Once Upon a Highland Summer

by Lecia Cornwall

  The gull wheeled and came to dive at its would-be murderer. Several ladies in the party screeched, sounding like gulls themselves, and the men ducked and tried to reload at the same time. Only the laird and his sisters waved their arms to drive the bird off. Leith brushed dirt off his trews and Jock elbowed him.

  “Come on, lad. Start looking for something they can shoot. Point it out and run like hell the other way.”

  Lottie watched as Sophie pulled her elegant cashmere shawl more tightly over the heavy coat that was buttoned to her chin. Her nose was red with chill. In Lottie’s opinion, the weather was quite pleasant, though a silver mist lay over the hillsides.

  “Perhaps Lord Somerson, Charlotte, and Countess Devorguilla were sensible to stay behind. I do hope the weather stays fair,” Sophie said anxiously. “Is this considered fair?”

  “I don’t know, but you’re quite right—in England, we’d stay indoors with Mama, and be bored,” Lottie replied.

  “How are we supposed to even see anything, let alone shoot it in all this fog?” Sophie complained. “The wet grass will quite ruin my boots.”

  “You should have worn sturdier ones,” Lottie said. “I wore my riding boots—see?”

  Sophie sniffed. “But these match my gown. They’re hand-dyed to match perfectly. What will I wear if they’re ruined?” She shifted the dainty bow quiver on her shoulder. Even the quiver matched her boots, and the fletching of the arrows matched the feathers in her jaunty little cap.

  “D’you suppose one of the gentlemen would lend me a gun and teach me how to shoot?” Lottie asked.

  Sophie looked horrified. “Good heaven, Lottie, you can’t mean it! A gun?”

  Lottie raised her chin. “I do mean it. My father forbids it, which makes me all the keener to try.”

  “My father says archery is the only suitable type of shooting for a lady.”

  “But have you ever shot at anything other than a target? A grouse or a pheasant, perhaps?” Lottie asked, eyeing the decorative little bow.

  “Of course not! Whatever for? We have groundskeepers and huntsmen to do that.”

  “For the adventure of it.”

  Sophie looked more horrified by the idea of adventure than she’d been at the thought of shooting something. “Adventure? Why, you bold creature—what on earth has gotten into you, Lottie?” She nodded to where William was walking ahead of them with Caroline. “Just what would your fiancé say to that?”

  Lottie sniffed. “William doesn’t care for adventure, or for excitement of any kind. He doesn’t even like to dance. Nor does he engage in manly sports like boxing or curricle racing.”

  Sophie’s eyes popped. “Curricles!”

  “I had an admirer once who let me take the reins of his—it was quite thrilling. I lost my bonnet.”

  “I hope it wasn’t an expensive one,” Sophie said. “Thank heaven your William is the sensible sort. You’ll be entirely safe from harm with him.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Lottie murmured. “Oh, I wish I was as brave as Caroline. I would love to have an adventure, even a teeny one, before I spend the rest of my days being entirely safe.”

  Sophie laughed acidly. “Don’t be silly. Charlotte says she’s quite ruined.”

  Lottie watched her aunt, chatting with William as they walked. “She doesn’t look ruined. She looks . . . oh, I don’t know. Happier, prettier—alive.”

  Sophie tossed her chin. “No decent gentleman of title and fortune will even look at her now, at least not as a wife.”

  Lottie’s eyes widened as she considered what that meant. “Poor Caro!”

  Sophie’s smirk was tight and malicious. “So you see now what wishing for adventures will get you?”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Lottie murmured, staring at her aunt. Caroline threw back her head and laughed at something William said, her russet hair glowing against the mist, her cheeks flushed becomingly. Lottie frowned. She had never known her fiancé to be the least bit amusing.

  Sophie caught her arm. “Of course I am—I am never wrong.” She waved for a servant who carried folding chairs monogrammed with the Bray crest. “Let’s sit here for a while and rest,” she said, though they’d hardly been out a half hour. Lottie slipped into the seat beside her friend and watched Caroline and the rest of the party disappear through the mist.

  “I must say, Caroline, you’re looking well this morning,” William said as they walked behind the ghillies. “Very well, in fact.”

  Caroline looked at him. “Don’t tell me Somerson told you I was at death’s door as well.”

  “No, of course not. I’m family—almost. They told me you had retired to Somerson Park to consider your matrimonial choices.” He was staring at her with the kind of interest she had once longed for. He should be looking at Lottie that way, not her, but Lottie was sitting on the hillside with Sophie, with Brodie lounging by their feet like a big dog.

  “I have,” she said, turning her attention to watch Alec walking with Megan.

  “Oh,” he murmured, and looked almost downcast.

  “I mean I have decided not to marry at all,” Caroline clarified.

  “Oh!” William brightened. He licked his lips, and drew a step closer to her side.

  “Lottie will make a beautiful bride.”

  “Who?” William said like a distracted owl. Caroline raised one eyebrow and sent him a quelling look. “Oh—Lottie! Yes, of course. Lottie . . .” He said her name as if he were trying to remember if he knew a lady by that name.

  “I am quite looking forward to the wedding,” Caroline said, emphasizing the word. “My dear niece and my childhood friend.”

  He winced and bit his lip, his eyes round and sad as a puppy’s. “Fr-friend?” he asked.

  “Friend,” she said firmly.

  “Oh.” This time his voice dropped an octave, heading for the depths of disappointment. “Caroline, if you’re not going to marry, what will you do? Will you take a—” He turned pink to the tips of his ears. “A protector?”

  Caroline blinked at him for a moment. Was he honestly suggesting that if she wasn’t good enough to marry, she might consider becoming the mistress of her niece’s husband? She threw back her head and laughed. “I am perfectly capable of protecting myself.” She cast a glance at Lottie. “Oh, look—Lord Mandeville is showing Lottie how to shoot.”

  William’s face went from scarlet to snow white in an instant, and he hurried up the slope to his fiancée.

  “I have decided that you are quite right, Alec. Brodie is not the man for me.” Megan put her arm through Alec’s as they strode through the heather.

  “Oh? And what’s made you decide that?” he asked. He glanced over his shoulder to the place Caroline walked with William Mears, noted the high color in her cheeks, and felt a flush of desire. He swallowed a groan and concentrated on his sister instead.

  “He’s rather silly, isn’t he? He doesn’t read books. He doesn’t even know clan history, and to think his grandsire used to be our grandfather’s seannachie! Grandfather would not rest easy in his grave to think the old stories were about to be lost.”

  “And what do you propose we do about that?” Alec asked.

  “Would it be difficult to learn the tales? Not just for telling aloud. I could write them down, keep them, pass them on to my own children—and yours.”

  Alec looked at her in surprise. “No, it wouldn’t be difficult. I daresay there are plenty of old folk who recall the stories well enough. Are you saying you wish to be the next MacNabb seannachie? It will take time to put all those stories together. Not to mention that some folk might remember the same tales differently than others.”

  Megan smiled. “I want to. I love Glenlorne—and it will be a long time until the London Season.”

  “And what if you marry an English lord?” Alec asked.

  “Then he’d best be prepared to spend summers here in Scotland, hadn’t he?”

  Alec scanned her young face, saw the confidence in her eyes. He
kissed her forehead. “Whomever you wed, lass, he’ll be the luckiest of men.”

  She beamed at him, then shaded her eyes with her hand and looked toward the ghillies, halfheartedly beating the bushes. “I think I’ll start by asking Jock,” she said. “He knows everyone. D’you think he’ll mind?”

  Alec laughed. “Mind? I think you’ll have trouble getting him to stop talking once he starts.”

  He watched his sister hurry down the hill.

  “Oh.” Caroline found Alec leaning against a tree, staring into the woods. “Oh.” She stopped where she was, feeling her skin heat. “I was looking for Megan. I thought she was with you.” He put a finger to his lips and pointed. In a small clearing, a doe and her fawn were grazing. His gun stood leaning against the tree beside him. She felt a thrill as she looked at them. He waited until they moved on.

  “Megan’s with Jock and Leith. She’s safe enough,” he said.

  The mist had lifted, and the sun was starting to come out. Her face was flushed with the growing heat of the day. Alec felt his heart constrict, and he curled his hands into fists to keep from reaching for her and tumbling her here in the heather.

  She blushed under his scrutiny, probably fully aware of what he was thinking. The idea that she was thinking the same thing did little to stem his desire. She turned away, her cheeks scarlet, and pretended to be interested in the view.

  He looked at the woods through her eyes. The forest was cool and dark and smelled sharply of pine. Above the treetops, the old tower stared down at them. He led the way along the path, intent on guiding her back to the others before he gave in to the desire to steal a kiss, or do far more than that. They walked in silence, the mossy ground muffling their footfalls.

  A hard punch to the shoulder knocked Alec backward. His teeth knocked together as the force of the blow pressed the air from his lungs. The hot spurt of blood came next, just as another bullet whizzed overhead, then the pain.

  “What—” Caroline began. The next shot hit the tree beside her face. He grabbed her hand and dragged her to the ground.

  “Someone’s shooting at us!” she said breathlessly. “Hello!” she called to warn the hunter of his mistake.

  The next bullet hit the ground beside them.

  His right arm felt like lead, and he felt blood flowing under his jacket, down his sleeve, a red-hot river. He circled his left arm around her waist, hauled her against him, and dove for the sheltering trunk of a fallen tree. The exertion made his head spin, and he fought the sudden dizzy rush of pain.

  “Who’s out there?” she whispered, peering around, her eyes wide as saucers. “Surely it’s a mistake,” she said again, but yet another bullet whizzed past, and she gave a muffled cry. He scanned the dense undergrowth, but saw nothing. His gun lay where he’d dropped it, a dozen feet out of reach.

  “Alec, you’re bleeding!” she said, her cry soft, but still loud enough to attract yet another bullet. It thunked into the wood of the tree next to their hiding place. A wave of pain washed over him as her hands roamed over his limbs, searching for the wound, still hidden under his coat. Her expression changed to fear, and concern. Gentle as her touch was, it was still agony.

  “Leave it,” he said more gruffly than he intended. “It’s my shoulder. A graze, probably.”

  She saw the blood on his hand, and cried out when she peeled back his coat and saw his bloody shirt. “This isn’t a graze. We’ve got to get you back to the castle.”

  “That’s three miles away, at least,” he muttered.

  “Then I’ll go for help,” she said desperately. Was it his imagination or were there tears in her eyes? They were glittering, but her chin was set in a determined point, not wobbling with fear.

  “No,” he said through gritted teeth. “Not with people shooting. We’ll have to wait for Leith and Jock.”

  Caroline took out her handkerchief, and pressed it hard against the wound. He drew a sharp breath through clenched teeth at the pain. The flimsy lace was soaked in an instant. She tossed it away.

  “I need to take my petticoat off,” she murmured, and Alec managed a lopsided grin.

  “I thought we agreed . . .” he said. She blushed.

  “Don’t be silly. Your very life might hang in the balance.”

  She stood up and began to raise her skirt. She hadn’t gotten it up past her booted ankle when another shot rang out. She dropped to the mossy ground beside him. “I think they’re getting closer.” They lay side by side in silence, ears pricked, listening as footsteps crunched through the undergrowth.

  He heard voices now, male voices. “Did you hit him?”

  “I’ll know when I see his corpse, won’t I?”

  Alec braced himself. They were coming closer. Caroline’s eyes burned like firebrands as she scanned the undergrowth. “Caroline . . . stay here,” he whispered. She was wearing a green riding habit borrowed from Lottie. She nearly blended into the mossy trees. Perhaps, he hoped, if he drew his pursuers away, they wouldn’t see her, and she’d be safe, but she shook her head, her expression fierce, looking as protective as a mother wolf. She began searching the ground around her, digging her fingers into the leaf litter. She came up with a small rock.

  A twig snapped, and she drew a sharp breath. She raised herself just enough to wind up and throw the rock into the undergrowth downhill. It bounced through the leaves, making an unholy clatter in the grim silence.

  “There!” he heard the call, listened as his pursuers rushed toward the sound.

  “Can you stand?” she asked, putting her arm around him. “We need to move.”

  “And go where?” he asked.

  “There.” She pointed to the old Grange. He hadn’t known they were so close to the abandoned house, hadn’t been here in years. It stood shrouded in ivy, locked up tight, almost invisible amid the trees that were doing their best to choke it out entirely.

  “Caroline, it’s locked. There’s no way to get inside,” he said. “It’s safer to stay in the woods.”

  She looked at him as if he were daft, and hauled on him, trying to help him rise, though her slender frame was fragile compared to his. “Oh? The door’s wide open, Laird.”

  Alec looked at the old house, and blinked. A few moments earlier, the door had been shut, locked tight, overgrown with vines. Now it stood wide open, and the vines beckoned in the breeze.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  “Three hares, a bonxie, and a badger,” Leith said as they entered the kitchen. He laid them on Muira’s table.

  “Where’s Alec?” she asked, her eyes wide.

  “Isn’t he back yet?” Jock said. Muira stared in horror at the bodies littering her kitchen.

  Jock grinned. “I know what ye’re thinking—not much meat for dinner, but when the Sassenachs stopped for a picnic, we had time to catch a few salmon and some trout for ye, Muira.” He set the creel next to the bonxie.

  Jock glanced at Leith, who was slathering an oatcake with butter. “I saw Alec this morning with Megan, but she came back with us.”

  Muira rang her hands, and Jock frowned. “What’s wrong, Muira? Ye’ve got that look. Last time I saw it, old Jeannie MacNair died the next afternoon.”

  She held out her thumbs. “My thumbs prickle when evil is nigh,” she said. She plucked the oatcake out of Leith’s hand. “Ye’ve got to go and find him. Don’t come back until ye do.”

  Jock knew better than to ignore one of Muira’s premonitions. “Are ye sure it’s Alec?”

  “As sure as I’ve ever been. Go on with ye—there’s no time to waste.”

  “I have it, Devorguilla,” Brodie muttered, and held out a blood-soaked scrap of cloth. “The proof.”

  She stared at it in disdain. “What do you mean?”

  “I found this in the woods. It’s blood, so he must be dead.” He broke into a wide grin, his handsome face shining. “I shot him right between the eyes.”

  Devorguilla put a hand to her throat. She stared at the bloody rag, then looked at Brodie. “Truly?�
��

  “Aye. So when can I wed Sophie?”

  “Did you bring me his body?” Devorguilla asked. She wanted to see it herself, to look down at her stepson’s corpse and know that she’d won, that Glenlorne was hers at last.

  “No, just this. Is tomorrow too soon for the wedding?” Brodie asked.

  Devorguilla took the cloth in her hand. “This is a handkerchief, not a corpse. And there’s no telling if the blood is Alec’s or not. He might be downstairs right now, enjoying a tot of whisky.” He stood, regarding her blankly. “You fool!” she cursed him.

  Brodie’s grin faded. “But what about Sophie?”

  Devorguilla tossed the handkerchief into the fireplace and glared at him. “You won’t even get a sniff of her hem if you can’t make certain Alec is dead. You came back too soon.

  Brodie shuffled his feet. “I can’t help it. I’m in love.”

  Devorguilla looked at him, strong as an oak and as daft as a maypole. She had trusted everything to an idiot. He’d dropped the poisoned chalice last night, and he couldn’t even manage a simple hunting accident. “All you needed to do to win Sophie was to shoot him, Brodie MacNabb, and you couldn’t even do that right,” she said, wishing again she’d been born a man, a laird, capable of ruling.

  He thrust out his lower lip in a mulish expression. “Ye’ve no proof I didn’t shoot him.”

  “And there’s no proof you did either. We’d better go downstairs and see if he’s returned yet.”

  “What if he’s there?” Brodie asked.

  “Then we’ll need to try again.” She pushed him out the door.

  There was no sign of Alec in the hall downstairs. The ladies were enjoying tea, an English blend from Lady Charlotte’s personal stock, which traveled with her. There were also cream cakes and tarts Muira had made from late strawberries. The gentlemen stood by the fireplace sipping tankards of ale or tumblers of scotch and compared the hunting in Scotland to that in England, on their own estates.

  Devorguilla forced herself to smile. “Did you have any luck today, my lords?” Devorguilla asked Viscount Speed and Lord Mandeville.