Once Upon a Highland Summer (9 page)

“Just one of the sins the English have to answer for,” his grandfather had grumbled each and every time he passed the carving. Alec glared into the eyes of the wounded beast. The castle would require a good deal of repairs before he could sell it.

“Alec lad!”

He turned to find old Muira coming around the side of the building, bearing baskets filled with herbs and flowers.

The servant had been old when he was a lad, and she was old now, yet unchanged, as untouched by time as the rest of Glenlorne. He smiled as she hurried toward him, her eyes shining, still blue as the sky. “It is you, isn’t it?” She shifted the baskets on her hip and reached out a hand to touch his cheek, as if making certain he wasn’t a ghost.

“Aye, it’s me, Muira,” he said, slipping back into Gaelic.

She stepped back and cackled. “I knew ye’d come!
She’s
been saying ye must be dead, but I’d know if you were—I’d feel it in my bones. The castle would feel it. It’s been waiting for you, all these years, and here ye are.”

Alec watched her eyes fill with sentimental tears. Muira had been at Glenlorne for as long as Alec could recall. She was Glenlorne’s cook, housekeeper, healer, and midwife. She knew the clan legends and old stories as well as his grandfather had. She’d also served as Alec’s nurse when his mother had died before his father married Devorguilla. Devorguilla made the mistake of trying to send Muira away, saying Muira was a witch. It was her knowledge of herbs and spells that saved her. She’d brought Devorguilla through a hard labor with Megan, saved her life and the child’s, and though the two women never spoke of it, an uneasy truce existed between them, and Muira had stayed. Muira refused to speak Devorguilla’s name or call her countess, and Devorguilla referred to Muira as “the cook.”

Alec opened his arms, but Muira shook her head. “Come away in, lad. ’Tis the Midsummer herbs I have here, and I dare not let them touch the ground.”

He’d forgotten the charms and spells and superstitions. “Let me,” he said, and tried to take the baskets. Muira hung on with a grip that belied her frail bones.

“Don’t be daft. Ye’re the laird—ye can’t be doing women’s work.”

She pointed to the front door. “In you go, through the front as is proper. I’ll take these round through the kitchen and fetch a dram to welcome ye home.”

She scurried away round the corner, and Alec climbed the steps and stared at the massive oak door, scarred by battle and years of use. He touched the deep scuffs left by English rifle butts, and pulled his hand away. This wasn’t the time for sentiment. The door needed a coat of paint, perhaps, to make it look less like a medieval fortress and more like a home, so potential buyers weren’t frightened off before they even got inside.

He took a deep breath as he opened the door, wondering what he’d find. He stood on the broad step that led down to the castle’s great hall. It was cool inside after the heat of the June day. He took note of the familiar room. It was the hall of a laird—a powerful man, in favor with Scotland’s king, his confidant and friend. He looked at the dais at the end, which his grandfather said had once held a massive chair for the laird’s use. Alec had never seen it. It had been broken apart, used by the English soldiers to fuel the two massive fireplaces designed to heat the vast space on frigid Highland nights. A plain chair sat there now, a placeholder, waiting for glory of the MacNabbs to return.

The walls were barren of decor, save the smashed stone carving of the clan crest above the laird’s chair. His grandfather told tales of the days when the hall was hung with tapestries, weapons, and shields, but those were gone, and with the passing of the old folk like Muira, they would soon even be lost to memory. Alec could imagine his grandfather pointing out the place on the wall where each weapon had once hung . . . The targe of Malcolm; a banner blessed by St. Margaret;the dirk and claymore of Alec MacNabb, the first of that name, and the laird who’d built this tower for his bride, a delicate creature who could not abide the icy drafts that whistled through the old tower on the crag. He crossed to the window, and opened the shutters and stared across the valley to the old tower. It was still standing sentinel.

“Here y’are.” he heard Muira’s voice and turned. She carried in a brimming chalice on a tray covered with a scrap of plaid. “ ’Tis the laird’s cup,” Muira said proudly. “Carved from the horn of the great mountain goat that tried to kill the first Alec MacNabb, and trimmed with silver given him by the poorer, weaker clans who came on bended knee to take our name and join the great MacNabbs.”

Alec stared into the depths of the whisky that filled the cup to the brim. Whisky, at least, appeared to be in plentiful supply at Glenlorne.

“Drink!” Muira encouraged him. “It comes from the cask that was hidden deep in a cave by yer great-great-grandsire, for an occasion just such as this.”

Alec wondered if it that was true. “Is there a spell on it?” he teased, raising the cup to his lips.

Muira waited until he drank before answering. “Just a wee one, perhaps, and just for good fortune, a bright new future, and strong and healthy heirs, o’ course. We hardly need a spell for any of that now ye’re here. You’ll set things right at last. The Clan MacNabb just needs a leader again, and all will be well.”

Sixty thousand pounds would also go a long way toward setting things right, he thought. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her about Sophie, his bride and the potential mother of those strong and healthy heirs, but he stayed silent. What if he didn’t marry Sophie, what if he sold Glenlorne? His sons, if he had any, would never see Glenlorne. He sipped the whisky, savoring the rich, smoky taste of it. Muira was yet another soul he was about to disappoint. He already felt as if his grandfather was frowning at him from the chieftain’s chair. He glanced behind him to make sure it was empty.

“Where are the girls?” Alec asked.

Muira grinned. “It’s Midsummer! They’re out in the hills, o’ course, gathering what’s needed for the celebration.” She pursed her lips, and her skin folded into deep lines and creases. “At least, I hope they are. I’m not their nurse any longer.
She’s
hired a new governess, and—”

“Don’t you have work to do in the kitchen?” Alec turned to find Devorguilla standing at the foot of the stairs. She hadn’t changed. She was still beautiful, and dressed in an elegant English gown. Her dark eyes traveled over Alec, the cup, and Muira, as she glided into the room. The temperature seemed to drop as she swept in. “Go,” she commanded Muira, and reddened when the old woman looked to Alec for confirmation. He nodded, and Muira left the room.

“Hello, Devorguilla,” Alec said.

“You didn’t tell us you were coming,” she said, her eyes offering no welcome.

“I’m not a ghost if that’s what you fear,” he said, and she tilted her head and smiled.

“No, I can see you’re hale and healthy and quite alive, though I expected you’d be as tanned as a peddler from all those years in the sun of the southern climes, and yet you’re as pasty as an Englishman. How was your voyage home? How long does it take to sail all that way?” she asked, her tone mocking. Something in her eyes told him she knew he’d been in London all along.

He gave her the most charming smile he could muster. “And you look well. Not a day older than last I was here. Muira knows her potions.” He climbed the steps to the laird’s chair and sat down, the chalice of whisky still in his hand.

She watched him silently, her eyes in shadow.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Tell me, did you bring gifts? Money, perhaps? We do need money, as you can see.” She indicated the room with slim fingers.

Alec’s throat tightened. “I have gifts for the girls. As for money, I’ll need to see the accounts.”

Her eyes sharpened. “There’s not much to see. We live simply, as we must.”

“Still,” he insisted. He was at a loss for words, as unsure as he had been when he was a boy.

“I can assure you everything is in order here.”

“I’m home again, alive and well, and I will manage my estates myself. Thank you for doing so for the past months.”

Her eyes flared. “Months? I have been managing things for years. Your father wasn’t capable—”

“It isn’t kind to speak ill of the dead, Devorguilla,” he interrupted.

“Devina,” she said.

“Yes,” Alec said. “I heard that you’d changed your name. I doubt my father would have liked that.”

She ignored that, her eyes flashing. “When the girls make their debuts in London, I will change their names as well. Margaret, Alice, and Claire. Have you seen them yet? They’re quite pretty, but that isn’t nearly enough. I intend to see they find English husbands, titled men with fortunes and land. Of course, a name change isn’t enough. They’ll need dowries to overcome the taint of the Highlands.”

“Oh, and have you a fortune put by for such an eventuality?” Alec asked.

“You’re the laird now. It’s you who must provide for them. Would you see them wed to crofters and peddlers to live in misery the rest of their days?”

“I’d see them happy. Titles and money don’t guarantee that,” Alec said. Of course he wanted to see his half sisters marry well, for love as well as fortune. He thought of Lady Sophie Ellison. What happiness could he offer her, here, when she was used to the luxuries of English estates and wealth?

“I see you’re as much a fool as you’ve always been. You used to prattle on about clan glory, how the MacNabbs were proud and fine. But love? Are you a poet now? I’d heard you made your way in London gambling. I would have thought eight years of that would cure you of ridiculous sentiments.”

“Everything is a gamble, Devorguilla. You wagered I was dead. You lost.”

“Devina!” she insisted. “And I never lose.”

He rose from the chair. The whisky buzzed in his veins. He didn’t want to have this argument now. No, it would be a fight. He needed time to think, to decide, to find the words. “I think I’ll go and find the girls, say hello.”

“They’re taking a short stroll in the garden with their governess,” she said. “They’ll be coming in for tea shortly. You can see them then. They aren’t children anymore. They’re young ladies.”

All these years, and she still had the power to make him feel like a clumsy, inept boy, half barbarian, half fool.

“Why wait? It’s a lovely day. I’ll walk out and meet them,” he said. He set the chalice on the table and strode out before the inevitable insults and angry words began to fly. It had always been that way between them, but to his surprise, she simply stood and watched him go.

Stepping out of the castle and into the warm summer air was like coming out of a tomb. Muira said the girls had gone into the hills. He needed time to walk and think. What would he say to them? Surely they’d changed in eight years. He followed the worn tracks in the heather that had been there for centuries, carved by cattle and people, the path he’d taken thousands of times as a boy, heading to the loch to fish, or to the top of the crags to search for eagles, or hunt.

He took off his coat, and slung it over his shoulder, and loosened his cravat. He looked around, watched the sun glint on the loch, and remembered the pleasures of swimming in the icy water at the height of summer.

He felt a hard stab of regret at the idea of selling Glenlorne away, losing it forever. If he sold the land, he might not even need to marry Sophie Ellison. He could give his sisters dowries and go to Ceylon at last. The earldom of Glenlorne was a responsibility he didn’t want. He wasn’t a laird, or an earl, or a leader. Nor did he wish to be.

He met no one on the path, and before he knew it, he was standing by the old tower, and could hardly say how he’d come to be here, since he’d been deep in thought and not paying attention to where he was walking.

The tower had lost yet another chunk of wall since he’d last been here. The massive block lay in the heather at the base of the tower. The roof was gone almost entirely now. He supposed it should be pulled down for safety’s sake. It was like the clan itself—once proud and strong and high, and now a crumbling husk.

A movement in one of the windows caught his eye. A red flag—no, a long lock of red hair—fluttered on the breeze. He saw her face, white against the blue shadows. The wind hummed an eerie tune. A ghost? His throat tightened, and he stared up at her, transfixed. Then she reached up to brush her hair away from her face, her fingers slim and solid, her eyes fixed on the horizon. Anger flared at her trespass, both on his imagination and his tower.

How the devil did she get in? The old oak door was solid and permanently barred—at least it had been the last time he saw it—to keep out anyone foolish enough to try to venture inside.

She was some foolish local girl, no doubt, here on a Midsummer revel, or she’d climbed the rotting tower on a dare. It had once been a favorite trysting place, especially at this time of year. Did she not understand the danger she was in? Panic gripped him. What if his sisters were also in the tower?

He called out a command in Gaelic to come out before the bloody tower fell on her.

She turned to look down at him, her eyes meeting his, her hair a russet tangle around her face, and he felt a shock pass through him.

She was beautiful.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

I
t was cool inside the tower, and dark. A family of doves cooed among the last few rotting rafters high above, watching Caroline curiously as the she entered. Was that what she’d heard? She shaded her eyes with her hand and looked up at them. Four chicks. Beyond their nest, the roof was open to the sky. There must be other creatures living here as well. The place had a heavy odor of damp and rot, with plenty of dark corners. A massive fireplace took up the entirety of one wall, the dark maw warmed only by a few weak shafts of sunlight now. Save for the fluttering of the doves, and the jaunty whistle of the wind, the tower was silent. There were no children in peril. The thick stone walls blocked out the rest of the world, and Caroline felt oddly safe here. This place had once been a sanctuary, a home, and the echoes of that remained despite years—centuries—of disuse.