Once Upon a Highland Christmas (12 page)

She looked at her plate, bit into fresh bread, savored the delicious rabbit stew, and knew she could never call Merridew Willie, even after—­The bread crumbled in her grip, fell into the stew, and she felt an instant of panic fill her chest, making it difficult to swallow, or to smile. The idea of a wedding night with a stranger made her blush anew, sent dread cascading through her limbs. She set her spoon down.

“Are you well, Alanna? You're flushed. I could call Annie—­” Fiona began, noting her blush.

“No, I was just thinking of . . . Christmas,” she said quickly.

“
Nollaig Beag,
” Fiona said in Gaelic, then grinned, her eyes lighting like Christmas candles. “It's my favorite time of year.”

“It is rude to speak a language not everyone at the table understands,” Marjorie scolded her niece. “You will have to remember that when you're at Woodford Park. Best to start now, I believe. In fact, I have decided that we shall follow English Christmas customs here this year, since we are all soon to be English.”

Fiona's face fell, and Alanna felt indignation rise. She looked at Iain. His hand was clenched on his spoon, his knuckles white. He was looking at Fiona's stricken expression.

“We have traditions here in Scotland—­and at Craigleith—­that have stood for centuries,” he said. “There will be time enough to learn English ways.”

“Still, would you deprive us of our traditions?” Marjorie asked, her lips pinched. “When you're in England next year—­”

“Then I shall respect those traditions,” he said. Tension crackled in the air.

“Perhaps a combination of the two,” Alanna suggested. “The new and the old.”

“And just how will we do that?” Penelope demanded.

“Well . . . do you bring in evergreens in England?” Alanna asked.

“Of course,” Penelope said. “On Christmas Eve, we go out and cut boughs, collect holly and mistletoe, and decorate the great hall at Woodford Park.”

Fiona looked hopeful. “We do the same here. We tie them with the MacGillivray plaid. What about a
Cailleach Nollaigh
? Do they do that in England?”

“What is that?” Elizabeth asked. “Is it something to eat?”

“It's a Yule log. It is carved with the face of Cailleach, the winter hag, to keep her—­and the cold winter—­at bay. It brings warmth and joy and luck. Iain carves it, and the face is so real, you'd swear she was among us. He is very good with his knife,” Fiona said proudly. “He makes such wonderful things.”

“We have Yule logs in England. The men of the household go out and find an ash tree. They take turns chopping until it falls, and then they drag it home. It's set alight on Christmas Eve and burns for the whole twelve days of Christmas,” Penelope said. “It's mostly fun for the common folk and the servants.” She looked at Iain with a bland smile. “As Earl of Purbrick, no one will expect you to chop down trees, Iain, or carve them. There's a woodsman for that, and a carpenter, and their assistants.”

“It is a tradition I enjoy, and I believe I'll continue it. Here at Craigleith everyone participates in the Christmas preparations, not just servants and common folk. The men tie ropes to the
Cailleach Nollaigh
and pull it around the house three times before it comes inside. The children ride on the log. It is a test of strength and time of fun.”

“Everyone laughs until they fall off,” Fiona said, her face bright again. “We have a party in the great hall on Christmas Eve, and invite all the MacGillivrays to come. There's piping, dancing, and merriment all night,” Fiona said, her eyes shining.

“We used to attend a ball at old Lord Wellbridge's estate when I was very young,” Marjorie said, her tone wistful. “They played the fiddle, not the pipes, and the punch was spiked with rum. The traditions wasn't carried on after Wellbridge died, and my uncle wasn't much of a one for Christmas celebrations after his wife and son died.”

“You'll enjoy the party here, Aunt Marjorie,” Fiona said. “We'll teach you to dance Highland reels.”

Marjorie's brows shot upward. “You dance, Fiona?” she asked in surprise.

Alanna watched the joy fade from the young woman's eyes. “I watch, mostly,” she said.

“But you join in when you can,” Iain said.

She looked at him with a sad smile. “When you carry me, let me stand with my feet on yours. Surely I'm too old for that this year,” Fiona said, her cheeks crimson.

“And it will certainly be out of the question in England,” Marjorie added.

“Fiona says it is perfectly acceptable for me to dance if a lad asks me. She says everyone dances, even if they haven't made their come out yet,” Elizabeth chirped.

“Don't be ridiculous. You are three years from making your debut, Elizabeth. You will sit in the corner and keep Fiona company, along with the rest of the children, and you will go upstairs to bed when the infants retire at nine o'clock,” Penelope said cruelly.

Alanna forced a laugh. “Oh, but no one sits at a Highland party or goes to bed early. Everyone dances, and no one minds the old folks with their gamey hips, or the bairns with short legs, or the lame, like me,” Alanna said, looking at Fiona. “Fiona and I will dance together, hold on to one another for balance.”

Fiona laughed, and Iain sent her a shadowed look of speculation.

Penelope looked horrified. “Bairns—­you mean children? You let children attend the party? It should be a formal event for the quality folk, a ball. Surely the servants and common ­people can have their own celebration in the barn in the village, the way they do at Woodford. No, I must insist. It will be a formal affair, and Iain and I will open the festivities with a waltz. We shall hire proper musicians, too.”

“No one here knows how to waltz, Penelope,” Iain said flatly. “And I think you'll find the MacGillivrays are all quality folk, when you've met more of us. Donal MacGillivray has been playing the pipes for our feasts and gatherings since his father died. His father played before him, and his father before him.”

“It would be a dreadful insult not to have Donal play this year,” Fiona said.

“And a shame to miss the chance to hear such an esteemed piper,” Alanna added.

Iain smiled at her. “As Sandy would say, Donal could squeeze tears from a stone with his laments.”

Alanna felt a wave of homesickness, thought of Niall McNabb, Glenlorne's piper.

“Perhaps you'll still be with us for Christmas, Alanna,” Fiona said hopefully.

“Oh, but that's many days away yet. Will you keep dear Wilfred waiting for so long?” Marjorie asked.

The mention of dear Wilfred was like a wet blanket on Alanna's merry mood.

Annie brought in the whisky and set the pitcher on the table with a thump. “It may not be a case of keeping her betrothed waiting—­whether she stays or goes may have more to do with the weather. Sandy is back from visiting Jock, Iain. He says the pass through Glen Dorian is still closed, and there's more snow coming. Odd, but much of the rest of the hills are free of snow. It seems Craigleith is enduring its very own spate of bad weather.”

“What does that mean?” Penelope demanded.

“It means that even though Dundrummie is less than twenty miles away, to get there we'd have to take a much longer journey around the glen to get there—­nearly sixty miles,” Iain explained.

“Dundrummie, is that where you came from?” Marjorie asked.

“My aunt lives there, yes, and my mother. My wedding was to have been—­will be—­at Dundrummie,” Alanna said.

Marjorie made a moue of sympathy. “Then poor dear Wilfred is trapped there, without you?”

Alanna nodded, the movement jerky, imagining her betrothed red-­faced and angry at her absence, the way he'd been when Megan had run away. Would he stay, wait for her? Her dowry was worth waiting for, at the very least. “I suppose he is,” she answered Marjorie's question. “My mother and aunt will keep him company until I return.”

Annie grinned at her from the doorway as she went out. “
Is blianach Nollaid gun sneachd,
” she said in Gaelic.

“And what does that mean?” Penelope asked again.

“Nothing fearsome,” Alanna said. “It means Christmas without snow is poor fare.”

Fiona grinned. “Then this will be a very jolly Christmas indeed.”

 

Chapter Twenty

I
T SEEMED THAT
the English side of the family did not spend time with the Scottish half after the meal. Or perhaps, Alanna thought, it was because she was here, a stranger, making things awkward. Tension hummed in the air throughout the rest of the meal, and it was a relief to leave the dining room at last.

Alanna managed to walk as far as the bottom of the stairs, with Marjorie and Penelope watching her closely, as if they were assessing the severity of her injuries.

Fiona took her arm and the two of them made their way along the hall to the foot of the stairs together, chattering about Christmas. Iain followed. Alanna could feel his eyes on her back like a touch. He'd scarcely said a word at dinner.

“I'll carry you up,” he said as they reached the bottom step.

“I'm quite able to manage—­” Alanna began, but the look in his eyes brooked no argument. He swung her into his arms and began to climb, aware of everyone watching them.

“Perhaps if I had a cane, or a crutch—­” Alanna began, but he silenced her with a look.

“The stairs are dangerous,” he said. “It's no bother, if that's what worries you. Or is it something else?”

Something else? Alanna wondered what it could be. He kept his eyes on the stairs, his jaw tight.

“I'll be in the library, Iain,” Penelope called after him.

“I'll say good night. I have some letters to write,” Marjorie said.

Elizabeth and Fiona disappeared.

“I can walk from here,” Alanna said when they reached the top step.

“As you wish, my lady.” He set her down, clasped his arms behind his back, and walked by her side. “You didn't tell me you were related to half of England.”

“Not quite half—­a quarter at best,” she quipped. He didn't smile. “Does it matter?”

“It's like entertaining royalty. We might have chosen a more impressive suite of rooms, served a more lavish meal,” he said, his tone sarcastic.

“I shall remember to properly introduce myself next time I'm rescued from a storm, or be sure to carry an annotated list of my family connections in my pocket at all times, just in case,” she replied tartly. “Perhaps I simply should wear a sash showing the various coats of arms. It would make an interesting conversation starter.”

“At least I understand now why you're marrying an English lord—­a marquess, wasn't it? It appears it's a family tradition.”

She felt anger nip at her. “Said the English earl, betrothed to the English lady.”

“Touché,” he said softly. “But I'm not betrothed to Penelope.”

Alanna felt hot blood fill her face. “I assumed that you were. I apologize.” She watched a dozen emotions cross his face—­guilt, pride, and a touch of fear.

“She—­that is, I expect that soon . . .” He let the thought trail away. Alanna hid a smile. Could it be possible that Iain MacGillivray hadn't the courage to ask for Penelope's hand, that he was shy or nervous, or afraid she might reject him? She wouldn't—­in fact, Alanna could well imagine Penelope dragging Iain McGillivray to the altar by the hair in her eagerness to marry him. She had certainly hinted broadly that Iain belonged to her, that they were soon to wed.

They had reached the door to her room—­his room. She set her hand on his arm. “I'm sure Lady Penelope will welcome your proposal, my lord, be very fortunate to marry you,” she said encouragingly as she looked into his eyes. He stared back at her, his eyes in shadow, his expression unreadable.

“And do you feel fortunate to be marrying your marquess?”

She dropped her gaze. “Of course,” she lied. “Wilbur is very—­” Her mouth moved, but no word came out to describe him. She couldn't think of one. Iain put his finger under her jaw and lifted her face, made her meet his eyes.

“I thought I heard Marjorie call him Wilfred, not Wilbur.”

She swallowed. “Yes, that's right —­Wilfred. Willie. Lord Merridew,” she babbled, mortified at her mistake.

He looked at her for another long moment, his expression bemused. Then he smiled and stepped back, releasing his hold on her chin, as if he'd decided something, had come to a conclusion. Alanna's heart clenched. Now, she thought, he'd go down to the library, drop to one knee before Penelope, and propose. She felt jealousy flit across her nerves.

“Good night, my lady,” he said, and bowed to her as if she were a queen.

She automatically dipped a curtsy. She winced at the pain in her knee, rose, and fumbled for the latch. She stood for a moment and watched him stride away from her before she scurried inside and shut the door behind her.

I
AIN STOOD AT
the top of the stairs. He could still go downstairs to the library, find Penelope, and propose. This time, the words wouldn't stick in his throat. He would look her in the eyes and simply . . .

It wasn't Penelope's eyes he imagined.

Still, it must be done. He stomped down the stairs. A moment was all it would take, and it would be over, the future secured. He stopped at the bottom of the steps, his hand on the wall. He stood at the junction of his home, the place where the ancient Scottish half of the castle joined the new English wing his father had added. The two sides of the hall couldn't have been more different—­stone versus polished panels of oak. Comfort and luxury versus raw shelter and defense. Two worlds connected in this spot, each with its own values, its own traditions. He stood in the center of the hall, stared down the length of it toward the double doors that opened into the great hall. Halfway along, the library door stood open a crack, and warm candlelight leaked out over the cold stone floor.

He stared at the crack. Penelope was inside, waiting for him. He swallowed again and moved to stand before the door. Behind him was the door that led to the solar. He glanced at the ancient iron ring instead of a polished brass latch.

Iain reached for the iron ring, listened to the door creak open. He shut it behind him.

The solar had once been his mother's favorite sitting room. He used it as his study and for wood carving now, a workshop, since the light was good. He crossed to a wide table that stood by the windows, lit a lamp and hung it on a hook. For a moment, the light swung over the table, casting shadows, making them dance over the curled wood shavings on the surface. He lit a second lamp, set it on the table, picked up a knife and a block of wood, fragrant pine, and began to carve. The feeling of the knife biting into the wood, the act of shaping it in long, sure strokes, the warmth of it in his hands, the dry, sharp smell soothed him.

He was making a Christmas present for Fiona, an angel, and he put Penelope and proposals out of his mind for the moment, watched the angel take shape, wood shavings curling around his fingers.

“Wilbur,” he muttered, flicking the curls away. He grinned down at the faceless, half-­formed angel. “She was obviously running away.”

But why?