed, looking contrite, tucking their swords behind their backs. “Of course—your pardon, Lady Caroline,” Speed said. “I cannot stop thinking of you as—deceased.”

  Mandeville bowed as well, and strode toward the door. “Please excuse us, we must go forth and woo our bride,” Mandeville said, sidling carefully past Caroline to the door. “It has been most pleasant to see you looking so well, my lady. MacNabb, keep a watch for that blackguard Glenlorne.”

  Alec watched them go and turned to her. “I can explain—” Caroline began, but he looked dubious.

  “How two gentlemen—three, actually— can possibly marry the same woman?”

  “Well, no, I can’t explain that,” she said. “They were supposed to marry me,” Caroline murmured, and took the dirk out of her sleeve. She laid it on the table. Alec stared at the weapon.

  “Both of them?”

  “Whichever one I chose,” she said. She almost laughed. “But it doesn’t matter now.”

  “I see.” He crossed to her side and picked up the dirk, examining the places where the gems had been pried out. His mouth tightened. “I trust the possibility of marrying either one is why you ran all the way to Scotland and took the lowly post of governess?”

  He was so close that Caroline could smell his skin, feel the heat of his body beside hers. She lowered her eyes.

  “Which one would you have chosen?” he asked softly, and she shuddered, imagining Speed’s bony fingers on her flesh, or Mandeville’s weight upon her in bed. She tried to stifle her revulsion, but he laughed softly.

  “So now we have the truth, I suppose. You ran away. Apparently you’ve been forgotten, and Sophie is the new prize.”

  Caroline felt a flare of anger. Did he think she wasn’t even good enough for Speed or Mandeville? Or him?

  “It appears you’re not the only one who wishes to wed a fortune, my lord,” she said sharply. “Does it matter what Sophie wants, or if she is happy? Do you have any more regard for her than Speed or Mandeville do, or is it just her huge dowry you fancy? I suppose a fortune as vast as Lord Bray’s goes a long way to making a lady lovable.”

  His cheeks colored at the insult, but his eyes hardened. “Jealous?”

  She looked down at her fingertips. She shut her eyes, stemming the sharp, sudden bite of tears as she imagined Alec in Sophie’s arms, doing to her what he’d done to Caroline in the tower, making her feel loved and lovely for the first time. It was almost unbearable.

  “Of course not.”

  “You are not a governess, Caroline,” he said.

  She stiffened. Then what was she? Nothing to anyone. “I beg to differ,” she said.

  “You could have married one of those gentlemen, yet you ran away. Do you love someone else?” he asked.

  She bristled. “Do you imagine that one night with you, and I am—” She clamped her lips shut on the admission.

  He put a hand under her chin, raised her eyes to his, mere inches away. “You are what?” His voice was husky, soft, whisky-potent.

  She pulled away. “Infatuated! I am not, I assure you. I was given a choice of suitors, and I made my own decision in the matter. I am, my lord, indeed a governess
—that was my choice.”

  He groaned. “What of my choice?” he said, and she wondered what he meant. “You can’t stay here, Caroline.”

  Caroline folded her arms over her chest. “Why not? Am I not performing my duties satisfactorily?”

  “It’s not that, it’s—” His eyes moved over her like a touch, and she read desire in his eyes, frustration. “Go home, Caroline, back to Somerson. Find a man you can marry.”

  The weight of her plight fell over her like a pall. It was too late for that. She considered her options, and saw none. “If you’ll excuse me, I have lessons to see to.” Before the tears of frustration could fall, she fled.

  Alec watched her go, and slammed his fist into the solid oak table. Another mistake—this one worse than dropping a damned letter. This time, it was personal. He’d involved Caroline, an innocent—or at least she had been until he got hold of her. He doubted even Mandeville or Speed would have her now. Or Somerson. He should do the right thing and marry her himself, but that would be another mistake. He’d consign her to a life of poverty by his side, destroy his clan, his sisters. She’d grow to hate him.

  He shut his eyes. He’d almost believed he could be Laird of Glenlorne, be able to lead his people the way his grandfather had, bring them from misery and poverty back to prosperity if he had Sophie—Caroline—by his side. But he wasn’t a hero, or a leader. He was a fool.

  Caroline had to go, for both their sakes. If she stayed, he could imagine the temptation to touch her again, to make love to her. He was hard as a pole just thinking about it.

  And Sophie? He’d do his duty, do his best to be a good husband and spend her money wisely, but she didn’t fire his blood like Caroline Forrester did. Was there even a chance he could make his marriage work if Caroline stayed at Glenlorne?

  He imagined speaking his vows to Sophie, knowing Caroline was standing in the chapel, remembering the night in the tower. And what of his wedding night, blowing out the candle and climbing into the laird’s bed, thinking of Caroline, not Sophie? How long would it take desire to die?

  He headed for the study, seeing it now through Sophie’s eyes, a shabby, threadbare little room, and crossed to the desk. He took out a sheet of paper and sat down to compose a letter.