Dundrummie was much closer, and she had promised. Her mother would surely be beside herself by now, especially after what had happened with Megan. She could not elope, or handfast with a handsome stranger, as her sister had done, or fall in love. Lord Merridew was waiting for her at Dundrummie, and she must honor her pledge to marry a man she did not love.
Chapter Seven
IAIN PICKED UP the garron’s shaggy hoof and began to pick out the compacted snow. As he did, he considered the problem of Alanna McNabb—for she certainly was a problem. He tried to free his mind from the image of her sitting in the cott, her dark hair a seductive tumble around her face, naked except for his plaid, her lips parted, her eyes wide at the sight of him, as naked as she was.
He shook his head and concentrated on the garron’s hoof. No, he hadn’t looked under the plaid, but he had hands, and legs, and— He picked up the next hoof.
He’d done what was necessary, nothing more. Any man would have done the same. She could have died otherwise.
But she’d lived, and she was sitting in his kitchen, being tended by Annie and his sister, late for her wedding.
Her wedding. Iain frowned. She said she hadn’t been running away. Still, she’d chosen to take a twelve-mile stroll in a blizzard on the eve of her wedding. It didn’t make sense.
Perhaps there had been a lover’s quarrel, but what man wouldn’t come after a woman like Alanna McNabb?
“It’s none of my concern who she chooses to marry,” he said aloud, and the garron cast a curious glance at him. He picked up the next hoof and wondered what Alanna would tell her betrothed about the events of last night, and if the man would understand. If it were him, he would not want to share a woman like Alanna, not even for so innocent a reason.
“She was not running away,” he murmured, and the garron looked at him again. “Or so she said.”
In other circumstances, if she’d stayed put at Dundrummie, tonight would have been her wedding night, and she would have been tangled under the covers with her husband, and for a far more pleasant purpose. He found he didn’t like the idea at all. He felt an instant of . . . what? Possessiveness? Jealousy? It wasn’t his right—Alanna McNabb did not belong to him.
As soon as the weather allowed—tomorrow, perhaps—he and the faithful garron now leaning his heavy foot on Iain’s knee would make the journey to Dundrummie Castle to inform her anxious bridegroom that Alanna was safe, unharmed, and awaiting him at Craigleith. She would not be able to travel comfortably for a few days, and it was better that she remained here. Would the man understand that Iain had only done what was necessary? Would he?
“Not for a moment,” he told the garron, shaking his head.
Then there was the problem of Penelope. He had intended to propose to her last night, and instead . . . it had been a reprieve, nothing more. He would have to ask her, and he knew it must be soon. “Duty,” he muttered. How he hated the word. And it was a terrible reason to marry someone. Penelope deserved better than that, surely.
“Who are you talking to?”
Iain looked up to find his cousin Penelope leaning over the edge of the stall, watching him. He hadn’t heard her come in. They would be betrothed now, this minute, if the storm had not kept him away. He could ask her now, of course. He looked at her expectant face and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
“Just the garron,” he said, moving on to the last hoof.
“Horse,” she corrected him. “In England we say ‘horse,’ not ‘garron’—and English earls don’t muck out their own stables. As Earl of Purbrick, you’ll have servants for that at Woodford Park.”
Purbrick. Iain made a face she couldn’t see. He couldn’t even say the word Purbrick properly, remembered how his English cousins had mocked his pronunciation of the word when he’d visited Woodford Park as a boy, had beaten him for his Scottishness. His mouth twisted. That was long before he—or they—ever thought he’d inherit the damned earldom. No man would dare to try to beat him now—not physically, anyway. They could still mock him, though he hardly cared for his own sake. Fiona, though—gentle, shy, crippled Fiona—would feel every slight, every insult. He’d need to be vigilant and protective, shield her from hurt.
“I don’t mind working,” he said to Penelope. “What can I do for you?” It wasn’t like his highborn cousin to venture out of doors on a cold day. To his knowledge, she hadn’t left the castle since her arrival nearly three weeks earlier, not even for a stroll in the garden. She’d never get lost in a blinding snowstorm . . .
“Nothing really.” She pulled her cloak around her throat. “It’s cold,” she said. “Is it always so cold in Scotland?”
He couldn’t resist a grin, which he hid by turning to look for a brush. “No, sometimes it’s rainy, or windy, or dark. The summers are lovely, though.” He applied the stiff bristles to the garron’s coat, ran his hand over the creature’s supple muscles.
She came around the edge of the stall, stood closer to him. He could smell her perfume, even over the darker odors of the stable. “Well, maybe they are, but we won’t be here then. You’ll have to get used to English summers—boating on the river, picnics, strawberries . . . Do you like strawberries, Iain?”
He met her eyes, as blue and sultry as the summer sky in any country. Alanna’s eyes held all the colors of the Highland landscape. Strawberries—he forced his mind back to the topic at hand. “Doesn’t everyone like strawberries? We grow them here too.”
“Oh, I doubt they’re as sweet as English berries!” She edged closer still, put her hand on his arm. He glanced at her. She was wide-eyed, her lips parted, inviting a kiss—or a marriage proposal. He felt his stomach knot. She was waiting for him to speak, and all he had to do was say the words. She would agree. She’d been told she must.
He looked away instead.
“You’d best be going back indoors, where it’s warm—there will be more snow before long,” he said.
Her brow crumpled. “My boots will be ruined! They’re handmade!”
“Fine as they are, they’re hardly fit for the snow or the stable,” he said as he caught her arm, guided her away from a pile of manure she was about to back into, and let go. He felt nothing when he touched her—no desire, no longing, and certainly not love. “Perhaps Annie could find you some sturdier footwear, and you could save those boots for England. You need a warmer cloak too.”
She ran a gloved hand over the fine blue wool of her stylish garment, lavishly embroidered around hem and hood with twining pink roses. It was more a costume than protection from any kind of weather worse than a light English mist. “Don’t you like this cloak? Mama says the color matches my eyes exactly. Do you agree?” She leaned toward him, her eyes wide, her face inches from his own, and licked her lips.
Iain stared into the blue pools, and she stared back at him. She was waiting for him to kiss her. He didn’t want to. He should want to. His aunt Marjorie was right—Penelope would make the perfect countess. She was born to the role, and he was not. Perhaps if he did kiss her, he’d feel differently. He swallowed and began to lean in, but the door opened and a blast of cold air swept snow into the warmth of the stable. Penelope spun, and Iain stepped back.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” Annie said, glancing at Penelope, who retreated to lean against the wall, her arms folded over her thin cloak, her blue eyes full of ice. Iain felt relieved by the interruption. He looked at Annie expectantly.
“I just came to tell you that the lass will do well enough, Iain. She needs rest, of course, but there’s nothing broken. She’ll stay here with us for a few days to mend. Will you come and carry her upstairs?”
Iain immediately dropped the brush and wiped his hands.
“What lass? Carry her where?” Penelope demanded.
“Och, did you not think to mention our guest, Iain?” Annie scolded
him. “The laird found a lass lost in the snow. Forced to take shelter in a humble cott for the night, they were, all alone.”
Penelope’s face reddened dangerously, and her jaw dropped. Her eyes swung on Iain, hit him like an arrow.
“Annie,” Iain warned.
Annie merely grinned and held out his handkerchief. “Here’s your handkerchief back.” He stuffed it into his pocket as she turned back to Penelope. “Her poor leg was all cut and bashed. Iain bandaged her up with his own linen, just here—” She indicated a place higher on her thigh than the wound had been, and he watched Penelope turn a deep shade of plum.
His cousin tossed her head. “It was some silly child, no doubt. Is that not what a ‘lass’ is in Scotland?”
Annie cackled. “Och, she’s no child. She’s a woman grown, and a beauty. She’ll not be walking for a day or two, so Iain will need to carry her. Not that it will be any hardship. She’s as light as a snowflake by the looks of her. Is she, Iain?”
He didn’t answer. Penelope’s blue eyes boiled. Iain had no doubt she was warmer now. “Can she not walk on her own? What room is she in?” his cousin demanded.
“The only one suitable for an earl’s sister—the green chamber,” Annie said.
Iain’s heart lurched. That was his room. Alanna would fill his bed . . . he forced himself to concentrate.
“An earl’s sister?” he asked.
“Aye, did she not tell you? Her brother is McNabb of Glenlorne,” Annie said.
“Who’s he?” Penelope demanded, looking from Iain to Annie and back again.
“We didn’t talk much,” Iain admitted. An earl’s sister?
Penelope gaped at him, her blue eyes like saucers. “You didn’t talk much? All night? Then just what did you do?”
Iain pushed past her and opened the door. “Just what was necessary,” he growled, and headed out into the cold wind. The snow had started again, and so had the trouble. He’d have a word with Annie later, once he’d settled Alanna—Lady Alanna—in his bed. He frowned into the gale. Not his bed—her bed. For now. He’d sleep in the old tower, alone.
He stalked into the kitchen and heard a trill of laughter. Sandy was seated near the fireplace with Alanna, his old eyes besotted, his smile fey as a lad’s as he gazed at her. The light caught Alanna’s dark hair, limned it like a halo, brought out streaks of copper in the glorious tangled length of it. Iain’s breath caught in his throat, and his footsteps faltered in the doorway. Penelope crashed into his back.
Alanna glanced up at him. Her smile faded, and a blush rose over her cheeks at the sight of him. It made something turn in his chest, and he swallowed.
Sandy glanced up as well, but his grin only grew broader. He got to his feet. “I was just having a wee word with the lass.” He stuck his thumbs in his belt and puffed out his chest. “Since I’m Craigleith’s gamekeeper, I wondered what she’d like me to fetch in for her supper—a nice grouse, perhaps, or a coney for a pie, I thought.”
Annie folded back her snow-covered arisaid. “You haven’t been the gamekeeper for nigh on ten years, Sandy. You can’t see to aim the gun. You’d better get Logan to ask her.”
Sandy looked crushed. “I taught that boy everything I know, and I can still set a snare good as I ever could, woman.”
Annie quirked an eyebrow. “Logan may be your son, but he’s a man grown with four bairns of his own, not a boy—and nor are you, old man. What the lass needs is a good nourishing broth. Go and see if you can snare a chicken in the henhouse,” Annie ordered, and the old gamekeeper stalked out of the room, grumbling.
“Good day,” Penelope said, slipping past Iain to stand in front of him. She took Alanna’s measure with a sweeping glance. “Allow me to welcome you to Craigleith. I’m Lady Penelope Curry.”
Alanna smiled and held out her hand. “I’m Lady Alanna McNabb,” she said in perfect English. “Please forgive me for not getting up and making my curtsy.”
Ian couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was an earl’s sister who spoke perfect English, and obviously understood English manners. What else didn’t he know about her? Everything.
“You can curtsy all you like later on, once you’ve had some sleep. Iain?” Annie said, and Iain stepped past Penelope to gently lift Alanna off the bench. She did weigh less than a snowflake. She put her arm around his neck, though under Penelope’s eyes she was stiff, her cheeks rose pink. Better than chalk-white, he thought. She was warm now, smelled of herbs and whisky, and the faint scent of his soap clung to her as well, no doubt carried to her from his plaid. It was like a stamp of ownership. Alanna looked up and colored like a sunset when their eyes met. Her mouth lay inches from his own—such lush, perfect lips. Now this was a woman he wanted to kiss . . . he glanced at Penelope, saw the simmering speculation in her eyes, the tightness of her jaw.
He turned and headed down the kitchen corridor, and out through the great hall toward the staircase. His footsteps rang on the stone floor, and Penelope’s lighter footsteps were clipped and sharp. Annie rushed ahead, offering a kind of tour as he strode through the dining room and along the hall, babbling the history of Craigleith and the Clan MacGillivray in Gaelic.
Iain wasn’t listening. He was aware of Alanna in his arms, and of Penelope following. His cousin’s eyes were fixed between his shoulder blades like a spike. He felt a moment’s irritation. He’d given her no reason to be jealous, and they were not betrothed yet. He was doing what was necessary, and nothing more. Still, he felt a twinge of guilt that he was enjoying it so much, the feeling of Alanna in his arms, the scent of her skin. She was listening to Annie, her eyes drinking in his home, and he followed her gaze, saw it as she did. Craigleith had stood for some four hundred years. When his English father had married his Scottish mother, he had added a new wing. On one side of the hallway, the walls were old stone, hung with dirks and targes and Lochaber axes. There were doors that led to the old armory and knight’s quarters, and stairs that led upward to the tower and the solar. On the opposite side of the hall, the walls were paneled in polished oak. Doors led to a very English library, a small salon, and a grand dining room fit for an English king, should one ever dare to venture so far north again and was of a mind to drop in for supper at Craigleith.
He was proud of his home. Was Glenlorne grander? He wondered about her fiancé’s home too. Alanna was a lady, not just a simple Highland lass who’d gotten lost while out looking for her cows. She was used to finer luxuries than she would find here. Would he have treated her differently last night had he known? An interesting question, that. Not that he had an answer to it.
Annie opened the door of his bedchamber. Iain drew a breath as he carried Alanna over yet another threshold, this one more intimate than the last. His clothes and belongings still lay where he’d left them, on hooks and over the chair and on the chest in the corner. A stack of books stood on his desk by the window. His bed was freshly made, the sheets warmed, and Annie turned back the blankets invitingly. A fire burned in the grate. Alanna stiffened in his arms. “Oh, but this is obviously someone’s room—”
“ ’Tis Iain’s, but he doesn’t mind,” Annie said before he could say it himself. “You’ll be most comfortable here.”
Iain carefully deposited her on the bed, and she looked up at him. “Where will you sleep?”
The question rattled through his brain, shot to his groin. He imagined tumbling into bed next to her, both of them warm this time, wide awake, and . . . he shook the thought off and stepped back, clasped his hands behind his back.
“Craigleith has other rooms.”
“The lord’s chamber is free, Iain. You could sleep there,” Penelope said.
He still thought of it as his father’s room. He had left it untouched and uninhabited since Lord Anthony Marston MacGillivray death nearly ten years ago. Iain preferred this room, since it was less grand, less English. Even his fa
ther, who had built his apartments in the image of the grand English manors he’d grown up in, had preferred to sleep in his bride’s simpler apartments.
“The tower will do me just fine.”
Annie looked at Alanna as Iain set her down on the bed and stepped back at once. “He refuses to move into the lord’s chamber until he’s wed.”
“Then it’s certainly appropriate now,” Penelope said, and came forward to slip her arm though his. Her hand was like a talon on his sleeve, sharp and possessive.
Iain watched Alanna’s eyes slide over Penelope’s hand. She understood at once—he saw that in her eyes. He kept his gaze flat as he detached himself from his cousin and began to gather his things.
Annie was watching him like a curious bird, and he wondered what she was thinking. He sent her a warning look and went to the door. He glanced back at Alanna. She sat on his bed looking wan and tired, and his heart went out to her. He had the damnedest urge to lay his hand on her brow, check for fever before he tucked her between the sheets, settled her on the pillow, and closed the drapes.
“Rest well, Lady Alanna,” he said and bowed crisply before fleeing along the hall.
Penelope followed him. “Would she not be more comfortable at her own home? Annie should not have troubled you. There are servants who can tend to her, and if she needs a doctor, then surely one can be found for her.”
Iain gritted his teeth. “It is a Highland custom to welcome travellers, to see that they have what they need. In this case, she needs kindness and care and rest. Annie can see to her health.”
“I could ask my mother’s opinion, of course,” Penelope said. “She’d know best what to do.”
He stopped so suddenly that she nearly crashed into his back again. “Not here, Penelope. Not in Scotland. This is my home, and as Laird of Craigleith, I will decide. I’m glad to help the lass—the lady—if she needs it. She is my guest, as you are.”
Penelope blanched. “Oh, but I’m more than that, Iain—” she began, but he turned down the corridor that led to the old part of the castle, and the tower. He could—should—stop walking, turn back, drop to his knee, and ask her. But he glanced back at the door of his bedchamber, firmly shut now, with Alanna inside, and the words stuck in his throat yet again.
Once Upon a Highland Christmas Page 6
