Once Upon a Highland Christmas (6 page)

Alanna knew all about lessons in English manners, language and customs, and felt sympathy for the laird. Was it worse if one was a man? Her own mother had decided long ago that her daughters would marry English lords. She had raised them to make their debuts in London, had hired English tutors, governesses, maids, and even an English butler. When Alanna married the Marquess of Merridew and took her place as an English Marchioness, every aspect of her Scottishness would be hidden or banished. Even the lilt of Alanna's accent would be crushed after many hours of correction. Well, almost crushed. They could never entirely take the Highlands out of
her
either.

She tried to imagine Iain MacGillivray walking into an English drawing room, tall and redheaded, broad-­shouldered and tanned, his plaid across his shoulders, his hair windblown. No, Seonag was right—­no one would mistake Craigleith's laird for an Englishman. He was as different from an Englishman as eagles were from blackbirds. At least the Englishmen Alanna had met.

“Then I should perhaps pay my respects to Lady MacGillivray,” Alanna said.

“My mother has been dead for many years,” Fiona said, misunderstanding.

“She means Iain's wife, I believe,” Annie corrected her, and Fiona blushed.

“Oh! He isn't married. There isn't a Lady MacGillivray,” Fiona said.

“Yet,” Annie muttered under her breath, and Fiona hid a frown.

Alanna didn't ask what that might mean. She watched as Annie bound her leg in strips of clean linen, sat back, and wiped her hands on her apron. “There now. You'll need a bit of quiet and a long sleep. I'll go get Iain, have him carry you upstairs. Sit for the moment, and finish the draught I gave you. Fiona will keep you company.”

Alanna felt her face flame. “I don't wish to trouble Ia—­the laird,” she said. He wasn't just her rescuer anymore—­he was the master of this place, a man with responsibilities, and better things to do. She began to rise. She hadn't realized she was so tired, or that her knee was so very sore. The room dissolved, and Annie set a hand on her shoulder and pressed her back into her seat.

“Iain won't be troubled in the least. I've seen him lift heifers heavier than you, carry them a mile across rough pasture. 'Tis best if you rest. Wee Janet, go and get the warming pan, and take it up to the green bedchamber.”

Fiona's eyes widened. “The green chamber? But that's—­”

“Whisht!” Annie said, snapping her fingers. Silence fell, as if by magic. “Go on now.” Wee Janet went at once.

Alanna stared into her cup. It was the herbs—­and the whisky—­that had made her sleepy and weak, made her mind move more slowly than usual, made her content to sit and drowse by the fire. She stared at the grayish bits of herbs that swam in drunken circles in the whisky, let them draw her into the brew. Perhaps it
was
a magic potion, something to make her forget Merridew, and dull duty, and her mother's lofty ambitions. She put the cup to her lips and drank it to the dregs, wishing she could sleep until spring, wake at home in her own bed at Glenlorne, with the marquess long gone. She looked into the empty cup. She could see his face—­Iain's, not Merridew's. It was a very nice face. She rubbed her eyes and sighed. She looked up to find Annie watching her with a keen expression.

She felt the thump of her heart against her ribs, the whoosh of light-­headedness and heat that swept through her.

“Are you all right?” Fiona asked from far away.

Alanna grinned at her. “Oh yes, thank you, I'm very well,” she said, as she'd been taught—­polite, ladylike, and gracious. To her ears, she sounded like she was speaking from the bottom of a very deep well. She grinned, resisted the urge to laugh out loud. There would be no wedding today. She had a reprieve, even if it was only a short one.

She sobered. She would take a brief nap, she decided, and then she would ask for pen and paper, or borrow a cart and horse, or even a garron. Would she go to Dundrummie or Glenlorne? One was west, one north. She shut her eyes.

Dundrummie was much closer, and she
had
promised. Her mother would surely be beside herself by now, especially after what had happened with Megan. She could not elope, or handfast with a handsome stranger, as her sister had done, or fall in love. Lord Merridew was waiting for her at Dundrummie, and she must honor her pledge to marry a man she did not love.

 

Chapter Seven

I
AIN PICKED UP
the garron's shaggy hoof and began to pick out the compacted snow. As he did, he considered the problem of Alanna McNabb—­for she certainly was a problem. He tried to free his mind from the image of her sitting in the cott, her dark hair a seductive tumble around her face, naked except for his plaid, her lips parted, her eyes wide at the sight of him, as naked as she was.

He shook his head and concentrated on the garron's hoof. No, he hadn't looked under the plaid, but he had hands, and legs, and—­ He picked up the next hoof.

He'd done what was necessary, nothing more. Any man would have done the same. She could have died otherwise.

But she'd lived, and she was sitting in his kitchen, being tended by Annie and his sister, late for her wedding.

Her wedding. Iain frowned. She said she hadn't been running away. Still, she'd chosen to take a twelve-­mile stroll in a blizzard on the eve of her wedding. It didn't make sense.

Perhaps there had been a lover's quarrel, but what man wouldn't come after a woman like Alanna McNabb?

“It's none of my concern who she chooses to marry,” he said aloud, and the garron cast a curious glance at him. He picked up the next hoof and wondered what Alanna would tell her betrothed about the events of last night, and if the man would understand. If it were him, he would not want to share a woman like Alanna, not even for so innocent a reason.

“She was not running away,” he murmured, and the garron looked at him again. “Or so she said.”

In other circumstances, if she'd stayed put at Dundrummie, tonight would have been her wedding night, and she would have been tangled under the covers with her husband, and for a far more pleasant purpose. He found he didn't like the idea at all. He felt an instant of . . . what? Possessiveness? Jealousy? It wasn't his right—­Alanna McNabb did not belong to him.

As soon as the weather allowed—­tomorrow, perhaps—­he and the faithful garron now leaning his heavy foot on Iain's knee would make the journey to Dundrummie Castle to inform her anxious bridegroom that Alanna was safe, unharmed, and awaiting him at Craigleith. She would not be able to travel comfortably for a few days, and it was better that she remained here.
Would
the man understand that Iain had only done what was necessary? Would
he
?

“Not for a moment,” he told the garron, shaking his head.

Then there was the problem of Penelope. He had intended to propose to her last night, and instead . . . it had been a reprieve, nothing more. He would have to ask her, and he knew it must be soon. “Duty,” he muttered. How he hated the word. And it was a terrible reason to marry someone. Penelope deserved better than that, surely.

“Who are you talking to?”

Iain looked up to find his cousin Penelope leaning over the edge of the stall, watching him. He hadn't heard her come in. They would be betrothed now, this minute, if the storm had not kept him away. He could ask her now, of course. He looked at her expectant face and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“Just the garron,” he said, moving on to the last hoof.

“
Horse,
” she corrected him. “In England we say ‘horse,' not ‘garron'—­and English earls don't muck out their own stables. As Earl of Purbrick, you'll have servants for that at Woodford Park.”

Purbrick
. Iain made a face she couldn't see. He couldn't even say the word Purbrick properly, remembered how his English cousins had mocked his pronunciation of the word when he'd visited Woodford Park as a boy, had beaten him for his Scottishness. His mouth twisted. That was long before he—­or they—­ever thought he'd inherit the damned earldom. No man would dare to try to beat him now—­not physically, anyway. They could still mock him, though he hardly cared for his own sake. Fiona, though—­gentle, shy, crippled Fiona—­would feel every slight, every insult. He'd need to be vigilant and protective, shield her from hurt.

“I don't mind working,” he said to Penelope. “What can I do for you?” It wasn't like his highborn cousin to venture out of doors on a cold day. To his knowledge, she hadn't left the castle since her arrival nearly three weeks earlier, not even for a stroll in the garden.
She'd
never get lost in a blinding snowstorm . . .

“Nothing really.” She pulled her cloak around her throat. “It's cold,” she said. “Is it always so cold in Scotland?”

He couldn't resist a grin, which he hid by turning to look for a brush. “No, sometimes it's rainy, or windy, or dark. The summers are lovely, though.” He applied the stiff bristles to the garron's coat, ran his hand over the creature's supple muscles.

She came around the edge of the stall, stood closer to him. He could smell her perfume, even over the darker odors of the stable. “Well, maybe they are, but we won't be here then. You'll have to get used to English summers—­boating on the river, picnics, strawberries . . . Do you like strawberries, Iain?”

He met her eyes, as blue and sultry as the summer sky in any country. Alanna's eyes held all the colors of the Highland landscape. Strawberries—­he forced his mind back to the topic at hand. “Doesn't everyone like strawberries? We grow them here too.”

“Oh, I doubt they're as sweet as English berries!” She edged closer still, put her hand on his arm. He glanced at her. She was wide-­eyed, her lips parted, inviting a kiss—­or a marriage proposal. He felt his stomach knot. She was waiting for him to speak, and all he had to do was say the words. She would agree. She'd been told she must.

He looked away instead.

“You'd best be going back indoors, where it's warm—­there will be more snow before long,” he said.

Her brow crumpled. “My boots will be ruined! They're handmade!”

“Fine as they are, they're hardly fit for the snow or the stable,” he said as he caught her arm, guided her away from a pile of manure she was about to back into, and let go. He felt nothing when he touched her—­no desire, no longing, and certainly not love. “Perhaps Annie could find you some sturdier footwear, and you could save those boots for England. You need a warmer cloak too.”

She ran a gloved hand over the fine blue wool of her stylish garment, lavishly embroidered around hem and hood with twining pink roses. It was more a costume than protection from any kind of weather worse than a light English mist. “Don't you like this cloak? Mama says the color matches my eyes exactly. Do you agree?” She leaned toward him, her eyes wide, her face inches from his own, and licked her lips.

Iain stared into the blue pools, and she stared back at him. She was waiting for him to kiss her. He didn't want to. He
should
want to. His aunt Marjorie was right—­Penelope would make the perfect countess. She was born to the role, and he was not. Perhaps if he did kiss her, he'd feel differently. He swallowed and began to lean in, but the door opened and a blast of cold air swept snow into the warmth of the stable. Penelope spun, and Iain stepped back.

“I hope I didn't interrupt anything,” Annie said, glancing at Penelope, who retreated to lean against the wall, her arms folded over her thin cloak, her blue eyes full of ice. Iain felt relieved by the interruption. He looked at Annie expectantly.

“I just came to tell you that the lass will do well enough, Iain. She needs rest, of course, but there's nothing broken. She'll stay here with us for a few days to mend. Will you come and carry her upstairs?”

Iain immediately dropped the brush and wiped his hands.

“What lass? Carry her where?” Penelope demanded.

“Och, did you not think to mention our guest, Iain?” Annie scolded him. “The laird found a lass lost in the snow. Forced to take shelter in a humble cott for the night, they were, all alone.”

Penelope's face reddened dangerously, and her jaw dropped. Her eyes swung on Iain, hit him like an arrow.

“Annie,” Iain warned.

Annie merely grinned and held out his handkerchief. “Here's your handkerchief back.” He stuffed it into his pocket as she turned back to Penelope. “Her poor leg was all cut and bashed. Iain bandaged her up with his own linen, just here—­” She indicated a place higher on her thigh than the wound had been, and he watched Penelope turn a deep shade of plum.

His cousin tossed her head. “It was some silly child, no doubt. Is that not what a ‘lass' is in Scotland?”

Annie cackled. “Och, she's no child. She's a woman grown, and a beauty. She'll not be walking for a day or two, so Iain will need to carry her. Not that it will be any hardship. She's as light as a snowflake by the looks of her. Is she, Iain?”

He didn't answer. Penelope's blue eyes boiled. Iain had no doubt she was warmer now. “Can she not walk on her own? What room is she in?” his cousin demanded.

“The only one suitable for an earl's sister—­the green chamber,” Annie said.

Iain's heart lurched. That was his room. Alanna would fill his bed . . . he forced himself to concentrate.

“An earl's sister?” he asked.

“Aye, did she not tell you? Her brother is McNabb of Glenlorne,” Annie said.

“Who's he?” Penelope demanded, looking from Iain to Annie and back again.

“We didn't talk much,” Iain admitted.
An earl's sister
?

Penelope gaped at him, her blue eyes like saucers. “You didn't talk much? All night? Then just what did you do?”

Iain pushed past her and opened the door. “Just what was necessary,” he growled, and headed out into the cold wind. The snow had started again, and so had the trouble. He'd have a word with Annie later, once he'd settled Alanna—­
Lady
Alanna—­in his bed. He frowned into the gale. Not his bed—­her bed. For now. He'd sleep in the old tower, alone.

He stalked into the kitchen and heard a trill of laughter. Sandy was seated near the fireplace with Alanna, his old eyes besotted, his smile fey as a lad's as he gazed at her. The light caught Alanna's dark hair, limned it like a halo, brought out streaks of copper in the glorious tangled length of it. Iain's breath caught in his throat, and his footsteps faltered in the doorway. Penelope crashed into his back.

Alanna glanced up at him. Her smile faded, and a blush rose over her cheeks at the sight of him. It made something turn in his chest, and he swallowed.

Sandy glanced up as well, but his grin only grew broader. He got to his feet. “I was just having a wee word with the lass.” He stuck his thumbs in his belt and puffed out his chest. “Since I'm Craigleith's gamekeeper, I wondered what she'd like me to fetch in for her supper—­a nice grouse, perhaps, or a coney for a pie, I thought.”

Annie folded back her snow-­covered arisaid. “You haven't been the gamekeeper for nigh on ten years, Sandy. You can't see to aim the gun. You'd better get Logan to ask her.”

Sandy looked crushed. “I taught that boy everything I know, and I can still set a snare good as I ever could, woman.”

Annie quirked an eyebrow. “Logan may be your son, but he's a man grown with four bairns of his own, not a boy—­and nor are you, old man. What the lass needs is a good nourishing broth. Go and see if you can snare a chicken in the henhouse,” Annie ordered, and the old gamekeeper stalked out of the room, grumbling.

“Good day,” Penelope said, slipping past Iain to stand in front of him. She took Alanna's measure with a sweeping glance. “Allow me to welcome you to Craigleith. I'm Lady Penelope Curry.”

Alanna smiled and held out her hand. “I'm Lady Alanna McNabb,” she said in perfect English. “Please forgive me for not getting up and making my curtsy.”

Ian couldn't take his eyes off her. She was an earl's sister who spoke perfect English, and obviously understood English manners. What else didn't he know about her?
Everything.

“You can curtsy all you like later on, once you've had some sleep. Iain?” Annie said, and Iain stepped past Penelope to gently lift Alanna off the bench. She did weigh less than a snowflake. She put her arm around his neck, though under Penelope's eyes she was stiff, her cheeks rose pink. Better than chalk-­white, he thought. She was warm now, smelled of herbs and whisky, and the faint scent of his soap clung to her as well, no doubt carried to her from his plaid. It was like a stamp of ownership. Alanna looked up and colored like a sunset when their eyes met. Her mouth lay inches from his own—­such lush, perfect lips. Now this was a woman he wanted to kiss . . . he glanced at Penelope, saw the simmering speculation in her eyes, the tightness of her jaw.

He turned and headed down the kitchen corridor, and out through the great hall toward the staircase. His footsteps rang on the stone floor, and Penelope's lighter footsteps were clipped and sharp. Annie rushed ahead, offering a kind of tour as he strode through the dining room and along the hall, babbling the history of Craigleith and the Clan MacGillivray in Gaelic.

Iain wasn't listening. He was aware of Alanna in his arms, and of Penelope following. His cousin's eyes were fixed between his shoulder blades like a spike. He felt a moment's irritation. He'd given her no reason to be jealous, and they were not betrothed yet. He was doing what was necessary, and nothing more. Still, he felt a twinge of guilt that he was enjoying it so much, the feeling of Alanna in his arms, the scent of her skin. She was listening to Annie, her eyes drinking in his home, and he followed her gaze, saw it as she did. Craigleith had stood for some four hundred years. When his English father had married his Scottish mother, he had added a new wing. On one side of the hallway, the walls were old stone, hung with dirks and targes and Lochaber axes. There were doors that led to the old armory and knight's quarters, and stairs that led upward to the tower and the solar. On the opposite side of the hall, the walls were paneled in polished oak. Doors led to a very English library, a small salon, and a grand dining room fit for an English king, should one ever dare to venture so far north again and was of a mind to drop in for supper at Craigleith.