Once Upon a Highland Christmas (19 page)

 

Chapter Thirty-Six

Craigleith Castle, six days before Christmas

“E
VERYONE HA
S GONE MAD!”
Penelope said to her mother. They stood at the window of the library watching children and adults alike playing in the snow. From across the hall, distant animal sounds—­cattle mooing and sheep baaing—­leaked through the door of the armory. “Can you imagine anything of this sort occurring at Woodford Park?”

“I think it looks like fun,” Elizabeth said, her nose pressed to the glass.

“Don't be ridiculous.” Penelope pinched her sharply.

Elizabeth cried out and flounced out of the room.

Marjorie gazed out at the mayhem. Everyone was laughing, throwing snow, and no one seemed to mind a bit when the snow slid down their backs or hit them square in the face. Iain was in the thick of it, beset by a gaggle of children, peasants all, and he allowed them to climb on him as if he was one of them instead of a laird and an earl. Marjorie sighed. She would need to have a word with him about propriety and the importance of keeping his distance from the lower orders. Such behavior would never do at Woodford, or any other civilized place. And it was just as bad inside the castle—­noisy children racing everywhere, women gossiping in the great hall and in the kitchen. Not a one of them had the manners to rise, or even lower their eyes, when their betters entered a room. She and Penelope could scarcely leave their room without curious looks following them, or children trailing them, asking impertinent questions. And the baking and cooking—­every female in residence seemed determined to create her particular Christmas specialty. The house smelled of spices and sugar day and night. Marjorie had to admit that was pleasant at least, and it did put one in the mood for the Christmas festivities.

How odd these ­people were. They'd lost their homes and their possessions in the fire, but they were as merry as monkeys. Perhaps they had no sense. Or perhaps it was something—­or someone—­else entirely.

“Look at her. This is
her
doing,” Penelope complained, and Marjorie followed her daughter's baleful glare to where Lady Alanna McNabb was throwing snowballs like a ploughman.

“You would think nearly freezing to death would make her more wary of the cold,” Marjorie mused, watching the girl. She also noted that Iain had scarcely taken his eyes off her. She did look fetching with her cheeks pinkened by the cold, soft tendrils of her hair loose in the wind, her eyes bright.

“I wish she—­” Penelope began, but Marjorie cut her off.

“Don't say it! It's bad luck to ill-­wish someone.”

“You sound like Auld Annie,” Penelope grumbled. “Everyone seems to think it's magic that brought her here. Why should an ill-­wish not take her away again?”

Marjorie tried to imagine Alanna McNabb as the Marchioness of Merridew, presiding over a ball, or a
ton
dinner. Oddly, she could, even now, with snow in her hair. The girl had a natural, captivating grace, a way of making ­people like her. She glanced at Penelope, her eyes narrowed on her rival, her lip stuck out mutinously, her hands claws on her skirts. It was not a favorable comparison.

“You should be concentrating on Iain, my dear, not Alanna.”

“She's been here for nearly two weeks. If she had not come, then I would be betrothed by now,” Penelope said.

“You've nothing to worry about. She's spoken for. Why would she want a mere earl when she has a marquess in hand?” Because Iain was handsome, because he was one of her own kind, Marjorie thought. But it was more than that, something deeper, beyond mere attraction. There, it was in Alanna's eyes too, as they caught and held Iain's for just an instant too long.

A snowball hit the window, and Penelope screeched like a scalded cat. Elizabeth stood among the children and laughed, her face wide with it, her own cheeks pink. She stuck her tongue out and crossed her eyes at her older sister, then grinned. For an instant, Marjorie thought her plain younger daughter looked quite lovely, very festive, and happier than she'd ever seen her. She found herself smiling.

Magic indeed. There was surely something in the air here at Craigleith, something heady and warm and wonderful, and Marjorie felt the thrill of Christmas anticipation in her breast. She hadn't felt it since she was a child. She felt as if miracles and magic were very possible. Perhaps even now, there was a way. Surely Merridew had received her letter by now and was coming to fetch his wayward bride. Iain could hardly refuse to give her up, now, could he? And that left Penelope, just as it was supposed to be.

She looked at Penelope and smiled. “Don't worry. I think we can count on everything working out just the way we hope, darling girl. Now go and change into something fetching, and when Iain comes in, be sure to smile.”

 

Chapter Thirty-Seven

P
ENELOPE WATCHED
I
AIN
come into the castle with Fiona and Alanna, surrounded by happy ­people. They looked like a family, a family she wasn't part of. Even Elizabeth was there, chattering and smiling. It made Penelope's stomach ache.

She pasted on a charming smile, caught Iain's arm in hers, and fell into step beside him.

She gave him a sultry grin, and he regarded her in surprise, but nothing remotely like love or desire kindled in his eyes. Instead, his smile dimmed. It was withering in the extreme. She smiled wider, squeezed tighter. “How kind you are to amuse the children, keep them out from underfoot,” she gushed.

“They're not in the way,” he said. ­“People here are used to having their children about. It's when they don't see them that they worry.”

“It's quite the opposite in England,” Penelope murmured, vowing that when she and Iain had children, they would be relegated to the top floor of Woodford Park with an army of nannies and governesses and kept out of sight until they were grown.

“You should have come outside, Penelope. It was such fun,” Elizabeth said, unwinding her borrowed cloak, something made of thick wool, ser­viceable but most unfashionable.

Penelope gritted her teeth, managed to keep the smile in place. Her cheeks ached. “Oh, but it's so cold, Elizabeth dear. Has the snow stopped?” she said sweetly. Elizabeth blinked at her in surprise and didn't answer.

“For the moment,” Iain replied instead. He was looking over her head at something behind her, and Penelope knew exactly what—­who—­it was. Alanna was helping the children pull off sodden woolens, directing them to hang them by the fire in the hall, but not too close. They were all smiles and sweetness with her.

“There will be biscuits later if you behave,” Penelope called, and the children merely stared at her, their eyes solemn, as if she'd threatened castor oil and toadstools instead of sweets. Penelope forced a laugh, even as impatience rose. “Why, Alanna, you are so good with children. If you weren't engaged to a marquess, you would have made an excellent nanny.”

She felt Iain's arm stiffen under her own, and she held him tight. Alanna's glow dimmed just a little, and Penelope felt a sense of triumph.

“Thank you, Penelope,” Alanna said carefully, then turned away as one of the local men, an elderly fellow with a set of bagpipes cradled in his arms, entered the room. Penelope felt a sense of dread at the sight of them. She hated the bagpipes more than she hated . . . She watched Alanna's face light up once more, as if the Prince Regent had walked in. The old man turned to a puddle of mush under her warm smile. Was there a man born Alanna McNabb could not charm? How did she manage it? Penelope was prettier, better dressed . . .

“Are you ready, m'lady?” the old piper asked, beaming.

“Good morning, Donal,” Alanna said. “How's Nessa?” Penelope bit her lip. Alanna knew the old man's name, and his wife's name too. She knew everyone's name. As if that mattered. At Woodford Park, they called all the footmen Michael, just so there was no confusion when one wanted something. Still. Penelope beamed at the man.

“Yes, how is Nessa? Is she the one I saw baking the lovely shortbread this morning? We had a lovely long chat—­”

She stopped when she realized Iain was shaking. “What?” she asked. The old man was regarding her with undisguised surprise, and Alanna was trying to suppress a grin. Iain was red with suppressed laughter.

“I'd be very interested to see that, indeed, my lady,” the old piper murmured.

“Penelope?” Iain leaned down to whisper in her ear. She sent Alanna a look of triumph until she heard what he had to say.

A pig
? She felt her face color, was sure she'd catch fire under the heat of her blush.

“Penelope, I promised to teach the women some English country dances for the Christmas Eve party,” Alanna said, her eyes as warm and kind as if they were friends, as if Penelope had not just made the mortifying mistake of suggesting she'd not only watched a pig baking shortbread but had also enjoyed a long conversation with the creature.

Penelope glanced at Iain. His expression was carefully blank as he regarded her. “Will you join us, Penelope?”

“Do come,” Alanna said. “I'm still limping, and if I try to show them the polonaise like this, or a reel, we'll all be limping come Christmas Eve.”

Elizabeth, damn her eyes, was still bent in two, laughing at Penelope's gaffe. Penelope clenched her fist. She knew every English dance, was considered an excellent dancer, and a much sought-­after partner. Still, there was a whisper making its way through the crowd, smiles forming, giggles, and knowing looks, all falling on her like wet blankets. They were laughing at her.

Penelope raised her chin. If she did not help demonstrate the steps, they would be stuck with Alanna to teach them. She smiled to herself, picturing a roomful of lopsided Scots limping through English country dances. It would serve them right.

She sent Alanna a long look. “Perhaps Elizabeth can help you—­though she's not very good at dancing.” She watched her sister's grin fade. “Still, she's had the lessons, knows some of the steps. I'm afraid I have things to do, and it's nearly time for tea.”

“As do I,” Iain said. “And I have two left feet when it comes to dancing.” He smiled at Alanna and bowed slightly. “I shall see you at dinner,” he said to Penelope, obviously waiting for her to let go of his arm, but Penelope held on, moved with him, accompanying him down the hall, hoping Alanna McNabb was watching.

“We haven't had much of a chance to talk in the past few days, Iain,” she said. He turned into the library, and a dozen pairs of eyes looked from their knitting. The conversation and the clicking of needles stopped.

“Good afternoon,” Iain said, smiling.

“Hello, Laird. You should have knocked. You'll be spoiling Christmas surprises if you're not careful, walking in on folk unannounced,” one woman said tartly.

Penelope bristled, waited for Iain to upbraid her for her presumption, but he grinned instead. “I'll leave you to it, then, Lottie.” He backed out of the room, and Penelope followed.

“Where can I escort you, Penelope?” he asked politely, looking pointedly at her clinging hand.

“Where are you going?” she asked, batting her lashes.

“To the solar. I have things to do as well. Christmas is a busy time.”

She had nothing at all to do. “Yes,” she said. She remembered the angel, lovingly carved with Alanna's face. “Can I help you with anything?” she asked. She stepped closer, looked into his eyes. “Perhaps I could simply keep you company.”

He closed his hand over her fingers, but only long enough to lift them off his arm, free himself. For an instant she considered throwing herself into his arms, pleading with him, but the flat, distant look in his eyes kept her silent. “No, but thank you, Penelope. I'll see you later.”

She watched him walk away from her, felt frustration and fury and jealousy roll through her belly. She winced as the bagpipes gave a preliminary groan from the great hall before screeching into song. She picked up her skirts and fled up the stairs. She didn't stop until she reached the sanctuary of her room. Annie had asked her to share a room with her sister, to make space for more of the villagers, but Penelope had refused. She was the Lady of Craigleith, after all—­well, almost—­and she could see no reason at all to give up the privileges of rank for ordinary folk.

She opened her wardrobe, looked at the rows of gowns hanging there. Which one would Iain like best, find most enticing to the eye and the touch? She had a blue silk she was saving for Christmas, to be worn for the formal announcement of her betrothal to Iain. There was a demure pink satin, or a flattering, form-­fitting green wool. She sighed. Did he care what she wore? He had not made one comment on her clothes, and she was used to being complimented, flirted with, and flattered. She crossed to the mirror and stared into the glass at her flawless face. He hadn't noticed that either. She paused as an idea came to her.

Perhaps he'd notice if she wore nothing at all.

T
HE EARL'S BEDROOM
was just steps down the hall from her own room. Penelope opened the door and slipped inside.

It was as grand and fine as any room at Woodford Park, but Iain's father had been an English gentleman, the son of an earl, a man raised in luxury and refinement. She ran her hand over the polished oak posts of the bed and the fine damask of the bed curtains. The Turkey rugs were thick and soft, swallowing her footsteps. She sighed with pleasure.

Now, why would any man prefer to sleep in an ordinary room when this was his legacy, his right? Iain would probably opt to sleep in the stable at Woodford Park. She frowned. It was her duty to teach him, or so her mother said, to train him and mold him to be the kind of earl her grandfather and her uncle had been, lofty and full of consequence.

She looked down at the bed. The satin coverlet was smooth and soft. It was blue, her favorite color. She imagined sharing this bed—­or the English equivalent—­with Iain, and shuddered. She would endure his attentions, breed him an heir and a spare, and retire to her own apartments and lock the connecting door. She wanted to be a countess, and she accepted that came with certain duties attached, but beyond that, well, handsome as he was, she did not love Iain. She had never been in love with anyone, and she was beginning to doubt it was even possible. Marriage was a necessity, not a pleasure, for gain, not giving. She'd been raised on that belief.

It was clear to Penelope that if she wished to be a countess, she was going to have to force the matter. She ran her hand over the coverlet one more time and smiled.