Once Upon a Highland Summer (14 page)

“Good day to ye, Laird,” said a voice, and he turned to find a dozen men standing behind him. He hadn’t even noticed them there.

“Have ye come to help us make ready for tonight?” Leith Rennie asked.

Alec surveyed them from the back of the horse. Were there a dozen men, or only six? “Actually, I’m looking for a lass.”

They grinned and relaxed, elbowing one another, then laughed out loud. Leith produced a skin of ale and passed it to Alec. “Aren’t we all?” he said.

“There’ll be plenty of bonnie lasses at the bonfire tonight,” Jock MacNabb added.

“We’re just getting things ready for the festivities—the wheel, the firewood, and such. We’re the council, ye see—the ones drafted to do the work,” Hamish MacNair added. They all nodded.

Alec nodded back and glanced up at the empty tower again. Perhaps, his drink-addled brain told him, she might she still come if he waited, stayed near to the tower. He looked at the council again. “Could you use more help?”

“Er—you look rather fine for gathering firewood, Laird.”

Alec slid off the gelding’s back. He took off his coat and tossed it over the saddle. He untied his cravat and tucked that under the coat, and stripped off his waistcoat, for good measure. The horse caught the brocade waistcoat and began to chew on it.

“Whoa now, Blossom,” Jock said, catching the creature’s reins, fighting to retrieve the vest from the horse’s stubborn jaws.

“Blossom?” Alec muttered. “I’m out wooing—riding—on a male horse named Blossom?” The other men had the grace to look embarrassed for him.

“Wee Sorcha named him,” Leith said. Jock let the horse go, and held up the tattered waistcoat. Blossom tossed his head and ambled over to a particularly lush patch of wildflowers and proceeded to devour them.

“Shouldn’t we tie him up?” Alec asked, as the horse moved on to another, more distant patch of flowers.

“Blossom?” Hamish asked. “Nay. Once he’s eaten, he’ll head home on his own—if that’s quite acceptable, Laird.”

“Unless he finds the cattle,” Leith said. “He’s sweet on one particular heifer, and since it’s Midsummer—”

Jock rolled his eyes. “He’s a
gelding
, you bampot!”

Leith looked hurt. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Love comes in many shapes. We’re all looking for a lass.”

Jock took off his cap and swatted his cousin. “Come on, bampot—we’ve got wood to fetch, and we’d best get to it as soon as we finish the ale.” He passed the skin to Alec. “After you, of course, Laird.”

Alec took a long swallow and led the way down the slope toward the woods, then stopped. The men behind him stopped as well, some crashing into one another. Leith, who was at the front of the procession, slid all the way down the grassy hill with a cry. Everyone stood and watched him go. It seemed they were as drunk as Alec was. “I just wish to say I’ve known all of you since we were lads. Just call me Alec.”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

“A
re you certain the countess won’t mind if the girls go to the bonfire?” Caroline asked Muira as the sun set, standing in the kitchen, helping to pack baskets of food and flasks of ale.

“She didna say a word against it when I asked her not half an hour ago,” Muira said archly, her eyes wide.

“Perhaps I should check with her,” Caroline said, but the old servant cackled. “There’s no need—Her Ladyship has taken herself off early to bed, asked not to be disturbed. She has a headache from spending all day starin’ at those dress books Alec brought from London. I daresay she won’t wake until morning, or possibly even early afternoon. Now don’t you worry about her another minute—you’ll be wanting to get ready yourself, and there’s not much time. The lasses have been watching the sun go down, and as soon as it drops behind old Glenlorne Tower, they’ll be off.”

Caroline glanced out the window. The red sun hovered just above the ragged roofline of the old tower. She glanced in the mirror and tidied her hair, made sure the top button of her gown was primly fastened under her chin. “There,” she said, turning to Muira.

The old servant rolled her eyes. “For the goddess’s sake, lass, ye canna mean—”

The door burst open, and the girls entered. They wore plain linen gowns, tucked into tartan sashes at their waists. Their feet were bare, and their hair hung long and loose down their backs. They stopped in the doorway and stared at Caroline.

“Miss Forrester!” Megan squeaked in shocked surprise, as if it were Caroline who was standing with her hair loose and her feet bare for the world to see.

“You can’t go out looking like that!” Alanna said.

“We’ve got to do something, and quickly—look!” Sorcha said. Caroline barely had time to look out the window at the sun, see the sun had dipped lower still, before the girls descended upon her. Sorcha pulled the pins from her hair, and Alanna unbuttoned her prim gown, while Megan went to fetch another gown, a simple shift in Highland style.

“Wait! I’ll do it myself!” Caroline said, as they approached, ready to undress her. She ducked into the pantry. The girls examined her when she came out, circling her with their arms folded over their chests. Muira perched on a stool by the fireplace, grinning like a fey crow.

“Well?” she asked.

“ ’Twon’t do,” Sorcha said.

“Stockings.” Alanna pointed.

They wanted her to go out barefooted?
“A lady never—” she began, but the girls took a menacing step toward her. “I’ll do it,” she said, holding up a hand.

“There are no ladies tonight, lass,” Muira said. “Just lads and lasses and the pleasures of dancing and laughter, and no harm ever came o’ that.” She came forward and tucked a small white flower into Caroline’s hair, above her ear. “There now—that looks right.”

“She has no plaid sash.”

“She can have my red ribbon,” Sorcha said, and it was duly tied around Caroline’s waist.

“Oh, miss, you look bonnie,” Alanna said.

“She does indeed. Now off with you. The sun’s going, and I’ve more to do before I come along myself,” Muira said, shooing them out of the kitchen.

Megan and Sorcha grabbed her hands, and Caroline found herself caught in the spirit of the excitement, running with her charges over the cool grass in her bare feet with the soft evening breeze in her hair. They joined the villagers and the castle servants, until there was a long, merry procession of girls heading up the well-worn path to the old tower.

Sorcha stopped, her eyes wide. “Oh look—Alec is wearing his plaid—how wonderful he looks.”

Wonderful indeed. Caroline caught sight of the laird among the other men and stopped, her breath catching in her throat. The last rays of the setting sun were upon him, and his brow shone and his saffron shirt glowed, the laces open at the neck showing the tanned skin beneath. He wore the plaid like an ancient warrior, bold and proud, grinning like a pirate. He greeted everyone as they came up the path, truly the lord of this place. He was the handsomest man she’d ever set eyes on.

Breathe
, a voice whispered in her ear.
Breathe.

The air was intoxicating, and she felt pure joy run through her blood. Above her the moon floated in a deep blue sky, and the stars began to appear, one by one.

Fire flared on the hillside near the tower as the wheel was lit, a symbol the change of the season, the dark half of the year beginning tonight, and the light half giving way. With a whoop, lads rolled the wheel down the slope, racing after it, tumbling in the dewy grass, laughing and cheering. Caroline found herself cheering as well. If the wheel reached the bottom of the hill without going out, it meant a good harvest, and good fortune for Glenlorne.

A cry went up as the wheel began to skip and wobble over the rocky ground, shooting sparks as it flew, red and gold against the blue of twilight, but it reached the bottom of the hill before it toppled in the long grass of the meadow, still ablaze.

A cheer went up and everyone rushed forward to add fuel to the wheel, turning it into a bonfire that would burn for the rest of the night. From across the fire, Caroline watched Alec MacNabb toss a log onto the pile, and the flames leaped, lighting his eyes, his face, the muscles in his neck, and the strong length of his legs. Everyone in turn added fuel, and stepped back to admire the blaze.

Someone in a hood—Muira perhaps—came forward to place a crown of holly leaves on Alec’s head, and the crowd cheered again. She handed him a cup carved of horn, decorated with silver, and he drank deeply, the firelight caressing his throat as he swallowed. He raised the cup high, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, laughing as his clansmen cheered.

Then Muira placed a second crown in his hands, this one decked with ivy and wildflowers. “The king is crowned,” she announced to the crowd. “Now he must choose the Midsummer queen.”

A hopeful female whisper went up. Caroline watched as Alec’s fire-bright eyes scanned the crowds, and the lasses giggled and simpered to get his attention. She stayed where she was in the shadows, hoping his gaze would touch her and stop, yet dreading it as well.

His eyes passed over her, moved on, and she felt a shrivel of disappointment. Then he turned, and his eyes locked with hers. She felt a bolt of lightning hit her, saw the recognition in his eyes, the slow curve of his smile, the intent in his gaze, and for a moment her heart stopped. She couldn’t look away.

Without taking his eyes from hers, he lifted the crown of flowers high above his head, and petals showered over his dark hair.

“Jump the fire,” Muira commanded.

In one athletic motion, Alec leaped through the flames, coming through the sparks and smoke to land by Caroline’s side. He gave her an exaggerated bow, his eyes on hers. He held out the crown, and set it on her head. The scent of wild roses filled her. Muira handed him the cup, and he held it to Caroline’s lips. The warmth of the sweetened ale flowed down her throat and through her limbs, instantly intoxicating, taking her breath away, lifting her from the ground to float above it. Or was it the laird, his hands on hers, holding the cup, his fingers warm and sure?

“Now we must leap back,” he said, and took her hand. “Are you ready?”

Caroline stared into the blaze before her. It was as high as her hips, the flames licking their lips hungrily. Still, she nodded, and he put his arm around her waist, and together ran forward and flew over the fire, bathed in smoke and sparks, blessing the land for another season. She felt as if she’d been flying forever when she finally landed on the cool grass on the other side of the blaze, breathless. He didn’t let her go, but kept his arm around her, and she pressed close to his side, feeling safe and warm there.

Other couples clasped hands and jumped the fire. Lads herded the cattle through the billowing smoke to bless them. The music began to play, drums, flutes, and pipes, and the dancing began, and ale flowed. Lads and lasses paired off, slipping in and out of the shadows, stealing kisses and more. Children chased each other with burning sticks.

Alec MacNabb took her into his arms and began to dance, spinning her from firelight to shadow and back again, until all she could see was the glitter of his eyes, all she could feel was the beat of the drums in her veins, her heartbeat beating in time with his.

Other couples joined the dance, moving faster and faster until they became a blur, and Caroline and Alec were the only people in the world. She threw her head back and laughed as he lifted her off her feet, and spun her in a dizzy circle, then let her body slide down the length of his, until their lips were inches apart. She was breathless, intoxicated by Alec as much as by the ale. He kissed her, and she tasted the sweetness of the brew all over again.

“You taste of honey and flowers, my lady.”

“Me? I thought it was you, my lord,” she quipped, batting her lashes, flirting with him, moving in close to press against him as the dance went on, then pulling away, until she was half mad with desire for more ale, another kiss. He kept hold of her hand, drew her back to his side when the steps of the dance took her too far from him, laughed down at her.

His eyes were shiny in the firelight, lit from within. She saw desire there, and felt it flow through her limbs as well. He pulled her close against his body and kissed her again, his tongue lapping at the seam of her lips, demanding entry. She opened, tasted the honey on his tongue, the bitterness of the herbs and the ale, and him. She put her arms around his neck and pressed closer, wanting to do nothing but kiss him. The heat of his mouth gave way to the cool of the evening, as he stepped back. He clasped her hand in his and grinned down at her, his teeth white in the firelight.

Alec couldn’t take his eyes off the woman in his arms. Her red hair burned as bright as the flames. Her lips were soft from his kisses, her eyes golden-green. Could he truly be so fortunate to have this woman for his bride? He’d marry her tomorrow—this very moment—if he could. The drumbeats filled him, or perhaps it was more than that.

She smiled up at him, bit her lip as she stumbled against him in the dance, the length of her body against his for a moment. She felt right in his arms, familiar, perfect. He’d felt the same surge of desire in the tower when she fell. Arousal stirred, hard, and powerful. She lifted her arms above her head as she danced, her body lithe and sleek. His eyes roved over the firelit silhouette of her breast under the muslin of her gown. Her white feet trod the steps perfectly as she moved away, then came back to him in the rhythm of the dance. He couldn’t wait to take her in his arms again, to spin her, to hold her close, to smell the sweet fragrance of her hair under the crown of flowers. He was suddenly glad to be Laird of Glenlorne. Surely there was nothing he couldn’t do with this woman by his side, his Midsummer queen, his countess, his wife.

He pulled her close and kissed her again, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him back, her tongue tangling with his, her hands in his hair.

“Come with me,” he said, grabbing her hand, pulling her up the slope toward the tower.