Once Upon a Highland Summer (35 page)

“It was my grandmother’s ring, Alec. I gave it to a kind man who offered me money and advice when I was alone and afraid. It was you?”

They stared at each other so long, and with such love that Mr. Parfitt was obliged to clear his throat. “If we might continue?”

A cheer rang from the rafters as the laird slid the ruby onto his bride’s finger. Even Mr. Parfitt wiped a tear from his eye, and he wished them well and meant it as he shook the laird’s hand—once Alec MacNabb had kissed his bride, of course.

T
he wedding party followed at once, held outside on the hillside, and every household in the village brought their own version of homemade wedding ale to toast the happy couple. The pipes came out and played merrily until sunset, and beyond. The bride danced with every happy clansman, the groom took a turn with the blushing maids and matrons, and kissed every baby in the village to ensure his own fertility while his glowing bride blushed.

Lottie sat with Alec’s sisters and enjoyed the glow of her aunt’s happiness, and envied her just a little. Caroline’s adventure had ended just as it should have—she belonged here in Scotland, at Glenlorne, by Alec MacNabb’s side.

“I always knew Caroline fancied Alec.” Megan sighed as she watched them give in to the encouragement of the crowd and kiss each other. The ruby ring glittered in the firelight.

“Caroline and Alec? I never saw any sign of it,” said Alanna.

“She did rescue him when he was shot,” Sorcha said.

“Nonsense! We’d have done the same if we’d been there!” Alanna said.

“I’ve seen him look at her too, the way Sorcha looks at cake,” Megan said.

“Cake?” Alanna said.

“As if she’s sweet and delicious and he’s dying to devour her.” Megan sighed.

“I think I know what you mean,” Lottie said. “Like he’s looking at her now.”

“Aye, like that,” Megan replied. “I shan’t marry until someone looks at me like that.”

“We shan’t marry at all without Sophie’s fortune.” Alanna sighed. “She promised to take me to London for the Season. I suppose we’re still penniless!”

Lottie frowned. “Penniless? Caroline’s fortune is at least as big as Sophie’s.”

Megan and Alanna stared at her. “Truly. My mother was horrified, of course, but it’s quite true. Did Muira ever tell you the old tale of the English lass and the son of the Laird of Glenlorne? My grandmother—and Caroline’s— told me the story once.”

The girls shook their heads, and Lottie smiled and began. “It was Midsummer, and the weather was perfect for falling in love . . .”

E
PILOGUE

“H
ow do we know if the curse has ended?” Angus asked from the shadows.

Georgiana wiped away a tear. “Of course it has—look at them!” They watched as Caroline threw her head back and laughed as Alec spun her across the grass, through the steps of a reel. She’d cast off her shoes, loosened her hair, and was as fey and bonnie as any village lass. Alec looked at his bride with such love that Georgiana’s chest hurt.

“You used to look at me like that, my love,” she said with a sigh that made a nearby torch gutter.

“I still do,
gràdhach
. I never stopped loving you, never will,” Angus said.

“Then why are we still here?” Georgiana asked. A young couple raced past them and bumped into Georgiana.

“Oh, your pardon. I didn’t see you there,” the girl said politely, and they ran on.

Georgiana turned to Angus. He was staring at the departing pair in surprise. “Did you see that?”

“Did you feel that?” Angus asked.

“Gràdhach—
” he began, and tried to float toward her. He stumbled on a tuft of gorse, and his bonnet fell over his eyes. He righted himself and looked down at his feet, saw his boots solid and sharp, crushing a wildflower. He looked at Georgiana again, and she saw the pain in his eyes, the hope. He reached out his hand toward her cheek, and she shut her eyes and waited. His touch was as warm and real as she remembered. She pressed her cheek into his palm, put her hand on his chest, felt him solid under her fingers, the breath and blood singing under the warm wool of his plaid. She could smell the flowers too, feel the gentle night breeze on her skin. They stared into each other’s eyes, saw each other the way they’d been the last night they’d met, years ago, a life and death ago. He smiled as he drew a breath of real air, then threw back his head and laughed.

He took her hand in his, kissed it, and she squeezed back. “I’d say the curse is over indeed,” she said.

Angus smiled at her. “Come on,” he said. “It’s time to go.”

Hand in hand, they walked through the heather, up the glen to the tower, until the shadows swallowed them.

Read on for a sneak peek at the next fabulous romance from Lecia Cornwall!

W
HAT
A
L
ADY
M
OST
D
ESIRES

C
HAPTER
O
NE

The Duchess of Richmond’s Ball, Brussels, June 15, 1815

H
e was the only man who had the power to stop her breath just by walking into a room.

Even now, when she hadn’t seen him for over a year, the same dizzy sensation stopped her dead in her tracks on the grand staircase that led to the ballroom.

It wasn’t that he was the handsomest man here. There were over a hundred other officers present, from five different armies, all equally resplendent in their dress tunics. At least half of those had fair hair that shone just as brightly as his did under the light of the inestimable number of candles that lit the duchess’s makeshift ballroom. Many were as tall, or taller, and had shoulders that were just as broad as his.

But Major Lord Stephen Ives was the one man of all the men in this room, in all the world, as far as Lady Delphine St. James knew, who had the power to weaken her knees, make her heart race, and her breath catch in her throat. If she could choose one dance partner tonight, one man to escort her to supper, one man to marry—as her parents were insisting she must—it would be—

“You,” she whispered to the air, her eyes fixed on his back.

He turned as if she’d shouted the word, and looked up to where she was standing on the stairs, and she felt a thrill run through her body as his eyes met hers. She read surprise, then a moment of dismay, before he smoothed his features to a flat, correct, perfectly polite expression and nodded.

The thrill in her breast fizzled and died. Nothing had changed, then, since she last saw him in London, a year ago. Still, she lowered her fan and smiled sweetly at him. He did not smile back, or show any sign of moving from where he stood. Of course, hundreds of people took up every inch of space between her place on the staircase and his position on the edge of the dance floor. It would be quite impossible to cut through the crush to reach his side.

Impossible was not a word Lady Delphine St. James endured.

She snapped her fan shut. “Excuse me,” she said, pushing past a Dutch officer exchanging pleasantries with a lady in blue silk. “Your pardon,” she murmured, squeezing by a red-coated lieutenant, keeping her eyes on Stephen Ives all the while. He was watching her, his expression unreadable, probably hoping she was heading somewhere else—to fetch a glass of champagne, perhaps, or to speak to her hostess.

She reached the foot of the staircase, and made a quick curtsy to the Duchess of Richmond, her hostess for the evening. “Good evening, your Grace,” she said breathlessly. The duchess merely nodded. If she found Delphine’s haste unseemly, she did not remark on it. Her Grace had other, much more important guests to see to, of course. It meant Delphine was free to continue on her quest. She glanced up to see if Stephen had moved. He hadn’t. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? She picked up her skirt and hurried.

“Why Lady Delphine, what an unexpected pleasure.”

Someone stepped into her path, cutting off her view of him, forcing her to stop. She almost cursed aloud. The gentleman before her bowed, and she had a brief glimpse of Stephen over his shoulder before he rose again and blocked her view of him.

She looked at the man before her. “Oh, it’s you, Captain Lord Rothdale. Good evening.” He was a friend of her brother’s, or rather a compatriot in Sebastian’s debauchery.

“Captain Lord Rothdale? Is that any way to greet an old and dear friend?” He preened, showing off his Royal Dragoons uniform, making the gold braid glitter in the candlelight. “You called me Peter when we met at your father’s home in London. Don’t let the uniform scare you away, I may be one of the heroes, but I am still as tame as a house cat, I assure you.” He smiled broadly at his own joke and picked up her hand, bringing it to his lips. For a moment she wondered if he intended to lick it, cat like. The intensity of his eyes on her low cut gown reminded her of a cat far more dangerous than a mere tabby. “How may I be of service this evening, Darling Dilly? You appear to lack a dancing partner.”

Her jaw tightened at the sound of her family nickname on his lips. She was Dilly to her siblings, and only to them. She tried to withdraw her hand from his. He refused to let go. Instead he tightened his grip, leaned closer still, and she could smell rum on his breath. The glitter in his eyes had more to do with the amount of the spirit he’d consumed than her company, she noted. He had arrived foxed, then, since the duchess was serving champagne, not rum, which made his condition all the more shocking.

She tried again to withdraw her hand from his, but he gave her a teasing smile and held on. She felt her cheeks heat, and a scathing insult came to mind, but this was hardly the place, and if she had learned one thing about Stephen Ives, it was that he did not like scenes. She’d learned that the hard way. Rothdale stepped closer still.

“Dance with me, Dilly,” he said again. “Or better yet, come out to the terrace, and I’ll whisper wicked compliments in your ear. There seems to be something afoot, and rumor has it we’ll be off to battle come sun-up. Don’t you want to give me a proper send off?”

She did indeed, but not the kind he hoped for. She felt a flare of anger. “Please excuse me, Captain,” she said in her tartest tone, emphasizing his military title to remind him where he was, and who he was. She swept a cold glance over his uniform, the uniform he was dishonoring by such boorish behavior, but he didn’t move. He laughed.

“Now don’t be like that. I’d like to know you better. I had no opportunity at all to enjoy your company in London. You were always out when I called. But now, here we are together at last.” He had the audacity to run his fingertip down the exposed length of her bare arm, from the place where her short puffed sleeve ended to the edge of her lace glove.

Delphine enjoyed flirting as much as the next lady— in fact, she was a renowned charmer, if one was to use the polite term, but not like this, not here. She tried once more to pluck her hand free, but still he would not let go. She drew a breath, stiffened her spine. She was going to have to make a scene after all. She clenched her free hand around her fan, ready to deal him a crushing blow as she opened her mouth to rebuke him for his boorish behavior.

“Lady Delphine, I believe this is our dance.”

She turned and found Stephen Ives standing next to her, and her breath stopped yet again. She shut her mouth with an audible snap.

He bowed and held out his hand, waiting for her to take it, which meant Rothdale would have to let her go. He did, releasing her fingers as if they were on fire, obviously surprised to see the major. His handsome face reddened with displeasure.

Delphine clasped Stephen’s hand like a lifeline and let him lead her away.

The music began—a waltz. Stephen set his hand on her waist and swept her onto the floor. He glared over her shoulder at the captain, who was disappearing into the crowd.

“Do you know Captain Lord Rothdale? He’s a friend of my brother’s. He is not, that is, he and I are not—” she realized she was babbling.

His eyes remained on the captain. “I do. We are in the same regiment.”

Oh. Of course he’d know him, then. Delphine felt like a ninny. He didn’t add to his terse comment, or offer any pleasantries. He had rescued her from a boor at a ball, but it appeared it was now entirely up to her to change the subject. She was at a summer ball in a room filled with flowers and candles, waltzing with Stephen Ives. She wasn’t about to waste such an opportunity talking about anyone else. The room was warm, but the glow she felt had much more to do with being held in Stephen’s arms. She could smell his shaving soap, the wool of his tunic, the scent of the flowers as they whirled past them.

“Goodness you dance well,” she tried again.

“I spent six months in Vienna. They invented the waltz.”

She felt her skin heat. Where was her famous charm and glib tongue now when she needed them most? “Ah, yes. You were at the peace conference, part of the embassy. I have heard stories, of course, about all the glittering parties with the kings and queens of Europe, the Tsar of Russia, the Emperor of Austria . . .” He looked slightly bored. She swallowed. He was a diplomat, and a diplomat was most unlikely to want to gossip or repeat salacious stories about crowned heads or anyone else. “Was the congress successful?” she asked.

His lips tightened at her question. “Unfortunately not, or we would not be here awaiting yet another battle with Napoleon.”

She read the seriousness in his gaze. “Will it come soon?”

He met her eyes at last, as if assessing the seriousness of her question. There were many in Brussels who doubted the battle would come at all, but she was the sister-in-law of a colonel. She kept her eyes on his.