Read Once Upon a Highland Summer Online
Authors: Lecia Cornwall
Once Upon a Highland Summer (19 page)
“Gentlemen, there is a lady present,” Alec said.
They both bowed, looking contrite, tucking their swords behind their backs. “Of course—your pardon, Lady Caroline,” Speed said. “I cannot stop thinking of you as—deceased.”
Mandeville bowed as well, and strode toward the door. “Please excuse us, we must go forth and woo our bride,” Mandeville said, sidling carefully past Caroline to the door. “It has been most pleasant to see you looking so well, my lady. MacNabb, keep a watch for that blackguard Glenlorne.”
Alec watched them go and turned to her. “I can explain—” Caroline began, but he looked dubious.
“How two gentlemen—three, actually— can possibly marry the same woman?”
“Well, no, I can’t explain that,” she said. “They were supposed to marry me,” Caroline murmured, and took the dirk out of her sleeve. She laid it on the table. Alec stared at the weapon.
“Both of them?”
“Whichever one I chose,” she said. She almost laughed. “But it doesn’t matter now.”
“I see.” He crossed to her side and picked up the dirk, examining the places where the gems had been pried out. His mouth tightened. “I trust the possibility of marrying either one is why you ran all the way to Scotland and took the lowly post of governess?”
He was so close that Caroline could smell his skin, feel the heat of his body beside hers. She lowered her eyes.
“Which one would you have chosen?” he asked softly, and she shuddered, imagining Speed’s bony fingers on her flesh, or Mandeville’s weight upon her in bed. She tried to stifle her revulsion, but he laughed softly.
“So now we have the truth, I suppose. You ran away. Apparently you’ve been forgotten, and Sophie is the new prize.”
Caroline felt a flare of anger. Did he think she wasn’t even good enough for Speed or Mandeville? Or him?
“It appears you’re not the only one who wishes to wed a fortune, my lord,” she said sharply. “Does it matter what Sophie wants, or if she is happy? Do you have any more regard for her than Speed or Mandeville do, or is it just her huge dowry you fancy? I suppose a fortune as vast as Lord Bray’s goes a long way to making a lady lovable.”
His cheeks colored at the insult, but his eyes hardened. “Jealous?”
She looked down at her fingertips. She shut her eyes, stemming the sharp, sudden bite of tears as she imagined Alec in Sophie’s arms, doing to her what he’d done to Caroline in the tower, making
her
feel loved and lovely for the first time. It was almost unbearable.
“Of course not.”
“You are not a governess, Caroline,” he said.
She stiffened. Then what was she? Nothing to anyone. “I beg to differ,” she said.
“You could have married one of those gentlemen, yet you ran away. Do you love someone else?” he asked.
She bristled. “Do you imagine that one night with you, and I am—” She clamped her lips shut on the admission.
He put a hand under her chin, raised her eyes to his, mere inches away. “You are what?” His voice was husky, soft, whisky-potent.
She pulled away. “Infatuated! I am not, I assure you. I was given a choice of suitors, and I made my own decision in the matter. I am, my lord, indeed a governess—that was my choice.”
He groaned. “What of my choice?” he said, and she wondered what he meant. “You can’t stay here, Caroline.”
Caroline folded her arms over her chest. “Why not? Am I not performing my duties satisfactorily?”
“It’s not that, it’s—” His eyes moved over her like a touch, and she read desire in his eyes, frustration. “Go home, Caroline, back to Somerson. Find a man you can marry.”
The weight of her plight fell over her like a pall. It was too late for that. She considered her options, and saw none. “If you’ll excuse me, I have lessons to see to.” Before the tears of frustration could fall, she fled.
A
lec watched her go, and slammed his fist into the solid oak table. Another mistake—this one worse than dropping a damned letter. This time, it was personal. He’d involved Caroline, an innocent—or at least she had been until he got hold of her. He doubted even Mandeville or Speed would have her now. Or Somerson. He should do the right thing and marry her himself, but that would be another mistake. He’d consign her to a life of poverty by his side, destroy his clan, his sisters. She’d grow to hate him.
He shut his eyes. He’d almost believed he could be Laird of Glenlorne, be able to lead his people the way his grandfather had, bring them from misery and poverty back to prosperity if he had Sophie—Caroline—by his side. But he wasn’t a hero, or a leader. He was a fool.
Caroline had to go, for both their sakes. If she stayed, he could imagine the temptation to touch her again, to make love to her. He was hard as a pole just thinking about it.
And Sophie? He’d do his duty, do his best to be a good husband and spend her money wisely, but she didn’t fire his blood like Caroline Forrester did. Was there even a chance he could make his marriage work if Caroline stayed at Glenlorne?
He imagined speaking his vows to Sophie, knowing Caroline was standing in the chapel, remembering the night in the tower. And what of his wedding night, blowing out the candle and climbing into the laird’s bed, thinking of Caroline, not Sophie? How long would it take desire to die?
He headed for the study, seeing it now through Sophie’s eyes, a shabby, threadbare little room, and crossed to the desk. He took out a sheet of paper and sat down to compose a letter.
Caroline Forrester had to go.
D
evorguilla watched Brodie MacNabb over the tea table in her private sitting room. He hunched awkwardly on a dainty side chair, his big frame overfilling it, making it creak under his muscles. The delicate teacup in his meaty hand looked equally out of place, and he slurped when he sipped, regarding her with bright, witless blue eyes over the rim, and she smiled. He was perfect. Not as a man. As a pawn.
“She’s the prettiest lass I’ve ever seen,” he said through a mouthful of cake.
“Megan?” she asked, though she knew he meant someone else.
“Lady Sophie,” Brodie said, spraying crumbs.
“She’s to marry Alec. She’ll be the new Countess of Glenlorne,” Devorguilla said blandly. She watched the color rise over Brodie’s ruddy complexion, saw jealousy narrow his eyes. He looked like an ox, brainless and dull, but ready to charge. She had thought to wed him to Megan, to sacrifice her daughter to get what she herself wanted. Brodie hadn’t the sense to run an estate. He’d allow Devorguilla to do it, put his rights in her name, just the way she’d tricked Alec’s father into doing. All her life Devorguilla had controlled men using her beauty, the lure of her body, but she was too old now to tempt Brodie. She still had ambition, wits, and an all-consuming desire to be wealthy. She’d lived in poverty long enough. All over the Highlands, lords—and ladies too—were using their land to make them rich. All it took was boldness. She’d hoped Alec was dead, that her chance had come. Even so, she hadn’t been surprised when he returned. Disappointed, yes, but not surprised. It simply meant her plans had to change. She had no idea how he’d managed to catch an heiress like Bray’s daughter, but she knew she’d not see a cent of the chit’s dowry. He’d turn her out as soon as the vows were spoken, and waste the funds on building cottages for the hordes of useless and hungry mouths that inhabited MacNabb territory. To her, it was simple—why buy bread for peasants when you could buy a woolen mill, and make room for it by setting a torch to the miserable hovels people inhabited, living four or five to a bed, with more constantly being born the minute one wed, and moved into the cottage next door to breed yet more starving bairns?
It would be a kindness to expel them, make them go elsewhere, to beg someone else for their sustenance. She’d keep a few folk to work the new mill, tend the new flocks. She wasn’t heartless. They could sleep under the machines, or in the barns. And she could live the life she deserved, buy a grand house in Edinburgh, or even England, and have servants to tend her every whim. Sophie Ellison’s dowry would go a long way toward making that happen, but only if it wasn’t wasted on the futile task of restoring the clan. The clan was all but finished, dead.
She was a smart woman—smarter by far than most men she knew. She had managed her husband for years, and had gotten rid of him when he ceased to cooperate, refusing to sign any more of the papers she put in front of him while he was drunk.
If Alec were as dead as his father, and Brodie was laird, she could control everything once again. A simple accident was all it would take, and the clan would be calling Brodie laird. It made her teeth ache to hear Alec called by the title. He’d been the one to warn his father about her. At first Dougal hadn’t believed him. She’d told him Alec was lying, and convinced him to send his son away. It took some time, but Dougal finally understood what he’d done. He was too stubborn to bring his son home, but he never trusted Devorguilla again. She’d suffered for her mistake, but now she would see to it that she got rid of Alec for good, and never suffered again.
“Have another slice of cake,” she said to Brodie. He held out his plate eagerly. “Now, how would you like to be Earl of Glenlorne?” she asked.
His brow furrowed. “But Alec is the earl,” he said.
“But you’re still his heir, until he gets a son on Lady Sophie.”
She watched Brodie imagine the getting of that son, saw him shift, his eyes hardening, his fist tightening on the delicate teacup. She took it from his hand before it shattered. “Of course, if you were earl, you could marry her.”
His eyes brightened, but faded again as he shook his head. “My father sent me so Alec could teach me some sense, or so he said. I don’t know how to rule over a place like Glenlorne.”
Devorguilla smiled. “I do, Brodie. I do. I can help you, and if you were earl, you could marry Sophie too.”
“Aye?” His eyes widened like a child’s. Perfect. She patted his knee.
“Aye.”
“L
ady Sophie, may we speak privately?”
Alec had found her standing on the terrace that ran the length of the back of the castle, staring down across the loch. She turned and smiled at him, her long teeth glinting in the sun. Her blond hair shone as well, Alec thought, choosing to notice that instead. Her fashionable walking gown seemed out of place here, especially with a fur muff, cashmere shawl, and fur-lined gloves in the height of summer. She looked cold, yet to him, the day was warm.
“Of course, Lord Glenlorne,” she said. “I was just looking over the estate. This lake is a touch big, don’t you think? If that half of it were filled in, then there would be space for a rose garden, or even a maze. We might consider putting a folly on the island just there. It would make the view so much more interesting.”
Fill in the lake?
Alec blinked. He’d followed Sophie outside to formally propose to her. He’d grown tired of Mr. Parfitt chasing him through the castle with a pen in one hand and a formal betrothal contract in the other. He’d promised the man he’d propose today, and had signed where Mr. Parfitt indicated.
Once he’d proposed, he could forget Caroline, concentrate on planning a future with Sophie. He felt a twinge of guilt. If he met Sophie in London, at a ball, he probably would not even ask her to dance, never mind consider marrying her, her fortune notwithstanding. But this wasn’t London, it was Glenlorne, and without her money . . . He let his eyes roam over the hills, the loch, the village.
He remembered the hope and joy on the faces of the clansmen who’d welcomed him home. They thought he could make everything right again, work a miracle.
He looked at Sophie again, at her bland face, her slightly protruding blue eyes, and hoped they were right. This time, he wouldn’t fail, he vowed, and turned back to Sophie with determination, since he felt nothing else. Perhaps in time they would grow to love—or at least like—each other.
“And the folly there, on the hill—it’s rather gloomy, isn’t it?” Sophie simply carried on discussing the landscape, hardly noticing he hadn’t said a word, or even nodded. He realized she was pointing to the old tower. “It really should have been built in a more pleasant spot, where ladies can stroll, and gentlemen might propo—” She folded her hands in her lap demurely. “I’m sure Glenlorne offers many pleasant vistas to be enjoyed. Will you show me one of them?”
Alec looked around at the hills, dotted with purple heather and white sheep, at the cloud-cast shadows that moved over the long grass, chasing the wind as it swept down the long slopes, at the way the loch shone in the sun, deep and black with ancient secrets. He took a deep breath of fresh Highland air, and his heart sang, and he wondered what better view there could possibly be.
Still, he offered his arm, and Sophie laid her gloved hand on his sleeve, and he set off toward the loch. Perhaps looking back up the hill at Glenlorne Castle, set against the majesty of the mountain peaks, would please her.
“What a steep slope this is!” she said after a moment, and Alec glanced back at the gentle hill they’d descended. They hadn’t gone more than twenty paces from the terrace. “It needs steps, something in a Palladian style, with a Greek temple halfway down so one might rest and contemplate the improvements one could make,” she continued.
“Do you wish to sit here? It is not a Greek temple, but I have often found it a good place for contemplation.” He indicated the long, soft grass of the hillside.
Her blue eyes widened as she looked around, then she laughed. “How silly you are, my lord! There isn’t a bench!”