Caroline Forrester had to go.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Devorguilla watched Brodie MacNabb over the tea table in her private sitting room. He hunched awkwardly on a dainty side chair, his big frame overfilling it, making it creak under his muscles. The delicate teacup in his meaty hand looked equally out of place, and he slurped when he sipped, regarding her with bright, witless blue eyes over the rim, and she smiled. He was perfect. Not as a man. As a pawn.
“She’s the prettiest lass I’ve ever seen,” he said through a mouthful of cake.
“Megan?” she asked, though she knew he meant someone else.
“Lady Sophie,” Brodie said, spraying crumbs.
“She’s to marry Alec. She’ll be the new Countess of Glenlorne,” Devorguilla said blandly. She watched the color rise over Brodie’s ruddy complexion, saw jealousy narrow his eyes. He looked like an ox, brainless and dull, but ready to charge. She had thought to wed him to Megan, to sacrifice her daughter to get what she herself wanted. Brodie hadn’t the sense to run an estate. He’d allow Devorguilla to do it, put his rights in her name, just the way she’d tricked Alec’s father into doing. All her life Devorguilla had controlled men using her beauty, the lure of her body, but she was too old now to tempt Brodie. She still had ambition, wits, and an all-consuming desire to be wealthy. She’d lived in poverty long enough. All over the Highlands, lords—and ladies too—were using their land to make them rich. All it took was boldness. She’d hoped Alec was dead, that her chance had come. Even so, she hadn’t been surprised when he returned. Disappointed, yes, but not surprised. It simply meant her plans had to change. She had no idea how he’d managed to catch an heiress like Bray’s daughter, but she knew she’d not see a cent of the chit’s dowry. He’d turn her out as soon as the vows were spoken, and waste the funds on building cottages for the hordes of useless and hungry mouths that inhabited MacNabb territory. To her, it was simple—why buy bread for peasants when you could buy a woolen mill, and make room for it by setting a torch to the miserable hovels people inhabited, living four or five to a bed, with more constantly being born the minute one wed, and moved into the cottage next door to breed yet more starving bairns?
It would be a kindness to expel them, make them go elsewhere, to beg someone else for their sustenance. She’d keep a few folk to work the new mill, tend the new flocks. She wasn’t heartless. They could sleep under the machines, or in the barns. And she could live the life she deserved, buy a grand house in Edinburgh, or even England, and have servants to tend her every whim. Sophie Ellison’s dowry would go a long way toward making that happen, but only if it wasn’t wasted on the futile task of restoring the clan. The clan was all but finished, dead.
She was a smart woman—smarter by far than most men she knew. She had managed her husband for years, and had gotten rid of him when he ceased to cooperate, refusing to sign any more of the papers she put in front of him while he was drunk.
If Alec were as dead as his father, and Brodie was laird, she could control everything once again. A simple accident was all it would take, and the clan would be calling Brodie laird. It made her teeth ache to hear Alec called by the title. He’d been the one to warn his father about her. At first Dougal hadn’t believed him. She’d told him Alec was lying, and convinced him to send his son away. It took some time, but Dougal finally understood what he’d done. He was too stubborn to bring his son home, but he never trusted Devorguilla again. She’d suffered for her mistake, but now she would see to it that she got rid of Alec for good, and never suffered again.
“Have another slice of cake,” she said to Brodie. He held out his plate eagerly. “Now, how would you like to be Earl of Glenlorne?” she asked.
His brow furrowed. “But Alec is the earl,” he said.
“But you’re still his heir, until he gets a son on Lady Sophie.”
She watched Brodie imagine the getting of that son, saw him shift, his eyes hardening, his fist tightening on the delicate teacup. She took it from his hand before it shattered. “Of course, if you were earl, you could marry her.”
His eyes brightened, but faded again as he shook his head. “My father sent me so Alec could teach me some sense, or so he said. I don’t know how to rule over a place like Glenlorne.”
Devorguilla smiled. “I do, Brodie. I do. I can help you, and if you were earl, you could marry Sophie too.”
“Aye?” His eyes widened like a child’s. Perfect. She patted his knee.
“Aye.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Lady Sophie, may we speak privately?”
Alec had found her standing on the terrace that ran the length of the back of the castle, staring down across the loch. She turned and smiled at him, her long teeth glinting in the sun. Her blond hair shone as well, Alec thought, choosing to notice that instead. Her fashionable walking gown seemed out of place here, especially with a fur muff, cashmere shawl, and fur-lined gloves in the height of summer. She looked cold, yet to him, the day was warm.
“Of course, Lord Glenlorne,” she said. “I was just looking over the estate. This lake is a touch big, don’t you think? If that half of it were filled in, then there would be space for a rose garden, or even a maze. We might consider putting a folly on the island just there. It would make the view so much more interesting.”
Fill in the lake? Alec blinked. He’d followed Sophie outside to formally propose to her. He’d grown tired of Mr. Parfitt chasing him through the castle with a pen in one hand and a formal betrothal contract in the other. He’d promised the man he’d propose today, and had signed where Mr. Parfitt indicated.
Once he’d proposed, he could forget Caroline, concentrate on planning a future with Sophie. He felt a twinge of guilt. If he met Sophie in London, at a ball, he probably would not even ask her to dance, never mind consider marrying her, her fortune notwithstanding. But this wasn’t London, it was Glenlorne, and without her money . . . He let his eyes roam over the hills, the loch, the village.
He remembered the hope and joy on the faces of the clansmen who’d welcomed him home. They thought he could make everything right again, work a miracle.
He looked at Sophie again, at her bland face, her slightly protruding blue eyes, and hoped they were right. This time, he wouldn’t fail, he vowed, and turned back to Sophie with determination, since he felt nothing else. Perhaps in time they would grow to love—or at least like—each other.
“And the folly there, on the hill—it’s rather gloomy, isn’t it?” Sophie simply carried on discussing the landscape, hardly noticing he hadn’t said a word, or even nodded. He realized she was pointing to the old tower. “It really should have been built in a more pleasant spot, where ladies can stroll, and gentlemen might propo—” She folded her hands in her lap demurely. “I’m sure Glenlorne offers many pleasant vistas to be enjoyed. Will you show me one of them?”
Alec looked around at the hills, dotted with purple heather and white sheep, at the cloud-cast shadows that moved over the long grass, chasing the wind as it swept down the long slopes, at the way the loch shone in the sun, deep and black with ancient secrets. He took a deep breath of fresh Highland air, and his heart sang, and he wondered what better view there could possibly be.
Still, he offered his arm, and Sophie laid her gloved hand on his sleeve, and he set off toward the loch. Perhaps looking back up the hill at Glenlorne Castle, set against the majesty of the mountain peaks, would please her.
“What a steep slope this is!” she said after a moment, and Alec glanced back at the gentle hill they’d descended. They hadn’t gone more than twenty paces from the terrace. “It needs steps, something in a Palladian style, with a Greek temple halfway down so one might rest and contemplate the improvements one could make,” she continued.
“Do you wish to sit here? It is not a Greek temple, but I have often found it a good place for contemplation.” He indicated the long, soft grass of the hillside.
Her blue eyes widened as she looked aro
und, then she laughed. “How silly you are, my lord! There isn’t a bench!”
“I meant to sit on the grass,” he said with one of his most charming grins, and realized it was a mistake at once. Sophie looked horrified.
“On the lawn? Like a dairymaid?”
“I thought dairymaids sat on stools, in dairies,” he quipped, but she looked at him blankly. He took off his coat and gallantly spread it on the grass for her. “Will this do?”
Her lips rippled over her long teeth, but she gingerly took her seat. “Lady Sophie, I—” he began, but a gust of wind snatched the words from his lips. She cried out as it tugged savagely at her bonnet. He stood between her and the gust, forming a windbreak with his body. Sophie blinked up at him, looking chilly.
“Do you like it here at Glenlorne, Lady Sophie?” he asked.
“It is rather wild, is it not? Are there wolves in the hills?” Her china blue eyes flicked across the landscape, and he had a sharp feeling that she did not belong here, like a needle in the gut. He forced himself to smile reassuringly.
“Wolves? I suppose so—a few, perhaps, but very far off. There are deer as well, and foxes and—”
“Foxes?” Lady Sophie brightened. “Do you ride to a hunt here? I do enjoy a hunt ball!”
“Er, no. We mainly hunt grouse and deer here at Glenlorne,” he said.
“Oh.” The sigh was filled with disappointment.
“There are some glorious walks in the hills,” he offered.
She pursed her lips and examined an invisible mark on her glove, but did not reply.
His proposal of marriage stuck in his throat. He looked across at the village. Every cottage he could see needed a new roof. Plenty looked crooked, ready to crumble into the loch. That would certainly fill it in.
He took a breath and pressed on. “My lady, I assume you know why your father asked you to come here.”
Sophie’s gaze was sober. “Yes, of course—to see if we’d suit. Papa seemed quite sure we would.”
Alec waited for her to give her own opinion of the matter, but she simply blinked against the wind and waited for him to continue. He wondered if he should get down on one knee, but it seemed silly to do so on a hill. He’d be kneeling uphill, and if he went around her, then downhill. He kept to his feet instead, and clasped his hands behind his back. Then he unclasped them, and set one on his hip, and hooked the other thumb in his watch pocket, the way he’d seen English gentlemen do when they wished to look important, yet still at ease.
“My lady—” he began, but the wind reappeared and snatched the muff out of her hands. It tumbled down the hillside like a runaway lapdog. Sophie cried out in dismay, and Alec ran after it, trapping it under his boot before it could reach the loch. He held it up like a hunting trophy and grinned at her. She frowned at the boot print.
He climbed the hill against the stiff breeze, only to find the wind was battering the feathers adorning her fashionable straw bonnet, threatening to steal them too, and fling them into the sky where rescue would be impossible. In Alec’s opinion, the hat would be much more attractive without the outlandishly colorful embellishments, anyway.
“You were saying, my lord?” she asked, half shouting against the wind. How odd. It hadn’t been windy in the least when they came outside.
“I was about to ask—” he yelled, but her shawl caught the breeze like a sail and tangled around her face, pasting itself to her features, outlining her nose and eyes and wide open mouth like a paisley mask, knotting the long fringe in the ribbons of her bonnet as she scrabbled at it, her shrieks muffled. Alec wrestled with it, trying to tear it free from the wind’s grip. He yanked the shawl loose and stuffed it into his pocket, where it snapped against his leg like the tail of an angry cat, cornered but far from vanquished.
“Thank you, my lord. I am very afraid of the dark,” Sophie explained, breathing hard.
“You are?” Alec asked. It got very dark in the Highlands. You could see the stars here, count them, almost touch them. He’d missed that in London. He loved the dark, peaceful nights here. He shook himself, remembering why he’d brought her outside. It appeared the wind was getting more violent by the minute. “I mean . . . Lady Sophie, would you do me the honor of—”
Something tugged hard on his legs, hooking itself around his knees, and he lost his balance on the slippery grass. The wind tore the oath from his lips as he tumbled down the hill, head over heels. He landed hard on his tailbone, a large jagged rock between his outspread legs, and he realized in horror that if he hadn’t stopped when he did, then he certainly would have proven to be a disappointment to Lady Sophie on their wedding night.
He lay in the heather for a moment to catch his breath. Odd, it almost felt as if someone had tripped him, yet there was no one here but himself and Sophie. He got to his feet and climbed the hill yet again to her side. Sophie’s eyes widened at the sight of him. He glanced down. There was a green streak down one sleeve of his shirt, and a smear of dirt. His face stung, and his fingers came away bloody when he touched the scratches on his cheek. He must look like a wild Scot after a battle. He imagined his ancestors climbing this hill after a hard fight, clutching their swords in their bloodstained hands, looking forward to seeing their womenfolk— He looked at Sophie, sitting miserably in the wind with loose tendrils of blond hair snapping around her face like the riggings of a ship in a gale. Her nose was red, her lips white.
He remembered the first time he’d seen Caroline in the window of the tower. The wind had made her cheeks pink, and her eyes glowed. Her glorious hair had floated around her like a battle flag. He could imagine the joy a warrior would feel coming home to such a sight. He looked across to the tower, but the window was empty. He clutched his fist around the imaginary sword in his hand and looked back at Sophie’s pinched face. He almost turned and fled back down the hill, but he forced himself to stop. It had to be done.
“Lady Sophie, will you do me the honor of becoming my—” he demanded more gruffly than he’d intended, but the wind spun around him, stealing his words away.
“What?” she screamed. “I can’t hear you!”
“Will you marry me?” he bellowed.
She looked relieved, if not pleased. “Yes. Can we go inside now?”
“I think that’s a good idea,” he murmured, though he knew she couldn’t hear him over the blast. He helped her to her feet and retrieved his coat. Should he thank her, say something about her beauty, or how happy he was? But she was already three paces ahead of him, running for the safety of the castle.
By the time they’d reached the terrace, and Sophie had run across the flagstones with tiny, clipped steps and ducked inside. The minute the door closed behind her, the wind died to a disconsolate sigh.
He saw Megan in the hall, and she paused to stare at him. “You’re all bloody and scratched!” she exclaimed. “What have you been doing?”
“Proposing,” he muttered darkly.
Angus paced across the width of Caroline’s room, and back again. She was quietly reading by the window, and couldn’t hear him. “They mean to wed him, bed him, and kill him. Then, Brodie will do whatever Devorguilla bids him to do.”
He paused in front of her, though she didn’t notice. “You know this means the end of Clan MacNabb, don’t you, lass? It’s a disaster. ’Twould be better if he wed you, penniless though you are!”
Caroline turned the page, and he smiled softly. “Ach, you look like your grandmother did, the summer I fell in love with her,” he said, and put out a hand to touch her cheek. She looked up, her gaze passing through him. He felt a jolt of surprise. “Did you feel that?” he whispered. He put his hand on hers, clasped it as hard as he could, and her fingers curled for a moment. He felt a flare of warmth.
He squeezed harder, but felt nothing more. “Lass, I need your help. Alec needs your help,” he pleaded, and she blinked, and looked around her in surprise.
Georgiana appeared. “She can hear me!” Angus said, pointing at Caroline. “
She knows I’m here!”
Georgiana looked at Caroline in surprise, but her granddaughter sat calmly reading a book, unaware of Angus, or Georgiana. Georgiana put her hands on her hips. “There’s no fool like an old fool! What the devil are you doing? I needed your help!”
Angus waved his hand between Caroline’s eyes and the book, but she didn’t even blink. Hope fizzled. He floated over the Georgiana. Caroline had her eyes, her straight, slim, elegant bearing. Even the way she pursed her lips while she read was like Georgiana. There was a pain in Angus’s chest where his heart had once been, beating just for her.
“Well, what is it?” he demanded.
Georgiana looked wistfully at Caroline. “I tried to stop him, but Alec proposed to Sophie.”
“When?” he demanded.
“Not a half hour ago.”
“Did she accept?”
Georgiana sighed, and Caroline looked up. “Of course she did,” Georgiana said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Viscount Speed paced the floor of the comfortably appointed dining room he had hired—along with the innkeeper’s two best bedrooms—at the Great Glen Inn. As inns went—or glens, for that matter—he could find nothing great about this place at all. “By God, I shall make sausage from his entrails!”
Mandeville, who was gnawing on a sausage skewered on a fork, set it down. “We did not specifically ask him if he was Glenlorne, though he was in the man’s castle. Perhaps we should have guessed that MacNabb and Glenlorne were one and the same?”
“How could we have ascertained that?” Speed griped, as he made another turn around the threadbare rug. “He looked no different than he ever did in London.”
“Course he did.” Mandeville took another bite of sausage. “He was standing in a castle, and now that I think on it, two of England’s wealthiest heiresses were in that castle right along with him.”
Once Upon a Highland Summer Page 15