Once Upon a Highland Summer

by Lecia Cornwall

  “I assure you she’s here, my lord,” Mandeville said, quaffing another mug of ale and reaching for the pitcher. “We saw her only yesterday.”

  Alec ignored him. “I understand that Lady Caroline has simply gone for a walk. She will likely be back shortly.”

  “In this weather?” Countess Charlotte cried. “She’ll catch her death!”

  Indeed. Alec glanced out the window at the steady downpour. Where the devil was she? He had images of flash floods, slippery crags, deep crevasses, and Caroline lying broken and bloody in the heather. He looked at his watch. He’d sent Jock and Hamish out to look for her an hour ago. If they hadn’t returned in ten minutes’ time, he’d go himself, abandon his guests, or let Sophie and the girls amuse them. Sophie had taken Lottie up to put her to bed. Devorguilla and the girls were managing the herculean task of finding quarters for everyone from the earl to his lowest footman. Was there anyone left in England?

  “Fear not, dear countess. Lady Caroline looked very much recovered yesterday, and hardly on the verge of death now,” Speed said. “You were quite right to send her here to the Highlands. It appears to have done her a world of good and put the bloom back in her cheeks, so to speak—providing she doesn’t drown in the deluge, that is.”

  “Drown?” Charlotte said. Alec noted she looked more hopeful than sorrowful at the prospect. “Is that a possibility?”

  “No,” Alec said quickly. Unless the ground became slippery, or she lost her footing and fell against a rock . . . “No,” he said again. “She has probably taken shelter in the village. The local folk are very kind to—” He stopped himself from saying “strangers.” Caroline was hardly a stranger now. She knew most of the villagers by name, knew their children, took baskets of food and Muira’s medicines to the sick and elderly, stopping to listen to their stories. Caroline would be welcomed warmly at any hearth to wait out the weather. He felt a moment’s pride fill him.

  “She’s with peasants?” Charlotte’s face creased with disgust. “She’ll get fleas—or worse. She’s already on the very verge of ruin, and fleas will certainly tip her over the edge.”

  “I would go myself and look for her,” Viscount Mears said boldly, then subsided instantly. “If I knew the way.”

  “And risk your own health?” Charlotte demanded. “I should say not.”

  “I have no doubt that she’ll be back as soon as the rain stops,” Alec said again.

  “Will that be anytime today?” Somerson said impatiently. “I understand it rains nearly constantly in the Highlands.”

  “His grandfather said as much—he told terrible stories of the weather. He fought with the king’s army in the ’45,” Charlotte said.

  “Well done, my lord!” Mandeville said, raising his glass, then met Alec’s sharp look and colored. “Er, we could mount a proper search for Lady Caroline.”

  “Once the rain stops,” Speed added.

  Alec looked at the gentlemen in the room. Mears looked worried, but meek. Mandeville was helping himself to more ale. Speed was examining the maker’s mark on the bottom of the pewter mug, assessing its value. Somerson looked annoyed by the delay, and Charlotte was hopeful that Caroline might never return at all. Not one person cared if Caroline was safe or not.

  He’d made a dreadful mistake, sending for Somerson.

  He looked out the window at the old tower, standing lonely and forlorn in the wet, and wondered if she was there. He imagined finding her there, kissing the rain from her lips, holding her body against his to warm her wet skin . . .

  Jock came to Alec’s side and whispered in his ear. “She’s upstairs, safe. Came home an hour past, looking like a drowned stoat.”

  Relief and anger flooded through Alec’s breast. She was safe.

  No, she was hiding. He looked around the room. He’d be tempted to hide from these people himself, if they were his kin. Still, she could not avoid them forever. He frowned at her cowardice.

  He got to his feet. “Will you excuse me?” He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned on his heel and left the room. He took the stone steps two at a time and didn’t stop until he reached Caroline’s room in the tower.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The tower room Caroline now occupied had once been his bedchamber. He knew every nick on the steep stone stairs that led to it, every stone in the wall. It had been a sanctuary, a place to keep boyhood collections of smooth pebbles and bird’s eggs, slingshots, wooden swords, and the few well-loved books he owned.

  He knocked, and waited. “Come in, Muira,” she said. He threw open the door, furious that she’d put herself at risk, that she’d left him with her family, that she’d left London at all.

  Caroline was indeed dripping wet, but in no way did she resemble a drowned stoat.

  She sat in a tub of hot water, the steam curling around her. Her eyes widened above pink cheeks at the sight of him in the doorway before she grabbed the nearest covering at hand and dragged it into the tub with her. The thin muslin shift soaked through and molded itself to her figure. He could see the dark outline of her nipples, the long length of her legs. An image of those legs, those breasts in the moonlight dried his mouth. He should turn away, leave, but he couldn’t move. Hell, he couldn’t even breathe.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, wrestling with the muslin.

  “You told me to come in,” he said.

  “Only because I thought you were Muira with more hot water!” She was getting water all over the floor as she tried to sink deeper into the bath, and control the flimsy muslin at the same time. “Go away!”

  He should go. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, the smart thing, but she was naked, wet, and lovely, and the room smelled of wildflowers—the soap, he assumed, or perhaps it was just Caroline. This room had never smelled of wildflowers when he lived here. It should have felt strange, but the chamber still felt like home, sanctuary, even with her things strewn about—her books, her hairbrush, her wet undergarments hanging over chairs and hooks. He couldn’t make his feet move, couldn’t take his eyes off the wide golden pools of her eyes, her sweet pink lips, the wet slope of her breasts, the long white length of her legs. He’d caressed those breasts, suckled them, and those legs had been wrapped around his hips as he—

  “If you’re not going to leave, at least turn around, or hand me a towel, or a blanket, or anything!”

  He handed her a towel, and turned away. He heard her rise from the water, resisted the urge to peek, heard the rustle of fabric as she wrapped herself up. “Where have you been all day? Somerson is assuming you’ve been drowned in the storm,” he said.

  The rustle of linen stopped. “Somerson? Here? How did he—I suppose Sophie wrote to Lottie.”

  He turned to face her, the admission that he’d written the letter on the tip of his tongue, but his tongue got caught between his teeth when he saw her. She stood beside the wooden tub like a Greek goddess. The wet linen outlined her slim figure from breast to thigh, her shoulders white and wet and perfect. Desire stirred, driving out any chance of intelligent thought, and he was instantly hard, as ready as he’d been in the tower. He looked away, but his eyes fell on the bed, which made it worse still. “He’s—downstairs. Somerson, I mean. He arrived a few hours ago,” he said thickly.

  “Is he alone?”

  “Alone? No. He brought the whole family.”

  She gasped and the towel slipped, sliding down the slopes of her breasts. She spun, walking toward the screen, but the linen outlined her perfect bottom. He swallowed a groan. “Lady Somerson is here too, Lady Charlotte, his future son-in-law, and Mandeville, and Speed, all downstairs, waiting for you.” He concentrated on counting them on his fingers, but it did no good. His erection refused to give up. The wet towel was ejected from behind the screen, and it landed on the floor next to the tub, mocking him. He didn’t have to see her. He knew every curve of her body, how silky her skin was, how sweet her mouth tasted, the sweet sounds she made when he loved her. It was all he could do
to stay where he was.

  “What’s Starbury?” he asked her, trying to ignore the rustle of fabric as she dressed.

  “Starbury? It’s one of Somerson’s estates, a very small one in Shropshire, on the border with Wales. Why?” she asked.

  “Because Somerson mentioned Starbury to Mears as their next destination on the way back to London.”

  She was silent.

  “Is it a pleasant place?” he asked.

  “It’s—remote and rather desolate. My mother hated the place. She called it more a prison than a house, the kind of place someone ill goes to die alone.”

  Alec shut his eyes. Of course it sounded like a prison. It was meant to be a prison—for Caroline. Somerson meant to take her there and leave her.

  She came out from behind the screen, wearing a prim gown. Still, his breath caught in his throat, and he wanted nothing more than to undo the tiny buttons that fastened the garment up to her chin, lay her bare again, and carry her to the narrow little bed. She stayed out of his reach, and he noticed her feet were bare under the hem of the gown, the way they’d been at Midsummer. Her hair was loose as well, curling damply around her face. She pointed to her stockings, hanging on the back of a chair. “I will come downstairs as soon as I finish dressing.” He couldn’t look away. She met his eyes, must have seen the heat there. The spots of color on her cheeks expanded, and her eyes darkened, before she looked away. “Please go,” she begged.

  “What do you want me to do, Caroline?” he asked instead.

  A dozen emotions cascaded through her eyes—hope, fear, anger, and resignation—before her lashes swept down to hide what she was thinking. She stood with her head bowed, but her spine was stiff. “I want—I need you to go, before I do something I will regret,” she whispered.

  He walked toward her instead, his boots crackling on the woven straw mat. He cupped her cheek, and she pressed into his palm like a cat, sighing at the touch.

  “I can’t,” he murmured. “I should walk out that door, but I cannot make myself do so,” he murmured, his other hand finding her waist, drawing her close. He leaned forward, his forehead resting on hers, breathing her in, feeling the warmth of body. He wanted to kiss her. He lifted her chin, but she turned her face away with a murmured objection.

  He kissed her cheek instead, her ear, the side of her mouth until she moaned, and kissed him back, her lips meeting his, clinging. She slid her hands up the front of his coat to his lapels, then around his neck, tangling her fingers in his hair as he deepened the kiss.

  It hadn’t been the Midsummer ale. It hadn’t been the drums or the firelight. It had been Caroline. He wanted her as he’d never wanted any woman, and not just physically. He wanted to look into her eyes, know how she felt, talk to her, walk over the hills with her by his side, hand in hand, fall asleep and wake up next to her. He tasted the salt of her tears, and he pulled away.

  Her eyes were bright with tears, dark with desire. He could have her if he wanted. He could carry her to the bed, lay her down, and make love to her—and she would never forgive him. He felt a flare of anger, at her, at himself. What the hell was he doing?

  “I have responsibilities,” he said aloud. “I am betrothed to Sophie. Your brother is here—downstairs.” He looked again at her lips, half parted and luscious, red from his kisses, and his mouth watered. He shut his eyes. “You know what would happen if you stayed. You deserve better. Sophie deserves better.”

  “Do you think I would consent to stay here and be your mistress, live under the same roof with your wife, compete with her for the crumbs of your attention? How would you do it, Alec? Would you set me up in a cottage in the village, slip down to visit me on moonless nights?” She was angry, and she had every right to be.

  He ran his hand through his hair, wanted to tear it out by the roots. “It was a mistake,” he said. “That night in the tower. It was wrong, but if I make it right now, I will make so many other things wrong, don’t you see?”

  She raised her chin. “I have not asked you to make it right! It was my mistake as well, my lord. I have asked you for nothing, and I will not ask, if that’s what you fear.”

  “Then where will you go?” he asked again.

  “Do you care, so long as I am gone?”

  Alec didn’t answer. She took her stockings and went back behind the screen. He stood and waited, not knowing what to say, or how to fix this. She came out from behind the screen and crossed to the dressing table. She wound her hair into a tight bun with fierce efficiency. When she was done, she looked every inch the prim, untouchable governess—except for the vulnerability in her eyes, the set of her shoulders when she met his gaze in the mirror.

  “You could still marry,” he said slowly.

  She shook her head, and said nothing.

  “Look, you could still wed Speed or Mandeville. He might not care that you aren’t a maid. He might not even know,” he said, and she looked up at him in astonishment. To his surprise, she laughed, a mirthless, bitter sound.

  “Have I said something amusing?” he said, suddenly annoyed.

  “Not at all, my lord,” she said sarcastically. “If you see my brother, you may tell him I will see him at dinner.” She swept to the door and opened it, leaving him in the room alone. He listened to her footsteps hurrying down the steep stone steps as if she could not get away from him fast enough.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Caroline took Lottie a cup of her favorite peppermint tea when Muira told her the young woman was feeling poorly after her journey.

  As expected, she found her niece sitting with Sophie, and also as expected, Lottie was filling her in on the latest gossip from London about friends, acquaintances, and enemies.

  “I came to borrow a dress to wear to dinner,” Caroline said as Lottie launched herself into her aunt’s arms.

  “Of course, you poor thing. My mother said you’d left without anything at all. I was so worried!”

  “You ran away? Yet everyone believes you retired to the country with a serious illness.” Sophie said, blinking. “I believed every word!”

  “Mama put that story about, at least to anyone who cared to ask, since we truly had no idea what had become of her!” Lottie replied. “I suspected she’d been kidnapped by pirates, and sold into a pasha’s harem,” Lottie told her friend. “I swore off wearing cashmere shawls forever for Caroline’s sake, and then Papa received Lord Glenlorne’s letter.”

  “Glenlorne’s letter?” Caroline murmured. “Glenlorne wrote to Somerson?” She felt heat rising under her collar. She assumed Sophie had written. How desperately he must want her gone. Her heart dropped into the pit of her stomach.

  “When Papa showed Glenlorne’s letter to Mama, she screamed so loudly the neighbors sent three strong footmen to see if anything was amiss. She screamed so long that she fainted, and the doctor had to be summoned to attend her.”

  “I didn’t mean to cause such a fuss,” Caroline said, though she wasn’t surprised the household had been turned upside down, both by her departure and by the news that she was safe in Scotland. “I simply didn’t wish to—”

  “Oh, I understand completely!”

  “You do?” Caroline asked.

  “Of course! How sweet you are, Caroline. You didn’t want your wedding to take attention away from mine. You needn’t have worried—I would have welcomed a double ceremony. Now I am hoping we can both marry here, with Sophie, a triple ceremony. I’m sure Papa would not object. He and Mama are most anxious to see you married at last.”

  “Oh, Lottie, how marvelous!” Sophie cooed. “We shall put our heads together and make plans at once! You and William, Glenlorne and I, and Caroline and—”

  “It doesn’t matter who you’ve chosen. You can announce it at dinner. I’m sure Papa will insist you do, in fact,” Lottie interrupted.

  Did Somerson still believe she would choose? Did he not understand why she had fled into the night, or perhaps it was simply that he didn’t care. He couldn’t force h
er to wed, of course, but as her guardian, he could make her miserable until she did as she was told.

  “But—” Caroline began, but Sophie crossed to throw open the door of the wardrobe, and began pulling dresses out. “I think we should all dress alike tonight—perhaps all in the same color. Or should we all wear white, but with the different sashes?”

  Caroline allowed them to choose a dress for her—white with a red sash—not caring what she wore. She had escaped from London simply to be forced to make the same choice here, and this time, there was nowhere to run. And it was Alec who had ensured her fate. Her chest ached at the idea that he had betrayed her. She let Lottie’s second maid help her into the gown and looked at herself in the mirror. She was as pale as the muslin. She took a deep breath, and the maid fastened the necklace Sophie had insisted she wear—a violet pendant, made of amethysts and sapphires. Violets grew in the shadow of the old tower. She decided she hated violets. Lottie wore a heart made of rubies on her breast, and Sophie wore a diamond tiara.

  The reflection in the mirror told Caroline she was the same woman who’d fled London, and yet she was not. The old Caroline was a lady born and bred to wed a lord, to bear heirs and run a household, and that was to be the extent and purpose of her life. But things had changed. There was a new light in her eyes, a determined—Somerson would say stubborn, and Charlotte would say willful—set to her chin. She managed a smile when Lottie’s happy face appeared in the glass next to her own.

  She would not let Somerson decide her fate. She would not be forced into making a decision she would regret all her life, even as she dreamed of Alec MacNabb’s arms around her, his mouth on hers, his joined with hers. She watched a blush bloom over her cheeks, growing brighter still when Sophie looked over her opposite shoulder, the picture of bridal joy.

  She was alone in the world, but she’d made it to Glenlorne, found honorable employment. She could do so again. She felt a new sense of purpose and she raised her chin.