Once Upon a Highland Summer (23 page)

She swallowed, wondering what he wanted. She wasn’t ready to face him yet, not knowing she loved him, not until she got her emotions under control, was certain she could hide her feelings.

“Please tell His Lordship that I’ll speak to him before supper, as soon as I’m dry.” Caroline said. Her wet stockings left dark footprints on the flagstones as she crossed to the back stairs.

“I’ll send up with some hot water,” Muira called after her.

C
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G
eorgiana leaned on the railing of the gallery to survey the guests in the hall below.

“Is that your grandson? The blustery fellow with the bulgy eyes?” Angus asked.

“Yes.” Georgiana sighed. “That’s Somerson.” She took no pleasure in seeing him here. He’d come for Caroline, and she hoped her granddaughter would be strong enough to resist him. She could feel the anger emanating from Somerson, saw him looking for Caroline, checking his watch. The longer she made him wait, the worse it would go for her.

“I see he takes after your husband’s side of the family,” Angus said acidly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Georgiana demanded waspishly.

“He’s not an attractive lad, now is he?” Angus mused, stroking his chin. “Not like you and Caroline.”

“Neville is hardly a lad, and he’s one of the most powerful peers in England.” Georgiana sniffed.

“Neville?” Angus snickered. “Powerful, and one of the nicest chaps too, by the looks of him.”

“He’s the very image of his grandfather,” Georgiana said, recalling her husband. “The apple has not fallen far from the tree.”

“Looks like it’s got a worm in it, if you ask me. Tell me, do you ever see
him
? Or his shade at least, the way you see me?”

Georgiana shuddered. “My husband? Of course not. Nor would I wish to. The long years of our wedded life were enough time together for both of us. More than enough.”

“Lucky man,” Angus muttered.

“Do you miss your grave so much?” Georgiana demanded, anger flaring.

“I meant I resent every single minute he spent with you that I was denied,” Angus snapped back. “I meant it as a compliment. Did you not recognize it as such?”

Georgiana looked at her hands, remembered where her lavish wedding ring had weighed on her finger, and looked at the finger of her other hand, where she’d worn Angus’s modest promise ring until she died. She had treasured the tiny ruby far more than the massive sapphire and pearl ring. Both were gone now, of course. The sapphires graced Charlotte’s fat finger.

“Forgive me. Somerson was not a one for giving compliments—at least not any that were directed my way. I quite got out of the habit of being complimented.”

“Then he was a fool, as well as uggsome. I would have told you every day how beautiful you are.”

“Uggsome?”

“The opposite of beautiful,” Angus said, staring down at Neville Forrester.

Georgiana felt tears come to her eyes. “We can’t change what’s past. Our time has come and gone. We can only help Caroline and Alec see how important it is to love and be loved. Do you understand that now?”

“O’ course I do. And I’m certain that’s why your Caroline can see me.”

“Because she’s in love with Alec?” Georgiana asked hopefully.

“She says she isn’t. I asked her directly. I would have sworn . . . Och, I’ve seen the looks that pass between them. They scorch the air.” He pushed his bonnet back. “I thought it was working, our plan. I thought the lass could see me because she
belongs
here, that she’s meant to be at Glenlorne. O’ course, I believed that of you too. We failed in our own time,
gràdhach
, and there’s more at stake now.” He turned to her, and she saw tears in his eyes. “Can we fix this—make them see—or will yon fool of an Englishman destroy everything?”

Georgiana looked down at her grandson’s hard, unfeeling face. “It’s up to Caroline now, and Alec. They must face the past and find a way. We can only do so much.”

Angus’s mouth twisted bitterly. “Then sixty years hence, it will be Alec and Caroline standing here, mourning the past,” Angus said, “and I’d not wish anyone that kind of torment.”

“W
here is she, Glenlorne? Your letter said she was here.” The Earl of Somerson looked around Glenlorne’s great hall as if he was in the darkest slums of London, and his half sister had taken up a life in the demimonde. It made Alec look around his home himself, but instead of shame, or guilt, he felt pride. The walls were strong, the clan proud. They cared for each other, unlike this fool, and Bray too, who had everything money could buy, but lacked any human kindness.

“I assure you she’s here, my lord,” Mandeville said, quaffing another mug of ale and reaching for the pitcher. “We saw her only yesterday.”

Alec ignored him. “I understand that Lady Caroline has simply gone for a walk. She will likely be back shortly.”

“In this weather?” Countess Charlotte cried. “She’ll catch her death!”

Indeed. Alec glanced out the window at the steady downpour. Where the devil was she? He had images of flash floods, slippery crags, deep crevasses, and Caroline lying broken and bloody in the heather. He looked at his watch. He’d sent Jock and Hamish out to look for her an hour ago. If they hadn’t returned in ten minutes’ time, he’d go himself, abandon his guests, or let Sophie and the girls amuse them. Sophie had taken Lottie up to put her to bed. Devorguilla and the girls were managing the herculean task of finding quarters for everyone from the earl to his lowest footman. Was there anyone left in England?

“Fear not, dear countess. Lady Caroline looked very much recovered yesterday, and hardly on the verge of death now,” Speed said. “You were quite right to send her here to the Highlands. It appears to have done her a world of good and put the bloom back in her cheeks, so to speak—providing she doesn’t drown in the deluge, that is.”

“Drown?” Charlotte said. Alec noted she looked more hopeful than sorrowful at the prospect. “Is that a possibility?”

“No,” Alec said quickly. Unless the ground became slippery, or she lost her footing and fell against a rock . . . “No,” he said again. “She has probably taken shelter in the village. The local folk are very kind to—” He stopped himself from saying “strangers.” Caroline was hardly a stranger now. She knew most of the villagers by name, knew their children, took baskets of food and Muira’s medicines to the sick and elderly, stopping to listen to their stories. Caroline would be welcomed warmly at any hearth to wait out the weather. He felt a moment’s pride fill him.

“She’s with peasants?” Charlotte’s face creased with disgust. “She’ll get fleas—or worse. She’s already on the very verge of ruin, and fleas will certainly tip her over the edge.”

“I would go myself and look for her,” Viscount Mears said boldly, then subsided instantly. “If I knew the way.”

“And risk your own health?” Charlotte demanded. “I should say not.”

“I have no doubt that she’ll be back as soon as the rain stops,” Alec said again.

“Will that be anytime today?” Somerson said impatiently. “I understand it rains nearly constantly in the Highlands.”

“His grandfather said as much—he told terrible stories of the weather. He fought with the king’s army in the ’45,” Charlotte said.

“Well done, my lord!” Mandeville said, raising his glass, then met Alec’s sharp look and colored. “Er, we could mount a proper search for Lady Caroline.”

“Once the rain stops,” Speed added.

Alec looked at the gentlemen in the room. Mears looked worried, but meek. Mandeville was helping himself to more ale. Speed was examining the maker’s mark on the bottom of the pewter mug, assessing its value. Somerson looked annoyed by the delay, and Charlotte was hopeful that Caroline might never return at all. Not one person cared if Caroline was safe or not.

He’d made a dreadful mistake, sending for Somerson.

He looked out the window at the old tower, standing lonely and forlorn in the wet, and wondered if she was there. He imagined finding her there, kissing the rain from her lips, holding her body against his to warm her wet skin . . .

Jock came to Alec’s side and whispered in his ear. “She’s upstairs, safe. Came home an hour past, looking like a drowned stoat.”

Relief and anger flooded through Alec’s breast. She was safe.

No, she was hiding. He looked around the room. He’d be tempted to hide from these people himself, if they were his kin. Still, she could not avoid them forever. He frowned at her cowardice.

He got to his feet. “Will you excuse me?” He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned on his heel and left the room. He took the stone steps two at a time and didn’t stop until he reached Caroline’s room in the tower.

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T
he tower room Caroline now occupied had once been his bedchamber. He knew every nick on the steep stone stairs that led to it, every stone in the wall. It had been a sanctuary, a place to keep boyhood collections of smooth pebbles and bird’s eggs, slingshots, wooden swords, and the few well-loved books he owned.

He knocked, and waited. “Come in, Muira,” she said. He threw open the door, furious that she’d put herself at risk, that she’d left him with her family, that she’d left London at all.

Caroline was indeed dripping wet, but in no way did she resemble a drowned stoat.

She sat in a tub of hot water, the steam curling around her. Her eyes widened above pink cheeks at the sight of him in the doorway before she grabbed the nearest covering at hand and dragged it into the tub with her. The thin muslin shift soaked through and molded itself to her figure. He could see the dark outline of her nipples, the long length of her legs. An image of those legs, those breasts in the moonlight dried his mouth. He should turn away, leave, but he couldn’t move. Hell, he couldn’t even breathe.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, wrestling with the muslin.

“You told me to come in,” he said.

“Only because I thought you were Muira with more hot water!” She was getting water all over the floor as she tried to sink deeper into the bath, and control the flimsy muslin at the same time. “Go away!”

He
should
go. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, the smart thing, but she was naked, wet, and lovely, and the room smelled of wildflowers—the soap, he assumed, or perhaps it was just Caroline. This room had never smelled of wildflowers when he lived here. It should have felt strange, but the chamber still felt like home, sanctuary, even with her things strewn about—her books, her hairbrush, her wet undergarments hanging over chairs and hooks. He couldn’t make his feet move, couldn’t take his eyes off the wide golden pools of her eyes, her sweet pink lips, the wet slope of her breasts, the long white length of her legs. He’d caressed those breasts, suckled them, and those legs had been wrapped around his hips as he—

“If you’re not going to leave, at least turn around, or hand me a towel, or a blanket, or anything!”

He handed her a towel, and turned away. He heard her rise from the water, resisted the urge to peek, heard the rustle of fabric as she wrapped herself up. “Where have you been all day? Somerson is assuming you’ve been drowned in the storm,” he said.

The rustle of linen stopped. “Somerson? Here? How did he—I suppose Sophie wrote to Lottie.”

He turned to face her, the admission that he’d written the letter on the tip of his tongue, but his tongue got caught between his teeth when he saw her. She stood beside the wooden tub like a Greek goddess. The wet linen outlined her slim figure from breast to thigh, her shoulders white and wet and perfect. Desire stirred, driving out any chance of intelligent thought, and he was instantly hard, as ready as he’d been in the tower. He looked away, but his eyes fell on the bed, which made it worse still. “He’s—downstairs. Somerson, I mean. He arrived a few hours ago,” he said thickly.

“Is he alone?”

“Alone? No. He brought the whole family.”

She gasped and the towel slipped, sliding down the slopes of her breasts. She spun, walking toward the screen, but the linen outlined her perfect bottom. He swallowed a groan. “Lady Somerson is here too, Lady Charlotte, his future son-in-law, and Mandeville, and Speed, all downstairs, waiting for you.” He concentrated on counting them on his fingers, but it did no good. His erection refused to give up. The wet towel was ejected from behind the screen, and it landed on the floor next to the tub, mocking him. He didn’t have to see her. He knew every curve of her body, how silky her skin was, how sweet her mouth tasted, the sweet sounds she made when he loved her. It was all he could do to stay where he was.

“What’s Starbury?” he asked her, trying to ignore the rustle of fabric as she dressed.

“Starbury? It’s one of Somerson’s estates, a very small one in Shropshire, on the border with Wales. Why?” she asked.

“Because Somerson mentioned Starbury to Mears as their next destination on the way back to London.”

She was silent.

“Is it a pleasant place?” he asked.

“It’s—remote and rather desolate. My mother hated the place. She called it more a prison than a house, the kind of place someone ill goes to die alone.”

Alec shut his eyes. Of course it sounded like a prison. It was meant to be a prison—for Caroline. Somerson meant to take her there and leave her.

She came out from behind the screen, wearing a prim gown. Still, his breath caught in his throat, and he wanted nothing more than to undo the tiny buttons that fastened the garment up to her chin, lay her bare again, and carry her to the narrow little bed. She stayed out of his reach, and he noticed her feet were bare under the hem of the gown, the way they’d been at Midsummer. Her hair was loose as well, curling damply around her face. She pointed to her stockings, hanging on the back of a chair. “I will come downstairs as soon as I finish dressing.” He couldn’t look away. She met his eyes, must have seen the heat there. The spots of color on her cheeks expanded, and her eyes darkened, before she looked away. “Please go,” she begged.