Once Upon a Highland Autumn (29 page)

Jeannie shrieked in dismay.

“What’s happened?” Alec McNabb’s voice cut through the female cacophony. “Is Megan—” Kit saw his brows crumple with dread.

Kit was ice cold, soaked to the skin, and shedding water on the flagstone floor. “I take it you’re Glenlorne,” Kit said. “She’s at Glen Dorian, safe. She came to the castle and it began to rain, and we thought we could wait out the storm, but it got worse. I came to—”

“You left her there? In that cursed place?” Jeannie cried.

“She’s safe,” Kit said again. His body ached, and he rubbed a wet hand over his even wetter face. His skin was as cold as a death mask. “She has a warm fire, and it’s dry. Look, I promised I’d come back with a cart,” he felt forced to insist yet again. Is there something close by? Lady Eleanor—?”

Her eyes were dark with worry. “The road to the glen is bound to be flooded. No vehicle is going to get through there tonight. How did you come?”

Kit felt panic warm him momentarily. “Through the woods. Is there a horse perhaps? If I don’t get back soon, the causeway might flood, and then I’ll need a boat.” He remembered the fear in her eyes the last time she was trapped in the castle. She’d jumped out the window. Surely she wouldn’t do that this time. He wouldn’t be there to catch her. He felt panic squeeze his chest. He had to get back to her. He should never have left her.

“I’ll get my coat,” Alec McNabb said. “Caro, get him something dry to wear. Jeannie, fetch some blankets and wrap them well.”

“I’ll get the whisky,” Eleanor said, “and I’m coming with you.

Kit shook his head. “It’s not a fit night for anyone who doesn’t need to be out,” he said. “I would prefer you all wait here.”

“I shall certainly wait here, my lord, and heat some water,” Leslie said. “If you’ll come upstairs, my lord, I will assist you into dry clothes.”

“No time,” Kit said, unwrapping the sodden plaid. “Just wring this out, if you would, Leslie.” He tossed it to his valet, who recoiled at the icy weight of it.

Eleanor grinned. “A MacIntosh plaid. You looked like a proper Highlander coming through that door. A length of plaid has many uses.” Kit’s mouth rippled as he pictured the last use the plaid had served, as bed and blanket. He pictured Megan lying on the length of tartan, her hand extended to him, her lips curved into an alluring smile, her lovely body warm and naked. The image was enough to lift the exhaustion creeping up through the soles of Kit’s boots, though it did nothing at all to stem his worry. He needed to get back to Megan.

“Dry clothes? Here? You
live
here?” Alec McNabb demanded.

Kit squared his shoulders. “I do not.”

“Yet your clothes are here, your valet is in residence, and you have entered into a—a—”

“Handfasting,” Eleanor provided.

Kit watched Alec McNabb color, his brows lowering. “You did not have my permission, Rossington.”

Kit glared back. “It was a private arrangement, Glenlorne.”

Glenlorne’s eyes flared dangerously, and he came toward Kit. “If you have harmed one hair on her head, or de—de—”

“Debauched her?” Eleanor offered.

Alec continued to glare at Kit. “If he has, I’ll kill him.” Kit watched the woman he assumed was Glenlorne’s countess clutch at his arm. She regarded Kit with cool speculation.

Kit held his ground, read the question in every set of eyes staring at him. What could he say? He had indeed debauched her, but that was between himself and Megan, or so he’d thought. He glanced at the door that led to the kitchen, half expecting the absent but long anticipated Eachann Rennie to stride out of the kitchen and help Glenlorne kill Kit for his audacity.
“Will you take the cleaver or the knife, my lord?”
The way Glenlorne’s fists were clenching and unclenching, Kit knew the earl would prefer to strangle Kit with his bare hands. It was obvious Alec McNabb loved his sister. Her whole family did, and Eachann loved her most of all, and she loved him.

Kit swallowed. When Eachann did appear, would he be as angry as Glenlorne? What if Rennie rejected the woman he professed to love, and broke her heart?

Kit felt his heart swell, a small warm place opening in his frozen breast. He’d marry Megan McNabb himself, Kit decided, make her his wife without any question of convenience or time limitations.

He stood dripping on the floor, considering the matter, and realized to his amazement that he
liked
the idea—more than that, even. He had avoided the very notion of marrying for so long, and at last he knew why. It had never been right before, and he had never found the perfect woman. Until Megan. If it hadn’t been exactly honorable to
debauch
her without the blessing of family and clergy, and he suspected Duncan MacIntosh didn’t count in Glenlorne’s eyes, it was most certainly the first thing in his life that had felt
right
. If he married Megan McNabb—if she’d have him, of course—it would be because he loved her, and not out of duty, or for honor’s sake, or anything else.

But what if Eachann returned, and she still wanted him instead of Kit?

Kit shifted his feet, his boots squelching. He wouldn’t stand in her way. He’d kiss her cheek—just her cheek—wish her well, and go home. He’d probably never marry at all if he couldn’t have Megan, just like Nathaniel. He wouldn’t be the first Linwood to leave his heart in the Highlands.

But for now, he was in love, and where there was love, there was always hope. He stood there dripping on the floor, considering that.

“What are you grinning at?” Glenlorne demanded.

“It’s the curse of Glen Dorian,” Jeannie said in a loud whisper, staring at him in horror. “They say it drives men mad.” She screamed as thunder crashed above the lodge, rattling the windows, making the antlers that lined the walls shiver.

Kit didn’t reply. He took the plaid back from Leslie and wrung it out himself, on the floor of the hall, since the flagstones were already wet. “There is no curse,” he said through gritted teeth. He tossed the wet wool back over his shoulders, and glared at each member of the assembled company in turn, ending with Glenlorne. “I’m going,” he said. “She’s probably afraid, and I am going to get her.”

He turned on his heel without waiting for a reply and walked out the door into the storm.

G
lenlorne caught up with him before he’d even reached the edge of the woods. “My wife is pregnant,” the laird said over the roar of the storm.

“Congratulations,” Kit said, as the rain drove into his face.

“She should be home, with her feet up, drinking one of Muira’s goat milk and honey possets, not here, worried half to death about Megan.”

“Eleanor will take care of her,” Kit said absently, his mind on Megan. Had the fire been enough to keep her warm? She was no doubt hungry, and—he wondered if the activities of the afternoon had an effect on a woman. He felt marvelous, but perhaps it was different for a virg—

He stopped walking. “Pregnant,” he muttered.

“What?” Glenlorne shouted.

Kit didn’t answer. What if she was? The idea filled him with a dozen emotions, including joy, and he grinned again.

“I wish you’d stop that,” Glenlorne said. “This is hardly a matter for mirth. In fact, when I get Megan back to Dundrummie, I intend to wring your neck. Then I’m going to thrash her within an inch of her life, and after that, I’ll lock her in the highest tower I can find.”

“No, you won’t,” Kit said, stepping in front of Alec. “Under Scottish tradition, or law, or by the power invested in Duncan MacIntosh, Megan is my wife.”
Wife
. He liked the sound of that, and his chest swelled as he stood up to Glenlorne.

Megan’s brother stared back at him for a moment and stayed silent. Lightning lit up a furious scowl. Kit waited until the laird looked away first, rubbing the water from his face with one hand as he began to walk again. “Come on,” Glenlorne said “I think we’d best hear what Megan has to say before I punch you senseless.”

M
egan landed hard on something solid that cut off her scream. She curled into a ball and held her hands over her head as things crashed around her in the darkness, and waited for the whole castle to come tumbling down on top of her. She felt something sharp pierce her shoulder, drawing another scream from her. She lay still, panting in pain and terror until everything stopped moving. Only then did she dare to raise her head and looked around There was a hole in the corner, high up, a narrow crevice of gray storm light, but it illuminated nothing.

She reached out a hand, searching the empty air around her. The floor was dry here at least. She drew back as another explosion boomed around her, but it was only thunder, and the walls stayed where they were, solid, silent, and steadfast. The flash of lightning that followed barely penetrated the darkness, and only served to make the shattered timbers around her leap like talons, then retreat.

She could hear the sound of her own harsh breathing echoing around her. “Hello?”

The word echoed, mocked her.

Her arm hurt, and she reached up with trembling fingers and felt the slick heat of blood. Her stomach rolled, and she fought back panic and fear. “Just a splinter,” she whispered. “A small cut, and nothing worse.”

“Nothing worse,” the echo agreed. The sound of the rain mixed with the patter of falling dust, little pieces sucked down into the new abyss her fall had created, but she considered herself fortunate—no great stones or roof timbers fell.

Megan stretched out her hand again, felt a solid stone floor beneath her.

She drew a deep breath and shifted carefully, sitting up. She blinked, trying to see, but it was too dark.
Like death
. She shook the thought away, and pushed herself onto her knees.

She screamed as the floor moved, felt the crack forming under her palm. This time, it happened slowly—the floor beneath her tipped inward, and once more she was falling. She clawed for something to hold on to, but it was no use. The flagstone slid out of her grasp, and she was falling again. It didn’t take so long to land this time, or so she thought, but she landed in water, and the icy plunge stole the breath from her lungs. She thrashed, kicking, trying to swim, found something solid under one foot and pushed upward, felt it shift, slip away from under her, then come back again, bashing against her leg. She fought for a foothold, slipped farther. She cried out at the sudden grip on her ankle, a crushing, grinding grab that dragged her downward. She gasped, and tried to draw her leg up, but wouldn’t come. It was stuck fast.

She could hear the rush of water, a cascade in the darkness, and an ominous boom as things she couldn’t see shifted nearby, floated past her. She felt the coldness of the water creeping higher, soaking her gown. She looked up at the gray hole, and it seemed as bright as the sun in her terror. Inside the hole, all was darkness, and movement, and icy cold. She gritted her teeth and tugged her leg again, but her foot was wedged in. She gasped at the pain.

Her sodden gown began to lift and float around her, the muslin brushing and fluttering against her legs like a fish—or an eel. She shut her eyes, stifled the scream that rose in her throat. She hated eels. The water rose slowly from her thighs to her waist, then up to her chest. Megan realized there was a greater peril than eels. Her skin was instantly chilled, and she tried again to free her foot, and pain raced along her leg like fire.

She took a breath and ducked into the water, face down, her hair wound around her throat like seaweed, choking her. She reached for the place where her foot was caught, but it was wedged between two immoveable objects, barrels, perhaps, since they were wooden and slightly round. She scrabbled at them, pushed, kicked at them with her free leg, but they held on to her without mercy.

Her lungs burned, and she rose above the water, higher still now, and sucked in a long breath, and tried not to give in to panic. The water was up to her armpits now. She kicked harder at the barrels with her other foot, screaming curses at them, loudly refusing to die here, but they heartlessly refused to budge. At least the cold of the water numbed the pain in her arm, and she felt her heart kick with panic—everything was becoming numb, as cold and devoid of feeling as if she were already a corpse.

“Kit!” she screamed, feeling tears on her face, oddly hot against the ice of her skin. She hadn’t told him she loved him. Why hadn’t she told him?

“Kit?” she screamed again, staring upward as the water rose higher still, reached her chin, filled her ears.

But he had gone for help, and she was all alone.

She drew another breath, and choked as water filled her mouth.

K
it heaved a sigh of relief when they cleared the woods and Glen Dorian came into view, ravaged by rain and mist. The castle still stood, a grizzled sentinel against the storm, rising black and bony from the leaden sheen of the loch. A narrow strip of causeway stood out—barely—above the rising waters.

“She’s in
there
?” Glenlorne growled.

Kit scanned the side of the castle as they crossed the loch, searching for the window of Mairi’s bedchamber, hoping to see the faint glow of firelight inside, and know that all was well, but the room was dark, and the shutter was open, banging against the stone wall in the wind, drumming a steady death march. His stomach rolled, and he hurried forward. Glenlorne kept pace with him.

“Megan was taught to stay out of places like this—there’s an old tower at Glenlorne, crumbling where it stands, but I daresay it’s in better shape than this place. How could you let her go in there?” Alec lectured as they crossed the courtyard.

“Does anyone truly ‘let’ Megan do anything? I haven’t known her long, but I got the impression that once Megan decides what she wants, no one could change her mind.”

“And are the females in your own family any different, Rossington?”

“Not in the least,” Kit said. The inner door stood wide open. He was certain he’d closed it when he’d left earlier. He entered the dark hall and held up the lantern. There was water on the floor, and he waded through it. “Be careful—there’s rubble under the water,” he warned Glenlorne, like a host offering advice to a guest in his home. When had he begun to think of Glenlorne as his, or as home, or anything else?