Once Upon a Highland Summer

by Lecia Cornwall

  “He can’t marry them both!”

  Mandeville shrugged, chewing thoughtfully. “This is Scotland. Perhaps the laws here allow such things.”

  Speed frowned. “The laws of chivalry make no such allowance! It should be one heiress per lord in all places. ’Tisn’t fair otherwise.” He crossed to the fly-blown mirror above the sideboard. “How does he do it, I wonder? I have always cut a certain dash with the ladies. My face is surely just as handsome.”

  Mandeville looked at his companion dubiously. “ ’Tis derring-do, old man.”

  “What is that, some kind of Highland beverage, a dish made with sheep’s entrails, perhaps?”

  “It’s sheer gall for the most part, though ladies like to think of it as the essence of heroism. They want derring-do in a man the way we want—” He rolled his hands out in front of his waistcoat, and nipped them in at his waist.

  Speed looked into the mirror again, seeing something entirely different from his long, crooked nose, his small eyes, his thin, lopsided lips. “Surely we have plenty of that,” he said, and ran a hand through his greasy hair, practicing his most seductive smile, though he was missing two teeth.

  “Indeed, but I fear MacNabb has more.”

  “Then what are we to do? In London, we would simply start a rumor that he’s penniless, or call him out for cheating at cards and shoot him. How the devil do gentlemen deal with these matters in the Highlands?” Speed demanded, turning away from the mirror to pace again. “Not that it likely comes up often. There are few heiresses here of Lady Sophie’s caliber, and damned few gentlemen from what I’ve seen.”

  Mandeville pushed his empty plate away and sat back. “Then I think we are free to make our own rules, wouldn’t you say? Think of the old Scottish custom of reiving, taking what you want.”

  Speed stroked a pimple on his chin thoughtfully. “I thought that only applied to cows?”

  Mandeville grinned. “Not at all. In days of old, a bold man simply took what he wanted, wedded it, bedded it, and the matter was settled to everyone’s satisfaction.”

  Speed frowned. “Are we still talking about cows?”

  Mandeville poured himself a glass of the innkeeper’s finest port and held it up to the light. He paused for a moment to stare into the ruby depths before turning back to his friend. “Not cows, no. But a fine woman is worth every bit of the same effort it takes to capture a fine heifer, I believe.” He set the glass down, and leaned toward Speed. “What if Glenlorne was accidentally injured—or worse? Dearest Sophie would be ours for the taking.”

  Speed’s eyes lit. “Ah, derring-do!”

  Mandeville nodded. “Precisely.” Mandeville picked up the glass and drained it.

  Speed sat down at the table across from his friend. “But how will we do it? We could bash his head in on a dark night, or strangle him in his bed.”

  Mandeville’s smile rolled up the flesh of his red cheeks like a sail. “It’s a fine land for hunting, don’t you think? I hear there’s plenty of game in these hills. Surely Glenlorne could be convinced to invite us out for a day’s shooting,” Mandeville explained. “ ’Tis the gentlemanly thing.”

  Speed’s eyes glowed like the furnaces of hell. “I see. An accident, then—a shot through the heart.”

  “Almost like a duel, a way to settle the manner honorably,” Mandeville agreed. “What could be fairer than that?”

  “But how will we determine which of us will marry Lady Sophie in Glenlorne’s place?” Speed asked.

  Mandeville folded his arms over his massive belly, giving his friend a friendly smile. “Whoever bags the earl shall win the lady.”

  “And the loser?” Speed asked. “Seems a shame to go home empty-handed.”

  “There’s still Lady Caroline.”

  There was a discreet knock, and the innkeeper entered. “More wine, gentlemen, or ale, or another haggis?” he asked politely.

  “Haggis?” Mandeville said, holding out his glass to be filled.

  “I believe you referred to them as sausages when I brought the first one in, sir. I have never seen anyone eat nine of them in all my days.”

  “The chill in the air gives one an appetite,” Mandeville said. “No, I am replete. Bring me some writing paper, if you have it, and find a lad to take a note to Glenlorne, sirrah.”

  The innkeeper nodded and left. “You don’t mean to commit our arrangement to paper, do you?” Speed asked.

  “Of course not,” Mandeville replied. He extended his hand across the table. “A handshake will do. I mean to write to Glenlorne, give him our congratulations, and get him to host us for a day’s shooting in the hills.”

  Speed grinned gleefully. “Get him to ask us for dinner as well. I am not as fond of haggis as you are.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The great hall was filled with people. Every MacNabb for miles around had come to the ceilidh to welcome the new laird home. They wore their plaids proudly, and the pipes to played him to his seat at the head of the table, and everyone declared that such a grand celebration had not been seen since before the Battle of Culloden, or after, when the wearing of tartan and the playing of pipes and even the speaking of Gaelic was prohibited by the English victors. Alec was the first new laird since that law had been repealed. If the English hoped the old ways would die out in the years between, they would be sadly disappointed to see that the spirit of the Highland clans was alive and well in Glenlorne tonight.

  Lady Sophie, newly betrothed to the laird, sat by his side, and received the felicitations of the clan on her upcoming nuptials. Since she understood little of what the Scots said, even in English, Alec had to act as her translator. “We shall start a school and teach them to speak properly, in English,” she said loudly, which drew many frowns and grumbled comments in Gaelic.

  Caroline sat among the servants, ignoring Sophie’s plea that she take a place at the head table. Caroline pasted a bright smile on her face and held it there, despite the fact that her stomach was tight and her heart dead in her breast. She’d been through this all before, and one would think she’d be an old hand at it by now—watching a man she admired celebrate his betrothal to someone else. It was hard enough to sit at the back of the room and smile without having to watch the happy couple bill and coo up close. She ate little, and drank less, remembering all too well what had happened the last time she drank ale at a celebration. She tried not to watch the happy couple, but couldn’t help herself. Alec regarded Sophie politely, smiled at her comments, whispered in his ear, held her hand. Sophie was as nervous as a bird, breathless, fluttering and twittering. She wore a king’s ransom in jewels, and an evening gown that would be better suited to a grand Carlton House ball than a Highland ceilidh.

  “Damned fool. He’s making a grave mistake, if you ask me,” someone said beside her muttered. “She’s the wrong wife for him. He’ll spend eternity regretting this.”

  Caroline turned to regard the elderly gentleman beside her, his eyes intent on Alec. He wore the MacNabb plaid from head to foot, and a deep scowl of disapproval.

  “Sophie’s a lovely person,” she said. “She’ll make a wonderful countess, and I’m sure they will be very happy together.”

  He looked startled, as if he hadn’t known she was there. “Can ye see me, lass?” She raised her eyebrows when he waved his hand before her eyes, following it. Was he drunk? There wasn’t a cup before him, full or empty.

  “Don’t you want to raise a toast to wish them happy?” she asked, looking around for a tray of ale.

  “Happy? ’Tis a mistake! She’ll be the death of him, or Devorguilla will, and there’s not a thing I can do but watch it all happen. Ach, it’s my own fault.”

  The old gentleman kept his eyes on the happy couple, and his fist clenched on the tabletop. She wondered who he might be. There were plenty of clansmen here from other MacNabb holdings, distant parts of MacNabb lands. “Are you one of the earl’s kinsmen?” she asked. “Have you had a long journey?”

 
“A long journey?” he chuckled. “Aye, I suppose you could say so.” He was staring at her, and she felt her face heat. “Forgive me. You are very much like your grandmother.”

  Caroline tilted her head. “My grandmother was the Countess of Somerson, sir, in England.”

  He frowned. “Aye, but she wasn’t always. She lived here in the Highlands once, at Lullach Grange, with her aunt and uncle. He was a soldier at Fort William.”

  “I think you must be mistaken, sir,” Caroline said.

  “Did ye not know, lass? Did she never speak of Scotland, or of me?”

  “She died when I was only seven. I do recall her saying she had visited Scotland once, in the summer.”

  He looked pointedly at the corner of the room. “You never told her?” he murmured. “Did I mean so little to you, gràdhach?” Caroline followed his gaze, but saw only shadows. Her companion looked so profoundly unhappy that her heart went out to him.

  “You should eat something. Can I get you some food? Muira has made so much.”

  He looked around at the folk nearby, watched them happily eating, drinking, and chattering, their cheeks flushed with drink and the pleasure of the evening. He smiled. The smile looked familiar. “ ’Tis a joy just to see the clan happy again. They’ve known little enough joy for a very long time. In my father’s day, there were gatherings and ceilidhs regularly. The seannachie would tell stories of our ancestors, of Scottish history. There wasn’t a man, woman, or child who didn’t know where they came from, and took pride in it. But not after Culloden. It all ended with Culloden. And now . . .” He shook his head sadly. “ ’Tis a broken clan. I had such hope that Alec might—”

  He looked at the corner again, and tilted his head as if he were listening. Caroline studied his profile. He looked like Alec—the same strong chin, gray eyes, and broad shoulders. She could imagine that in years to come, Alec would resemble this kinsman, and be handsome well into his old age. She felt a pang of regret and cast a glance at the head table. Sophie had gone to speak to the girls. By the way her delicate hand was cupped to her mouth, she was no doubt gossiping.

  Alec sat alone, his expression set. She drew a sharp breath as she realized he was staring at her, his eyes in shadow in the candlelit hall, the laird’s cup in his hand. His jaw softened when he met her eyes, and he smiled faintly, and nodded. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t unlock her gaze from his. She felt a wave of desire, and loss, and a sense of drowning in the depths of his eyes, as if she’d plunged into the icy depths of the loch. She watched as he swallowed, saw the light playing on the muscles of his throat, his high cheekbones, glinting in his eyes.

  “Are ye all right?” Muira asked her, leaning over her shoulder. “Ye’re sitting here all alone.”

  “Alone? I was just speaking to—” She looked beside her at the old gentleman, but the bench was empty.

  When she looked back at Alec, his eyes were on Sophie.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “I want Caroline Forrester dismissed.”

  Devorguilla looked at her stepson in surprise. “Has she done something wrong?”

  “She’s the Earl of Somerson’s half sister, a lady, not a servant.”

  Devorguilla studied her nails. Now what did he have against her choice of governess for her daughters? She hadn’t known Caroline was a lady when she arrived to claim the post. Not that it mattered—in fact, it was even better this way, even if Alec did not approve. The household and the girls were her responsibility, surely. She was not about to allow him to interfere. Besides, Lady Caroline’s connections to the Earl of Somerson would be just the thing to launch her daughters into English society. She just had to keep Caroline here until the next London Season.

  Of course, Alec would be dead by then. The thought made her smile.

  “All the better for the girls to keep her, don’t you think? The more high connections they make, the better their chances of success on the marriage mart. Lady Caroline came here of her own free will, and she has not tendered her notice. I will invite her to stay as a guest, if that’s more appropriate, and ask her to help me prepare the girls for the Season out of kindness. Will that do? Besides, what if Lord Somerson took exception to our dismissing his sister without cause?”

  “I doubt he even knows she’s here. She doesn’t belong at Glenlorne. She should be in London, making her own connections on the marriage mart.”

  “Megan will make her come-out next spring. Lady Caroline is helping her learn what she needs to know. Would you have her stop now? Megan will need to know how to speak proper English, how to dance and flirt and behave if she’s to have any chance of success. Caroline has agreed to teach them some French as well, in fact—an added skill.” She got to her feet.

  “Sophie can help them,” he said.

  “Sophie doesn’t speak French, and she cannot play the piano like Caroline can.”

  She read the frustration in Alec’s eyes and wondered at it. Why should he care whether Caroline Forrester stayed or went? It was, she decided, an attempt to usurp the small amount of power she had, and she wouldn’t stand for it.

  In the few short weeks he’d been at Glenlorne, he’d lit a spark in the people. She’d never seen such hope, such joy. She’d woken this morning to the sound of pipes somewhere in the hills. Pipes! It was as if he were William Wallace come again. Clansmen she hadn’t seen for years had come to pay their respects, to bend their knees to him and pledge their loyalty to Alec MacNabb. Brodie would never inspire such awe, such hope. Brodie was an ordinary man. She understood ordinary men, the kind driven by lust and greed. She had no idea what drove Alec. He was like his grandfather, honorable. She recalled the old man’s bluster over honor and the pride of the MacNabbs. While Alec would try to save the world, Brodie wouldn’t quibble about governesses or land sales or sheep. He’d leave all that to her.

  She took a last stitch in her needlework and tucked the needle into the linen, and got to her feet. “Lady Caroline is useful to me—more so now I know of her family connections—and to the girls. She stays.”

  Without a backward glance, as if her stepson were already dead, she swept out of the room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The hills were beautiful in the rain, Caroline thought, walking through the glen, skirting the loch, climbing the path until she stood overlooking the whole valley, which spread out before her, half shrouded in the mist, mysterious and soft. The chimneys in the village smoked, and the tower’s yellow stone glowed against a pewter sky. The loch was moody and gray, the same color as Alec’s eyes. She turned away and kept walking. It was threatening to rain any minute, which was probably why she hadn’t met anyone else on the path.

  The girls were looking over pattern books with Sophie, and Caroline had excused herself as Sophie offered a lesson on the subtle differences between Belgian lace and French lace, stunned the girls didn’t know already. Mostly, Caroline left because she knew they needed time to get to know their new sister-in-law.

  After the ceilidh, she had decided it would be for the best if she left Glenlorne before the wedding. She would go to Edinburgh and look for employment with another family that wished their children to learn English. She had come out today to say farewell to Glenlorne.

  She stopped at the top of the craggy hill on the opposite side of the loch from the castle, and stared at the gray stone, memorizing every detail. The castle had come to feel like home in the short months she’d been here, though she knew it was not. It was Sophie’s home, or it would be in a week, when the wedding took place in the old chapel. She avoiding looking at the chapel, and turned away to take the path over the hill and down through the woods. She came upon a house in a clearing. The old place hunched among the trees, a dowager with good bones fallen on hard times, drawing a ragged shawl of ivy around her. The driveway was badly overgrown, the roof sagged, and the shutters were crumbling for want of paint. It must have been beautiful once, here among the pines. Caroline drew closer, leaned on the stone wall that
surrounded the garden, and peered at the front door, which was barred firmly against intruders. She felt a moment’s sadness that the old place had been abandoned and forgotten. A flagstone path led the way into a tangled garden. There were roses struggling through the wildflowers—English roses. Caroline smiled at the heavy pink heads, gaudy among the white and yellow weeds. They were like the ones in her mother’s garden, and she’d often gone out to cut them to bring the heady scent indoors on a summer afternoon. Caroline slipped past the broken gate, and bent to sniff one of the roses. She shut her eyes at the familiar fragrance.

  “Ye can’t mean to leave, lass,” a voice said, and she jumped. A thorn bit through her glove and into her finger. She pulled her hand away. The old gentleman from the ceilidh stood watching her.

  “You startled me,” she said, and tried to move past him toward the gate. “Forgive me. I fear I’m trespassing.”

  “No ye’re not. If anyone has a right to be here, you do. D’you know what this place is?” he asked. She turned to look at him. “It’s Lullach Grange, lass. Your grandmother lived here once, long ago.”

  “It seems so sad,” Caroline said.

  “Aye. No one has lived here for a very long time. I thought she belonged here, in Scotland, at Glenlorne, but others didn’t agree.” His thick white brows drew together. “And now you mean to leave as well.” He looked as sad as the house, and she felt the sting of the thorn, and looked down at the spot of blood on her glove. “I thought maybe you were meant to make your home here, to stay for good.”

  Caroline felt the prickle of tears behind her eyes, as sharp as the thorn. “Will you excuse me? I must get back to the castle,” she murmured.

  “Do you love him?” he demanded as she reached the gate.

  “Who?” Her voice shook as his face filled her mind’s eye.

  “Och, ye know who I mean. Alec, of course.”

  Her response hovered on the tip of her tongue. Of course not. But she did. She found she could not speak the lie without crying. Instead she shook her head, and watched his face crumple into sorrow. The breeze shook the petals from the rose, and they fell at his feet, pink and white against the black stone, and it began to rain.