Once Upon a Highland Christmas (18 page)

 

Chapter Thirty-One

Craigleith Castle, eight days before Christmas

“G
INGERBREAD IS THE
only Christmas treat I dislike,” Alanna said to Fiona as they made up yet another bed for their guests and passed the time asking each other questions.

“Seonag makes wonderful shortbread, and her treacle cake is—­” Fiona hesitated, rolling her eyes, searching for the right words. “
O cruit mo cridh
—­the harp of my heart,” she said poetically. “ I suppose we'll need to make much more this year, since everyone will be here. And we'll still have to take handsels to the folk who live outside the village. They'll come for Christmas Eve, of course, but Iain and I usually take parcels of cheer to them a few days before Christmas.”

“We did the same at Glenlorne,” Alanna said. “My sisters and I would help Muira with the baking, then we'd pack it all up, eating as much as we packed. The cart was hitched up, and we'd sing as we rode through the village. As we visited each cottage, folks would come along, dropping in on friends and neighbors with us, and we'd all come back to the hall, and drink warmed wine and whisky, too, and make a party of it.”

“Why don't you come with us this year?” Fiona said. “I'm sure Iain wouldn't mind, and it would be—­”

Alanna lowered her eyes, concentrated on plumping a pillow. “I think Penelope should be the one to go with Iain,” she said.

Fiona's smile faded. “Oh. Of course.”

“She will be his—­” Alanna could not make her lips form the word
wife.
“—­Lady of Craigleith.”

Fiona moved on to the next cot, flicking the sheet over it with a sharp crack. “She probably won't wish to come. It's cold, and there's snow. It must be summer all year round in England—­at least it is to hear her tell it.”

Alanna forced a smile. “Then we won't have to worry about weather like this when we get there.”

Fiona bunched the sheet in her hands and stared wistfully at the white linen. “I'll miss the snow.
Is blianach Nollaid gun sneachd
. Christmas is indeed poor fare without snow.”

“Then we must enjoy it while we can. Let's go out and play in the snow with the children. Or we could slide on the ice on the loch,” Alanna suggested.

Fiona gave her a sad smile. “I've never done that. My leg, you see—­I could never keep up with the other children. I suppose it will always be so. In England I won't be able to keep up with the other young ladies, either, will stand out as a—­”

Alanna grabbed Fiona's hands. “Don't say it! I limp as badly as you do at the moment. Let's go out anyway—­we'll hold each other up. The children need to get outside before they drive everyone mad with their running around. Come on—­it will be fun.”

Fiona's fragile smile reappeared, and she nodded. “I'll get my cloak, and we'll find plaids for the wee ones.”

 

Chapter Thirty-Two

I
AIN RAN HIS
hand through his hair, dropped the pen, and rubbed his eyes. He sat in the privacy of the tower room—­one of the few places in the castle that was private and quiet now that the rest of the place was full. His rule forbidding anyone but himself to climb the treacherous stone stairs remained law.

He was looking over the accounts, wondering how he would find the money to rebuild the cotts and the barn. It looked hopeless unless there was money available once he got to England that could be diverted to assist Craigleith. As yet, he had no idea what his English estates earned, or what they required. Marjorie said there were competent stewards at each estate, and a man of affairs in London. That gentleman had been the one to write and inform Iain of his uncle's death, and his inheritance of the title.

He had managed Craigleith without outside help for a decade. He had hoped to continue, keeping his Scottish holding separate from his English lands.

A thump rattled the windowpanes, surprising him, and ink spattered across the page. Iain crossed to look outside. Lads with snowballs, no doubt, rowdy and tired of being indoors. He'd have to find tasks for them, or some kind of occupation. One more thing to manage . . .

To his surprise, it was two women who were throwing snowballs. They were surrounded by a crowd of laughing, red-­cheeked children, all looking very happily occupied indeed, and engaged in the task of pelting the women with snow. He recognized Alanna at once—­she wore her red cloak, and she had the aim of a champion stone putter.

The sight of the other woman stopped his breath in his throat. She moved less surely, but she still held her own.

Fiona.

He had not seen her play rough games—­ordinary childhood games—­since before her accident. What if she fell? He should go down, stop the mayhem, make sure she was—­

But then she turned, and he looked down into her flushed, laughing face. Iain felt a shock rush through him. Fiona did not play with other children. She did not run, or climb. Her leg made her awkward and slow. She worried she'd ruin the fun of games or races for the others if she tried to join in. She sat out willingly. He'd always allowed her to make that choice for herself, had never encouraged her to try.

He felt as if he was watching a miracle unfold. Fiona was throwing snowballs, her limp as pronounced as ever. She and Alanna linked arms and hurried across the lawn, supporting each other—­Fiona using her strong left leg, Alanna her right. The pair of them dissolved into laughter and fell time and again, but his sister's face was radiant. So was Alanna McNabb's.

He stared down at her in amazement. She'd somehow taken a disaster and made it feel like a holiday. The children would remember this day far longer than they would remember the fire. He blinked. The wind picked up her cloak and sent it flaring up and out behind her.

Like angel's wings.

A snowball caught her in the chest and she fell back, laughing, breathless. He wished he was there, basking in the joy of her company, smiling and flushed like the children who piled on top of her.

He had never met a woman like Alanna McNabb, though he'd hoped to someday. When he'd imagined the kind of woman he'd want for a wife, a partner, a lover, he'd pictured someone like her. His heart clenched in his chest. No, not someone
like
her—­
her,
Alanna.

His hand clenched on the windowsill. But it was too late.

 

Chapter Thirty-Three

Cairnforth, eight days before Christmas

F
ARLAN
F
RASER S
IPPED
his ale and looked around the inn. He was feeling pleasantly tipsy, and he'd managed to steal a kiss from Breanna McNabb, the blacksmith's daughter. He'd promised to return in the spring and ask her father for work, if his own father was willing as well, of course. For the moment he was drunk and in love, and the only task he had before he turned his steps for home was to see that the letter in his pocket was passed on.

He'd found a ferryman at the inn, and surely such a man knew everyone's business, and where they were travelling. “Can you take a letter on toward Glenlorne for me?”

The ferryman looked at the battered note in Farlan Fraser's hand and sipped his ale. “Aye. I can take it as far as the inn at Loch Ramsey. Someone there is sure to be going on to Glenlorne.”

“You have my thanks,” the lad said and raised his tankard to the ferryman.

“Letter to your sweetheart, is it?” the ferryman teased, making conversation on a cold winter's night. Farlan felt his cheeks heat, which made the old boatman's grin wider.

“Och, she's not my sweetheart. She belongs to MacGillivray of Craigleith. He went a-­reiving, and caught her in the snow. He carried her home bold as you please, slung over his shoulder, and he means to keep her. This letter is just to tell that to her kin at Glenlorne.”

“I trust the laird is satisfied with her and wants to seal the bargain, then,” the ferryman said. “She must be a beauty.”

Farlan leaned in. “I've heard she's the bonniest lass any man ever set eyes on. The laird was struck dumb the moment he set eyes on her, knew he had to have her for his own. It's all done, if you know what I mean, except telling her kin.”

The ferryman grinned. “Lucky MacGillivray,” he said. “He'll have a warm bed this winter.”

“And riches,” Farlan said, then tapped his forefinger on the letter. “The MacGillivray is writing to find out what goods the lass will bring to the match. I hear he expects cattle, land, and gold . . .”

The ferryman whistled. “All three? She must be some lass.”

“All three,” Farlan confirmed. “And I hear she's worth every coin.”

The ferryman sipped his ale and looked around at the curious faces that had drawn in to listen to the tale. “Here's to us all finding so fine a lass in the snow.”

The tankards clinked, and warmed ale ran down the chins of every man there.

 

Chapter Thirty-Four

I
AIN WAS DOWN
STAIRS
when Alanna and Fiona came inside. They leaned on each other's arms, counted their steps aloud, and walked as straight and perfect as a pair of princesses.

Fiona fell out of step when she saw him waiting, and she hurried toward him, hugged him.

“Oh Iain, we've had such fun,” she said. “Come out with us tomorrow—­Alanna says we can clear a patch on the loch and slide on the ice—­she does it all the time.”

He looked over her shoulder at Alanna, who was unwrapping her cloak, her cheeks pink, her eyes bright. His mouth watered to kiss her again. “Well, not all the time,” she said.

“I think I'll go and tell Elizabeth, see if she'll come too.” Fiona bussed her brother's cheek, her lips cold as ice, and went away humming a tune.

Iain stared at Alanna. “She hasn't played like that since she was a wee child, before the accident. It never occurred to me she might miss it. I never thought to ask her.”

She smiled. “It was just as much fun for me. I haven't thrown snowballs since my sisters and I used to do so. Alec would clear off the loch—­before he left home, of course—­and we'd pull each other around on the ice.” She looked wistful for a moment.

“Watching you play gave me an idea,” he said. “For Fiona, something that might help with her limp. A Christmas present.” Alanna's eyes widened. “I mean, I'm not saying there is anything wrong with Fiona the way she is.”

“Of course not.”

“It's just that watching the two of you walk together, I thought perhaps if Fee had a special shoe, one that added height on her weak side, then she could walk straight.”

Alanna clasped her hands. “She could even dance,” she said.

“Or walk into a room without ­people knowing that she limped,” he said.

“They won't judge her on sight,” Alanna continued. “They will want to know her, and when they see how kind, and clever, and wonderful she is, they won't care if she limps.”

“Yes,” he said.

She laid her hand on his sleeve. “It will mean the world to her.” The smile she gave him meant the world to him. God, he could get lost in the depths of her eyes.

Iain stared at her, sobering. His throat dried. He wanted to kiss her. She must have read the emotion in his eyes. She blushed and stepped away, busying herself with folding her cloak in quick, nervous motions.

“How will you do it?” she asked. “I mean, it will be an easy thing to add a wedge to her boots. But dancing slippers are thin, delicate things.”

“I—­” His brain had stopped working for the moment, and he couldn't think of anything but Alanna. She stood waiting for an answer, an intelligent response. “Thank you,” he said instead. “For being kind to Fiona.”

“Oh, but that's an easy thing to do,” she said. She moved to pass him, but he caught her arm.

“Still,” he said. He could smell her soap, and the scent of wind in her hair, see the colors in her eyes—­copper, silver, and bronze. His mouth watered, and he leaned in, heard the soft gasp she gave, half anticipation, half fear, perhaps. His lips met hers, soft and cool, and he restricted himself to just that, a single, chaste peck. “Thank you,” he said again, and forced himself to let her go.

She smiled up at him, looking at him as if he could move mountains. A peck wasn't enough. He swore softly under his breath and pulled her close, pressing her into his arms, determined to kiss her properly.

But just as their lips were about to meet, there was a sudden crash, and two children raced between their knees, chasing a cat.

“Where'd that cat come from?” Iain asked. Alanna laughed and stepped back, and the spell was broken.

 

Chapter Thirty-Five

Glenlorne Castle, seven days before Christmas

A
LEC
M
C
N
ABB
,
E
ARL
of Glenlorne and Chief of Clan McNabb, watched his wife packing handsels for the villagers.

Caroline never failed to take his breath away when he saw her, and now her red hair glowed in the firelight as she taught Muira and the undercooks how to make English Christmas treats. Muira had been certain that no self-­respecting Scot would appreciate lemon tarts and almond biscuits, but she'd been proven wrong. The scent of almonds still hung in the kitchen, and Alec leaned forward to snatch one of the still-­warm cookies from the plate, putting one arm around his wife's swelling belly. “Do you think everyone will like them?” she asked anxiously.

“Aye,” he said, and swooped in to kiss her.

“I know it will be a different Christmas without your sisters here,” she said. “Muira has given me a list of Glenlorne traditions. I'm to learn to make a proper black bun. She declared my first attempt as too English. What do you suppose that means?”

“Too much brandy,” Muira said, passing by to collect cookies for the next handsel.

Alec grinned. “I've not had black bun for years, not since I left for England.”

“Thank heaven—­then you won't be able to tell if it's not quite right.”

Muira sent him a sharp look, and Alec laughed. “One never forgets Muira's black bun.” “Oh,” Caroline said, her face falling.

“Not to worry. You could take the villagers lumps of coal and stale bannock and they'd still be pleased to see you on the doorstep.” He laid his hand on her belly. “Especially now.”

She put her hand over his. “I've heard a dozen tales about the night you were born, Alec—­all about the number of stars in the sky, or the dreadful rainstorm, or the hot noonday sun.”

“Muira will know the true tale. She was there.”

“Then I shall ask her. Now help me wrap the rest of these biscuits,” Caroline said. “I thought we could send a basket to Dundrummie.”

Alec sobered. “I think Alanna and Sorcha would like that very much.”

“I wish they were here.”

Muira came in bearing a bundle of herbs, adding it to the small bowl on the table. “Meadowsweet, for adding to the Christmas bowl to make folk merry,” she said. She sniffed the air.

“Almonds?” Alec guessed, identifying the odor, but Muira shook her head.

“Nay—­visitors,” she said. “Coming with news.”

Caroline smiled. “You're remarkable, Muira. Is it good news?”

Muira cocked her head like a bird. “It's not good, and it's not bad. We will have to wait and see. I'll put the kettle on to heat.”