Once Upon a Highland Summer (13 page)

A shiver rushed through her limbs.

Ridiculous. This was not the time to imagine herself in love—again—only to be disappointed yet again.

She set the brush aside and plaited her hair into a tight braid. She would probably never marry, never have a man look at her that way and mean it, or have a wedding at all, never mind babies or a wedding trip. She felt a frisson of self-pity.

She rose and crossed to the bed, throwing back the dark wool coverlet, revealing the cool white sheets beneath. If she’d been dreamy and romantic before, it was time to be sensible now.

She’d made her choice when she left London, gave up her half brother’s protection. She would still rather sleep alone for the rest of her life than marry Speed or Mandeville. They had probably forgotten her by now anyway, gone searching for other rich ladies to wed. Was Somerson looking for her, or was he simply glad she’d gone?

She lit a candle, climbed into bed, and picked up a book of poetry, planning tomorrow’s lesson. She was a governess, and she had a job to do. Still, the words disappeared on the page, and in their place was the face of a braw Scottish laird, his dark hair blowing in the wind, staring up at her, offering her his hand. She wondered what the man who rescued her on the street in London would say to that. He’d laugh, tell her again how foolish she was, tell her to go home and live a safe, sensible life.

Was a lifetime of dull security better than that one moment, that heady feeling of looking down from a high tower and seeing desire in a man’s eyes?

She shut the book aside and blew out the candle, vowing she would not dream of Alec MacNabb.

A
lec paced the vast stone cavern that was the laird’s apartment. Muira had insisted he must occupy these chambers now, though he would have preferred his old room in the tower. Apparently, the girls’ stodgy governess was housed there. He imagined her up there now, wearing a prim flannel nightgown, down on her bony knees, praying in English to an English God to make the world over—or at the very least Scotland—in the English image of perfection.

He didn’t feel comfortable in this room. There were too many ghosts expecting too much of him, perhaps. He could imagine them hovering in the shadows, their eyes bright with hope, ready to load the heavy mantle of responsibility onto his shoulders. He looked around him at the heavy carved furnishings, at the magnificent bed that took up most of one wall under a grand canopy that reached to the ceiling. Generations of MacNabb chieftains had been born in this room, had bred heirs in their turn in this bed, and died in it. It was expected that he’d sire his own heir here, pass on the title in his turn.

He pictured Sophie there, her red hair spread across the pillow, her hazel eyes wide, her lips half parted the way they’d been when she fell into his arms in the tower. He imagined her in his arms here, in this bed, naked, and felt a sharp pull of lust. She was exquisitely pretty, though daft if she’d climbed that old tower on her own. He turned away from the bed, crossed to stare out the window at the tower, and tried not to think of what might have happened if he hadn’t been there to catch her.

But he had caught her, and when he’d looked into her eyes, he’d known she felt it too, the same nascent desire, that shock of fascination.

Perhaps marrying a stranger wouldn’t be so bad after all. It might even be a chance for happiness. She had looked very happy indeed when he came upon her, surveying Glenlorne from her dangerous perch. The joy on Sophie’s face had reminded him how beautiful Glenlorne was, how he’d loved it as a boy.

With her dowry, he wouldn’t have to sell the land. He could rebuild it, make improvements, fix the ramshackle cottages in the village and build new ones. He could restore the Clan MacNabb to everything his grandfather told him it had once been—proud, fine, and prosperous. He imagined a different life—one where he was a Scottish laird with a pretty wife, sturdy bairns, and a fine, happy future. His dreams of a South Seas plantation suddenly seemed less important.

He scanned the dark hills, touched by the magical quality of silver moonlight, and grinned.

With Sophie’s huge dowry, he could even afford to rebuild old Glenlorne Tower. He’d give it to her as a wedding present, and enjoy a lifetime of watching her look out over their lands.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

C
aroline was reading aloud the poems she had been unable to make sense of the night before. The sun streamed through the windows of the schoolroom, and lit the shining faces of the girls. They weren’t out on the hillside today, but sensibly indoors, with hair bound, shoes and stockings on, and skirts that covered everyone’s ankles. There was to be no more tempting fate out on the summer hillsides, the countess had decreed.

It hardly mattered where their bodies were—their minds were far beyond the walls of this room. Caroline doubted they’d heard a single word she’d said all morning. Not that she blamed them—the whole castle was abuzz with excitement about the evening’s festivities. The oldest inhabitants of Glenlorne village had already been consulted as to the omens for the coming year, and their pronouncements had been all anyone could talk about. The signs were good, especially now Glenlorne had a laird again. Women had been cooking since dawn, and the men had been sent out to gather wood for the bonfire as soon as the sun rose high enough to tell a log from a loaf of bread.

Caroline stopped reading and watched the girls.

“Who did you dream of?” Sorcha asked Megan.

Megan sighed. “A man with fair hair and dark eyes. No one I know.”

“Not Brodie, then,” Alanna said.

Megan raised her chin. “It might have been an omen of another kind, just a stranger I’ll meet, or a friend.”

“Or Muira’s love charms don’t work. I didn’t dream of anyone,” Alanna admitted.

“ ’Tis the season, not the love charms, that count. Any girl who is ready for love will see her true love in her dreams at Midsummer!” Megan insisted. She turned to Caroline. “What did you dream of last night, Miss Forrester?”

Caroline felt her skin heat. She’d dreamed of a certain Scottish laird, though he was hardly her true love. She’d once dreamed of William, but nothing had come of that either. So much for Highland magic. Still, just in case, she crossed her fingers and counted herself fortunate that she didn’t dream of Viscount Speed. “I dreamed of poetry, of course, recited in perfect English.”

All three girls looked horrified. “Truly?” Sorcha asked. “You won’t have much fun at the bonfire tonight. Who will you dance with?”

“Didn’t your mother say you were not to attend the bonfire?” Caroline asked.

Megan smiled. “Muira promised to talk her round so we could go. What’s the harm if Alec is with us? No one would dare to insult the laird’s sisters.”

Ah, but what might the laird’s sisters get up to? Caroline noted three pairs of bright eyes, gleaming with anticipation and mischief.

“Brodie will be there too.” Megan sighed. “He’ll protect us.”

“If he’s not busy making eyes at Annie or Maire or May,” Sorcha teased.

Megan ignored her. “What will you wear tonight?” she asked Alanna, and Caroline realized that the poetry had been forgotten.

“Oh miss, Alec brought us the most wonderful gifts!” Alanna said, including her in the excitement. “I have a new shawl made of Indian silk, in the most extraordinary design.”

“I have a dozen hair ribbons to choose from. I don’t know whether to wear the blue one to match my eyes, or the red one,” Sorcha said. “Will you help me choose, miss?”

“I have a new sash, green silk, to wear with my muslin gown,” Alanna said. “Though of all the presents, I loved the books he brought the best—Walter Scott’s novel
Waverley
, and his
Lady of the Lake
. Tomorrow I shall stay indoors all day and read!”

“What if someone kisses you?” Sorcha teased. “A lass in a new green sash is hard to resist!”

Alanna blushed.

“What else did the laird bring?” Caroline asked, changing the subject.

“A dozen dress lengths of beautiful cloth, and pattern books from London!” Megan enthused. “Mama has them—she wanted to be the first to look at those.”

“There’s sugar candy and spices too. And new bonnets for all of us,” Sorcha said. “Even me.”

“And there were journals and the softest kid gloves too,” Alanna said. “Though we shan’t need gloves tonight. In fact, I’m not sure when we’ll need such finery.”

“We’ll hold elegant parties, or get Alec to take us to Edinburgh!” Megan said.

“Or when we go to London to make our debuts,” Alanna said a trifle sadly. “As soon as she finds someone to sponsor us.”

Caroline saw the mixture of delight and dismay in the girls’ eyes at the prospect. “The London Season doesn’t start until the spring. You have plenty of time to have the most stylish gowns made, and learn all the newest London dances, make lists of the most eligible suitors, and perfect your manners to win them, but the bonfire is tonight—shouldn’t we be worrying about that first?” she asked. “Now bring me your hair ribbons, Sorcha, and we’ll choose the perfect one.”

The girls rushed to obey, and Caroline smiled. As long as Muira could win the countess’s approval, and the laird was there to chaperone his sisters, what could possibly go wrong? In Caroline’s opinion, a night of innocent Midsummer revelry would be the perfect counterpoint to the stuffy London balls the girls would soon have to endure.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

A
lec dressed as the sun rose, and called for a horse. He’d spent a restless night considering the possibility of marriage to Lady Sophie Ellison, unable to get the russet-haired beauty out of his mind. He’d considered the possibility of
not
marrying her, as well. Weighing the pros and cons hadn’t been difficult—a lovely wife with a vast fortune on one hand, poverty for himself, his kin, and his clan on the other.

If Sophie was at the tower, she must be staying nearby, probably also weighing the pros and cons of the match herself. It was nearly dawn when it struck him that was quite likely the reason she was in the tower alone in the first place—she was visiting Glenlorne, deciding if she wished to marry him. If she was a biddable daughter, she’d do as her father wanted and wed where she was told to. If she was more willful—and from their brief encounter at the tower he suspected she was at least a wee bit headstrong—she might very well reject his suit in hopes of a better offer, which was sure to come.

If he wanted Sophie as his wife, he had to act now. He would have to ride up to whichever inn Lord Bray was staying at, and greet her formally, escort her to his home in person, and charm her.

He looked in the glass as he tied his cravat, and practiced his most beguiling grin, the one that never failed to make women of all ages lose their wits and leave the thinking to him.

The lovely Lady Sophie was as good as his.

H
ours later, Alec was still alone. He’d visited the three inns closest to Glenlorne Castle, and five of the more distant ones. There was no sign of an English earl, or a lovely red-haired lady.

The innkeepers were delighted to have the opportunity to welcome him home and stand him a dram or a tankard of their best ale. It was impossible to refuse a single drop. Every man, woman, and child he met gazed at him with such hope in their eyes, such pride. No one other than his grandfather had ever looked at him that way before. It was damned uncomfortable to be seen as the savior of Clan MacNabb everywhere he went. It also made him all the more determined to continue on until he found Sophie, but by noon he was so drunk he was barely able to keep from falling off his horse, and that only after much difficulty getting back on the beast in the first place. In the end he returned to Glenlorne foxed and frustrated, hoping the horse could see the road more clearly than he could.

By early afternoon, he found himself sitting on the horse and staring blearily up at the tower window where he’d seen her only yesterday, and wondered where the devil she’d disappeared to. He missed her. He whispered her name and swayed in the saddle, and the horse flattened its ears and snorted an insult.

Alec reminded himself that there were a number of estates and castles within a day’s ride of Glenlorne. It could well be that she was the guest of another laird, perhaps even an unmarried one. His hands tensed on the reins and the horse sidestepped nervously, and took a step away from the old tower, and a patch of appealing wildflowers.

Alec was about to correct the horse—a rather opinionated gelding kept in the stables for the girls to ride, and which he vowed would be replaced with a much finer and less stubborn stallion, if he could just find and marry Lady Sophie—when he changed his mind. Was that a lock of red hair beckoning him from the tower window, or just a vine glinting in the sun? Would the minx play games with him, expecting him to return to the place he’d met her only yesterday? He grinned, actually found himself giggling, and the horse sent him a look of pure equine disdain. He ignored the beast. Perhaps she liked lovers’ games, and wanted to be wooed.

Well, woo her he most certainly would. Wonderfully. Wittily. Wantonly. He grinned again, then laughed out loud. He set his heels to the gelding, who insisted on remaining firmly where it was. When he finally forced the beast to obey, what he had seen turned out to be just a red-leafed vine growing in the empty eye of the window, twisting in the wind, scratching against the stones in the wind, laughing at him.

The door was barred, just as he’d left it yesterday, and there was no sign of a fetching, flame-haired lass. He muttered a curse, and the horse looked at him over its shoulder, as if it had known all along, and felt the same way about Alec as Alec felt about him.