Once Upon a Highland Christmas (14 page)

“The parties sound like fun,” Elizabeth said. “Penelope made her debut last year. She was out dancing every night and slept half the day away. We were called home, of course, when my great-­uncle took sick, and Penelope was furious that her Season had to be interrupted. Now she'll be married by the start of next Season, of course, and her flirting days will be over.”

“Doesn't she want to marry my brother?” Fiona asked, her lips pinched. “She'll not find a better man, no matter how much she flirts.”

Elizabeth concentrated on her stitches. “Maybe not, but if she had a bigger dowry—­or any dowry at all—­she'd have her choice of any man she wanted, earls, marquesses . . . even dukes.”

Alanna kept her eyes on her work.

“What about love?” Fiona asked. “Doesn't she want to fall in love?”

Elizabeth giggled. “Mama says love has nothing to do with marriage. Marriage is about position, and power, and security—­especially security, if you're a woman.”

“It's different here in Scotland, then,” Fiona said and looked at Alanna. “Do you love your marquess, Alanna? You never said.” She asked the dreaded question again.

Alanna's tongue knotted itself around her tonsils, and the familiar lump of dread filled her chest. “I—­” She paused, thinking carefully. “I understand he is a fine gentleman, much admired in England, and I have hopes—­”

Fiona's jaw dropped. “You don't love him?”

“I do,” Alanna managed. “I mean, I will, I'm sure.” She stabbed her finger with the needle, winced, and sucked the digit. She would try, at least, to love him. She was certain he did not love her. She was merely a convenient substitute for her sister. Had he loved Megan?

“My mother loved my father. He loved her so much that he changed his name to MacGillivray for her so her father would allow him to wed her, and he promised to live in Scotland forever, and that his children would bear the MacGillivray name. I should like to be loved like that,” Fiona mused.

Alanna suppressed a sigh. So would she—­oh, so would she. Longing filled her, and her toes curled in her shoes. Iain MacGillivray's face came to mind, standing by the fire, wrapped in nothing more than her cloak. She shifted, winced at the twinge in her injured knee.

“Are you in pain?” Fiona asked at once. “Shall I fetch Annie—­or Iain?”

“No.” Alanna set aside her needlework and rose, giving the girls a brave smile. “I'm just tired. I think I'll go and rest for a little while.”

I
AIN FROWNED AT
the carving in his hands. The angel was beautiful, the lines of her body and her gown were graceful and elegant. Her wings curved softly over her head.

It was the face he was having trouble with. The expression was sweet, ethereal, and angelic indeed, but it was Alanna's face, the way she'd looked when he found her in the snow under a halo of frost. It hadn't been what he'd intended. He stared at the features that had appeared as if by magic under the delicate strokes of his knife.

There'd be questions asked if he gave this Alanna-­angel to Fiona at Christmas. Why hadn't Penelope's face appeared under his knife, or Fiona's own lovely features, or even their mother's face? This angel's distinct features could not be mistaken for any other woman's. It was Alanna. He wrapped the figure in a cloth and opened a drawer. Then he put the little angel inside, took another block of wood, and began again.

A
LAN
N
A
R
E
T
R
I
E
V
ED THE
fireplace poker and made her way across the library slowly, gently refusing offers of assistance from the girls. Surely walking would help her heal, allow her to regain her strength. She must go back to Dundrummie, face her responsibilities, prepare to travel to her new home in Kent. She could not stay here at Craigleith.

She reached the door, gave Elizabeth and Fiona a smile as she went through it. She shut it behind her and leaned on it a moment, catching her breath.

A door opened across the hall and Iain emerged. For a moment they stood and stared at each other. He took in the fireplace poker and frowned. She noted the wood shavings in his hair and the fragrance of pine that clung to him. He smelled like Christmas, and she smiled faintly.

“I hope that poker isn't a weapon,” he said.

She raised her chin. “I'll have you know it's not a poker at all. It's my walking stick, and I am doing very well with it. My leg is almost healed. I shall be ready to dance a gay Highland reel by Christmas Eve.”

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, if it's a walking stick you need, I have a better one than that,” he said. He opened the door at his back again, then took her arm and escorted her into the space beyond.

Alanna looked at the well-­worn table covered with curls of wood and sawdust. It smelled sweet in this room, warm. A half-­carved angel stood on the bench, and she limped across to pick it up. Only one wing and the rough shape of her arm and gown had emerged from the wood. The lines were fluid and graceful, the shape lovely. The face was still a blank flat plane. “Did you make this?” she asked in surprise.

He moved to stand next to her, looking down at the carving in her hands. “It's a Christmas present for Fiona. I make her one every year. Not always an angel—­I made dolls for her when she was a child, and wooden animals.”

“How wonderful,” she said, running her fingers over the warmth of the wood.

“She couldn't run with the other children, you see. So I carved friends for her out of wood, playmates to pass the days.”

She regarded him carefully, but his eyes were on the angel, his expression soft.

“She's very lucky,” Alanna said.

“Is she?” he asked. “How will she fare in England? She's too old for toys now.”

“She worries about you as well,” Alanna said. He met her eyes.

“And do you worry for yourself?”

She set the angel down. “You and Fiona will have each other,” she said. “I daresay I shall manage.”

He leaned on the bench and folded his arms. He had sawdust in his hair, she noticed, and she curled her fingers against a longing to brush it away. “You said that perfectly, my lady marchioness, in flawless English—­‘I daresay I shall manage.' I have no doubt you will. You will, of course, have your marquess.” His expression was slightly admiring, as if he thought she was brave, ready, capable of facing an unknown future. She tried to feel as brave as she apparently looked, but she felt bitterness fill her mouth, part fear, part regret. She changed the subject.

“I liked to receive books for Christmas when I was little. My mother despaired that so much reading would make me cross-­eyed.”

“It didn't,” he said, looking into her eyes.

She lowered her lashes. “It will be a very different Christmas this year,” she said. “And from now on, as well.”

“It will indeed,” he agreed soberly.

“Oh, but it needn't be so different next year. You could introduce a few Scottish customs in your new home. No one would dare to refuse you, my lord earl.”

He regarded her with a slight frown. “Do you think it will truly be that easy? Will your husband—­the marquess—­allow you to make changes?”

She had no idea. “I . . . don't know. But Penelope will surely—­”

He took a step closer, picked up her hand. “Are you afraid, Alanna?” he asked.

She scanned his face, wondered for a moment what he meant—­Marriage? England? Being in charge of her husband's home? Yes, to all those. She swallowed and nodded. “Are you?”

“Deathly,” he murmured. She squeezed his fingers. His hand was warm, safe, familiar.

“I wish—­” she began, and stopped. What did she wish? That she could marry Iain instead? That was impossible. She had spent hours daydreaming about her own future, wishing then, too, for a home, love, a husband like Iain. Instead, Merridew awaited her.

He brushed her hair back from her brow, his fingers soft on her skin. He let them linger on her cheek. “You're beautiful, Alanna,” he said.

She read the admiration in his eyes, and something more—­longing perhaps, a wish like her own that things could be different than they were, that the future held something better, something hopeful and bright instead of fearful.

She looked at Iain's mouth and wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Would it be wrong to do that now, just to see how it felt to kiss a man you admired, desired, before she was forbidden from kissing anyone at all besides Lord Merridew?

She didn't hesitate. She threw herself into his arms, her mouth mashing against his. She did not have very much experience with kisses. None, really. Iain made a sound of surprise as her lips bumped his, and he gripped her shoulders. Then his mouth softened against hers, and his arms came around her, pulled her tight against his chest, and he kissed her back. Awareness shot through her body, made her tingle everywhere. Was it always this way between a man and a woman? Would Merridew's touch do this to her? She felt as if bubbles were coursing through her veins, popping in the most remarkable places, her nipples, low in her belly.

She wanted more, made a soft sound in her throat, need and demand, and he obliged. His thumb pressed gently on her chin, opening her mouth. His tongue stroked the inner surface of her lower lip, and she gasped at the delicious intimacy of that. He slanted his mouth over hers, thrust his tongue deeper, and she felt a moment's surprise. Was this how kisses worked? She liked it. Very much. She wrapped her arms around his neck, tangled her fingers in the silk of his hair, let her tongue meet his, pressing closer. She stood on her toes, her breasts pressed against the hard muscles of his chest, his arms enfolding her, surrounding her. She moved her hips, shifted them a little against his body, wanting—­ He pulled back.

“We should stop,” he said, breathless.

She looked into his eyes. The gray was gone, subsumed into the black. He was breathing hard, and she could feel his heart beating against hers. He leaned forward, laid his forehead on hers, his eyes closed, stroking her hair with shaking hands. She tried to kiss him again, to press her mouth to his again, but he caught her arms, untangled her, stepped back. “God, Alanna—­” He moved to the other side of the table. “I didn't bring you here for that,” he said, “but damned if I can remember now why we came in here.”

Alanna clasped her hands. “I apologize,” she said. “I kissed you. I didn't intend to.” But she didn't truly regret it. Then she remembered that he was betrothed—­or almost—­to Penelope, and she belonged to Merridew. Hot color filled her face. He must wonder what kind of wanton, wicked, dangerous creature he'd let into his home. She turned away, moved toward the door.

“Wait.” He stopped her as her hand closed on the latch. “A walking stick. That's what I meant to find. I was making one for old Ewan MacGillivray, but I didn't finish it in time. It was his cottage we stayed in, the night of the storm.” Alanna felt her cheeks grow warmer still. Her heart still pounded against her ribs, her lips tingling, the taste of him on her tongue. She watched as he searched the shelves, cool and unaffected. He found the stick and held it out to her with a smile. She took it from him and felt the jolt of awareness, of desire, as their fingers touched. She heard his sharp intake of breath. Not quite so unaffected, then.

“Thank you,” she said, moving her fingers away from his, closing her hand on the wood. She concentrated on looking at it, not really seeing it, all too aware that he stood before her, close enough to kiss again. She couldn't move, nor did he. Instead she waited. Would
he
kiss
her
this time? Her mouth watered.

“Do you need help going up the stairs?” he asked at last, his tone flat, calm, and she imagined how it would feel if he carried her now, after the kiss.

“No,” she said quickly. “I can manage. Thank you for the stick.”

She turned and fled, going through the door as quickly as she was able, racing down the hall and up the steps as fast as her wounded knee would allow, more afraid that he would
not
chase her than that he would.

She reached the sanctuary of her room and shut the door firmly. She was surrounded by his presence here, his belongings, his scent. Her breath caught in her throat, and sharp longing shot through her body. She pressed her hand to her lips.

She'd kissed him, and he'd kissed her back.

Now she knew how it felt to kiss a man you admired.

It hadn't made it better. It made it worse.

 

Chapter Twenty-Four

I
AIN LEANED ON
the bench and stared at the door after Alanna left. He'd kissed her.

He shouldn't have. She belonged to someone else, and he hadn't the right. Actually, she'd kissed him. He grinned. He'd been surprised when her mouth met his. It had been an unskilled kiss, a first kiss.

He licked his lips, tasted her still. He paced the room, hard as a bloody pole, wanting nothing more than to go after her, throw open the door to his room—­her room—­and do it again. This time, he wouldn't stop.

The door opened, and he looked up eagerly, his heart rising, expecting, hoping it was Alanna.

It was Penelope. She stepped inside and looked around the room. If she'd arrived five minutes earlier, she'd have found Alanna here, in his arms. He swallowed and ran his hand through his hair, dislodged sawdust, wondered if she'd seen Alanna leaving.

Penelope made a face and stepped back. “You're covered in dust! Whatever are you doing? You poor man—­you won't have to clean stables or chop wood or rescue wayward peasants at Woodford.”

He held up a hand to stop the familiar insistence that he would be idle, unnecessary. “So you've said—­there are servants for that. But like working with my own horses, and I'm carving a Christmas gift for my sister. No servant can do that. And Alanna—­
Lady
Alanna—­is hardly a wayward peasant.”
She was an angel
.

Her eyes lit. “Presents? Are you making me one?”

He swallowed. He hadn't considered it. “Of course.”

She came forward eagerly, her eyes flirtatious, intimate. She laid her hand on his arm, crowded closer. “What is it? May I see? I promise to act surprised.”

He forced himself to stay where he was and not move away, pasted on a smile he didn't feel. He should touch her, cover her hand with his,
kiss her,
but he found he could not. “That's not how Christmas works,” he murmured. “The surprise is better if it's not feigned.”

“Oh, but I'm a very good actress,” she said and stepped closer still, batting her lashes at him. Her eyes were as blue as the loch at high summer, her perfume heady and sweet. He stared down at her and realized to his horror that her eyes had closed. She was rising on her toes, her lips puckering.

He ducked.

He couldn't kiss her now. Not after kissing Alanna. Penelope nearly fell on her face as he moved out of reach, and she gripped the edge of the table to steady herself, stared at him in disbelief. He snatched up the half-­finished carving, the one Alanna had admired minutes ago, and held it out to Penelope. “This is what I'm making for Fiona. What do you think?”

Her lips were still puckered—­pinched, really, and her eyes had darkened now—­the loch before a storm. She let her gaze fall on the figurine, but she made no move to touch it.

“That's it? Well. I hope you're going to give me something more interesting. At Woodford, I have a collection of rare porcelain dogs. Wood is so—­well . . .” She let the thought trail off.

“Then what would you like for your Christmas gift?” he asked, and he could have bitten his tongue in two.

She laid a finger on her chin and raised her eyes to the rafters. “I don't know. I will inherit the Purbrick jewels when—­if—­we marry. Are there any MacGillivray jewels?”

He had his mother's wedding band, and her betrothal ring, set with an amber cairngorm in gold. It was simple, and Scottish in design. He tried to imagine slipping that ring onto Penelope's finger.

“No,” he said. “No jewels. My father wanted to buy a necklace for my mother one Christmas, went all the way to Edinburgh for it, but she chose to purchase books for the library instead. He gave her books every Christmas after that, because that's what made her happy.” He recalled in that moment that Alanna had said books had always been her favorite Christmas present as well.

Penelope recoiled, as if she feared there was insanity on his side of the family tree. “How very odd,” she managed. “I suppose all those books are at least good for Fiona, being unable to walk properly or dance, or hope for—­”

He scowled at her, and she had the grace to stop talking. She blushed. “I mean, she's very sweet, but that limp . . .”

Alanna called his sister brave, charming. She saw beyond Fiona's infirmity. Penelope hadn't even looked. He felt anger burn through his chest, checked it. Instead, he crossed to the door and opened it. “If you'll excuse me, I have things to see to,” he said firmly, waiting for her to go.

She hesitated. “Oh, but I came to ask you what you wanted for Christmas. There's a mere fortnight left before Christmas Eve.”

What did he want?
A way out
. He shut his eyes. “There's nothing I need.”

She sauntered toward him, smiling seductively. There was a long curl of planed wood clinging to the fringe of her shawl. “But what do you
want
?” she asked, her voice an octave lower.

Iain swallowed. Now was the moment—­he only had to say,
You. I want you to marry me, and be my countess
. He took a deep breath, clenched the door latch tighter, and licked his lips before speaking.

But he could still taste Alanna's kiss. He ran his hand through his hair, smelled her heather-­scented soap on his hands. He closed his mouth with a snap. Penelope tilted her head expectantly, raised her eyebrows, blinked at him, wordlessly giving him permission.

He couldn't.

“I must go,” he said and left the room, leaving Penelope standing by the table, knowing she was staring after him in disbelief. He didn't stop until he reached the stable and the quiet, undemanding presence of the horses.

P
E
N
E
L
O
P
E
S
T
A
RED AT
the doorway. What the devil was wrong with the man? “Books, instead of jewels?” she said to the empty room. “How ridiculous.” Iain would not find her so easy to please. One could not dazzle a man with a book. A book did not reflect the sparkle of diamonds and sapphires in a woman's eyes. She could not walk into a room and draw the envious stares of every person there with a
book
. If he gave her a book for Christmas, she'd use it to hit him over the head and knock some sense into him.

What
would
he give her for Christmas? She had promised to act surprised. She looked around the room. The stone walls radiated chill, and she drew her shawl tighter. Aside from the carving bench lined with knives and saws, blocks of wood and wood shavings, there was nothing to see. Penelope noticed the drawer and smiled. Of course. He'd hide his gift if he wanted it to be a surprise. Just a little look couldn't hurt, could it? It would make it easier to feign anticipation and delight if she knew. She opened the drawer, saw the little linen-­wrapped bundle.

She held her breath and unwrapped it.