Once Upon a Highland Christmas

by Lecia Cornwall

  Fiona took her arm and the two of them made their way along the hall to the foot of the stairs together, chattering about Christmas. Iain followed. Alanna could feel his eyes on her back like a touch. He’d scarcely said a word at dinner.

  “I’ll carry you up,” he said as they reached the bottom step.

  “I’m quite able to manage—­” Alanna began, but the look in his eyes brooked no argument. He swung her into his arms and began to climb, aware of everyone watching them.

  “Perhaps if I had a cane, or a crutch—­” Alanna began, but he silenced her with a look.

  “The stairs are dangerous,” he said. “It’s no bother, if that’s what worries you. Or is it something else?”

  Something else? Alanna wondered what it could be. He kept his eyes on the stairs, his jaw tight.

  “I’ll be in the library, Iain,” Penelope called after him.

  “I’ll say good night. I have some letters to write,” Marjorie said.

  Elizabeth and Fiona disappeared.

  “I can walk from here,” Alanna said when they reached the top step.

  “As you wish, my lady.” He set her down, clasped his arms behind his back, and walked by her side. “You didn’t tell me you were related to half of England.”

  “Not quite half—­a quarter at best,” she quipped. He didn’t smile. “Does it matter?”

  “It’s like entertaining royalty. We might have chosen a more impressive suite of rooms, served a more lavish meal,” he said, his tone sarcastic.

  “I shall remember to properly introduce myself next time I’m rescued from a storm, or be sure to carry an annotated list of my family connections in my pocket at all times, just in case,” she replied tartly. “Perhaps I simply should wear a sash showing the various coats of arms. It would make an interesting conversation starter.”

  “At least I understand now why you’re marrying an English lord—­a marquess, wasn’t it? It appears it’s a family tradition.”

  She felt anger nip at her. “Said the English earl, betrothed to the English lady.”

  “Touché,” he said softly. “But I’m not betrothed to Penelope.”

  Alanna felt hot blood fill her face. “I assumed that you were. I apologize.” She watched a dozen emotions cross his face—­guilt, pride, and a touch of fear.

  “She—­that is, I expect that soon . . .” He let the thought trail away. Alanna hid a smile. Could it be possible that Iain MacGillivray hadn’t the courage to ask for Penelope’s hand, that he was shy or nervous, or afraid she might reject him? She wouldn’t—­in fact, Alanna could well imagine Penelope dragging Iain McGillivray to the altar by the hair in her eagerness to marry him. She had certainly hinted broadly that Iain belonged to her, that they were soon to wed.

  They had reached the door to her room—­his room. She set her hand on his arm. “I’m sure Lady Penelope will welcome your proposal, my lord, be very fortunate to marry you,” she said encouragingly as she looked into his eyes. He stared back at her, his eyes in shadow, his expression unreadable.

  “And do you feel fortunate to be marrying your marquess?”

  She dropped her gaze. “Of course,” she lied. “Wilbur is very—­” Her mouth moved, but no word came out to describe him. She couldn’t think of one. Iain put his finger under her jaw and lifted her face, made her meet his eyes.

  “I thought I heard Marjorie call him Wilfred, not Wilbur.”

  She swallowed. “Yes, that’s right —­Wilfred. Willie. Lord Merridew,” she babbled, mortified at her mistake.

  He looked at her for another long moment, his expression bemused. Then he smiled and stepped back, releasing his hold on her chin, as if he’d decided something, had come to a conclusion. Alanna’s heart clenched. Now, she thought, he’d go down to the library, drop to one knee before Penelope, and propose. She felt jealousy flit across her nerves.

  “Good night, my lady,” he said, and bowed to her as if she were a queen.

  She automatically dipped a curtsy. She winced at the pain in her knee, rose, and fumbled for the latch. She stood for a moment and watched him stride away from her before she scurried inside and shut the door behind her.

  IAIN STOOD AT the top of the stairs. He could still go downstairs to the library, find Penelope, and propose. This time, the words wouldn’t stick in his throat. He would look her in the eyes and simply . . .

  It wasn’t Penelope’s eyes he imagined.

  Still, it must be done. He stomped down the stairs. A moment was all it would take, and it would be over, the future secured. He stopped at the bottom of the steps, his hand on the wall. He stood at the junction of his home, the place where the ancient Scottish half of the castle joined the new English wing his father had added. The two sides of the hall couldn’t have been more different—­stone versus polished panels of oak. Comfort and luxury versus raw shelter and defense. Two worlds connected in this spot, each with its own values, its own traditions. He stood in the center of the hall, stared down the length of it toward the double doors that opened into the great hall. Halfway along, the library door stood open a crack, and warm candlelight leaked out over the cold stone floor.

  He stared at the crack. Penelope was inside, waiting for him. He swallowed again and moved to stand before the door. Behind him was the door that led to the solar. He glanced at the ancient iron ring instead of a polished brass latch.

  Iain reached for the iron ring, listened to the door creak open. He shut it behind him.

  The solar had once been his mother’s favorite sitting room. He used it as his study and for wood carving now, a workshop, since the light was good. He crossed to a wide table that stood by the windows, lit a lamp and hung it on a hook. For a moment, the light swung over the table, casting shadows, making them dance over the curled wood shavings on the surface. He lit a second lamp, set it on the table, picked up a knife and a block of wood, fragrant pine, and began to carve. The feeling of the knife biting into the wood, the act of shaping it in long, sure strokes, the warmth of it in his hands, the dry, sharp smell soothed him.

  He was making a Christmas present for Fiona, an angel, and he put Penelope and proposals out of his mind for the moment, watched the angel take shape, wood shavings curling around his fingers.

  “Wilbur,” he muttered, flicking the curls away. He grinned down at the faceless, half-­formed angel. “She was obviously running away.”

  But why?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Duncorrie, fifteen days before Christmas

  CONNOR FRASER GREETED his parents-­by-­marriage at the door of his cottage, welcoming them in from the cold with a broad grin. “It’s a braw wee lad!” he told them, and was enveloped in his mother-­in-­law’s joyful hug before she rushed inside to see her daughter and newborn grandson.

  Jock stepped inside and unwound his plaid. “It was a fearsome journey through all the snow, but worth the trouble. Mind you, the storm doesn’t seem to have reached you here. Not a day’s travel from Craigleith, and there’s barely a sprinkle of snow on the ground here.”

  “Still, it’s cold enough,” Connor said. “Come and meet your grandson and have a dram to warm yourself and wet the baby’s head,” Connor said. “Now you’ve come, and we’ve had a meal together, I’ll set off to see my own kin in the morning and tell them the news.”

  Jock gripped his son-­in-­law’s shoulder. “Good lad. We’re not the only grandparents who’ll be waiting for the news. By the way, can you take a letter, pass it on to someone heading toward Glenlorne?” Jock asked.

  “A letter? Who is it you know at Glenlorne?” Connor asked, his brows rising into his dark thatch of hair.

  “No one at all. It’s for Laird Iain—­he found a lass lost in the snow and brought her home with him. Her brother is at Glenlorne.”

  Connor poured two cups of whisky. In the box bed in the corner, his Isl
a was cooing like a contented dove over the babe with her mother. He waited while Jock admired the child, commenting on the babe’s fine solid weight in his arms, and opening the blankets to count the bairn’s fingers and toes, ignoring the objections of the womenfolk that the child would catch cold. May took the babe from her husband’s arms, rewrapped him, and sent Jock back to Connor.

  “So who is this lass? Does the laird mean to keep her?” Connor asked.

  Jock sighed. “I haven’t seen her, but I hear she’s a lovely wee thing. Sandy MacGillivray told me Iain chased her down like a fine hind, and kept her through the night. He brought her back to Craigleith over his shoulders, wrapped in naught but his plaid and weeping into his handkerchief.”

  “There’ll be a wedding then,” Connor said, sipping his whisky.

  “Or a ransom,” Jock added. “Or perhaps he’ll give her back if she doesn’t suit him.”

  “I’d keep her if she’s as bonnie as you say,” Connor said, whispering so his wife wouldn’t hear.

  “That’s just what I’d do,” Jock agreed with a wink, and let Connor pour another measure of whisky into his cup. “Once there’s a child, all will be settled right enough, and the lass will be as tame and content as a fine cow.”

  “As is the Highland tradition,” Jock agreed. “Tradition is a fine thing, where women and cattle are concerned.”

  “Helps a man make sense of them both,” Connor agreed. Jock’s wife came to stir the stew that bubbled over the fire and sent them both a sharp look of disapproval, because that was tradition too, when it came to making sense of men and keeping them in line.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Loch Rain, fourteen days before Christmas

  THERE WAS A celebration at the home of Connor Fraser’s family. Even if the proud father had not brought the blessed grandchild with him to visit, the news of the babe was welcome enough.

  “How big is he?” his father asked. Connor held his hands apart a good two feet and received a nod of approval.

  “And so heavy we can scarcely lift him,” Connor bragged. “He’ll be a fine man when he’s grown.”

  “Like his father,” Connor’s mother beamed at him. “Does he feed well, cry loudly?” His aunt nodded her approval of the question.

  “Sounds like the bagpipes wailing across a broad glen on a clear day, and he feeds like a lusty sailor,” Connor said with colorful enthusiasm. His cousin, a lad of just sixteen, looked bored.

  Connor took the letter out of his pocket and nudged the lad. “I’ve a job for you, Farlan.”

  “What is it?” Connor’s mother asked, snatching the letter.

  “A letter that needs delivering. It’s going all the way to Glenlorne, but if you could take it part of the way, to Cairnforth, maybe, then ask someone to take it on from there—­” Connor knew the blacksmith at Cairnforth had a pretty daughter, and Farlan sat up eagerly.

  “Aye, I’ll do it,” the lad said at once.

  “Now who do you know at Glenlorne?” his aunt asked, setting her hands on her hips. She took the letter from his mother and read the address. “Alec McNabb? Isn’t the chief called Alec? How do you know the chief of the McNabbs, Connor?”

  “Och, no, not me. I’m carrying the letter as a favor for Jock MacIntosh, who promised Sandy MacGillivray he’d pass it on. There’s a lass at Craigleith who’s trying to get word to her kin at Glenlorne.”

  “A lass?” his mother asked. Everyone leaned in, even Farlan. “Is she pretty?”

  “Jock says she’s the loveliest lass in the Highlands,” Connor said. “The Laird of Craigleith himself found her while he was out walking in the hills, stalking a fine deer for Christmas. He found her instead and fell madly in love with her. He caught her up in his plaid, gagged her with his handkerchief, and carried her home to his castle.”

  Connor’s family stared. “Is that a true tale?” his aunt asked.

  “As true as it came to my ears,” Connor said.

  “Maybe she’s an enchantress, or Cailleach herself,” Farlan said. “There’s snow at Craigleith, isn’t there? There’s almost none here.”

  The womenfolk gasped. “But Cailleach’s a crone.”

  “She could be whatever she wanted, couldn’t she, if she’s magical?” Farlan asked, rubbing his beardless chin.

  Connor rolled his eyes and broke the spell with a laugh. “Laddie, you’ve been listening to too many of the seannachaidh’s stories. Why would an enchantress be writing letters? She’d just fly where she wanted to go, or cast a spell. Jock said she was naught but an ordinary lass.”

  Everyone looked disappointed. “But beautiful, you say?” Farlan asked.

  “Aye,” Connor said.

  “Enchantingly beautiful? Does the laird intend to keep her? If she’s not spoken for, then I might go to Craigleith, see her for myself.”

  Farlan’s mother boxed his ears. “You’ll do no such thing. You’ll take the letter to Cairnforth, find someone to carry it on to Glenlorne, and you’ll go this very day.”

  Farlan colored and rose to his feet, grumbling. “Fine, but if I find a beautiful lass in the snow on my way there, I won’t be home for supper.”

  He stuffed the letter into his pocket, wrapped his plaid over his shoulders, and slammed the door behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Craigleith Castle, thirteen days before Christmas

  THE LIBRARY OF Craigleith Castle was a pleasant place to spend an afternoon, Alanna thought. The shelves were stocked with an excellent collection of books, all well read by the looks of it, which was as it should be. She had grown up with a limited supply of books, and had devoured the ones she did have over and over again. She could indulge her desire to read now, of course, and did. She hoped that Lord Merridew’s home had a library.

  Tired of being alone in her room, Alanna had found her own way down the stairs, moving slowly, using a fireplace poker to lean on. She felt like a crone, the Cailleach herself perhaps, hobbling over the hills and glens of Scotland on ancient bones. She’d found her way to the library, looking for company, or a book at least.

  She’d found Fiona and Elizabeth sitting by the fire, sewing.

  They jumped up as Alanna entered the room, and hid their work behind their backs. Then Fiona’s face lit with pleasure at the sight of Craigleith’s guest. “Hello. We were afraid you were Seonag. We’re sewing for her new baby, for Christmas. Well, and for other folk, too. Can you sew? I mean, you needn’t feel you must, but I’m woefully behind this year. I’ve been working on Iain’s Christmas present,” she said. She glanced at the door. “Did Iain carry you down?”

  She was chattering nonstop, and Alanna smiled.

  “No, I made my own way. My leg is feeling much better.” She set her makeshift cane aside and took a place on the settee.

  Elizabeth dipped a curtsy. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

  Alanna smiled at her. “If you call me Alanna, may I call you Elizabeth?”

  Elizabeth grinned. “Yes, of course—­I mean, aye, of course.”

  “Elizabeth wants to learn some Gaelic,” Fiona said. “I’ve been trying to teach her.”

  “Fàilte,” Elizabeth said, meaning welcome.

  “Tapadh leibh,” Alanna replied. “That means thank you. Why do you wish to learn Gaelic?”

  Elizabeth sighed. “My mother says that I shall be very difficult to marry off, being plain and plump and a trifle dull-­witted. I thought if I did not wed, I should like to come here, to Craigleith, and live out my days here, sewing for the clan and learning magic from Annie.”

  “I think you’re very pretty indeed,” Alanna said. “My mother says the same things to my sister Sorcha. Sorcha has freckles on her nose and unruly curls, and she prefers roaming about the hills barefooted with her skirts tucked up instead of wearing pretty clothes and sitting in the schoolroom. She’s hopeless a
t sewing, or any of the other ladylike accomplishments my mother thinks are important—­but Sorcha will grow up to be the family beauty.”

  “How can you tell?” Elizabeth asked, twining a blond curl around her fingertip, her blue eyes on Alanna’s.

  “She loves to laugh, she’s kind to everyone, and she doesn’t care a whit what ­people think of her. She just needs to grow into her looks, for the beauty is already there, inside.”

  “Oh,” Elizabeth breathed, her eyes widening with delight. “How wonderful. Perhaps I have an inner beauty waiting to come out.”

  “Like a butterfly,” Fiona said. “One day you’ll spread your wings, step out onto the dance floor at your London debut, and dazzle everyone.”

  “So will you,” Elizabeth said. “Maybe we can make our come-­out together.”

  Fiona’s eyes fell to her stitches and she shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t dance, and my English is laughable. Penelope said so, and Aunt Marjorie says she can’t understand a word I say. I can sew, but I’d hardly call a shirt for an infant a ladylike accomplishment.”

  Alanna felt indignation curl in her breast at the harsh criticism. “Then we shall practice. The English tutor my mother hired put pebbles in my mouth, told me to speak around them, as if they weren’t there.”

  “Did that work?” Fiona asked.

  “Not at all, though it might help with Gaelic.”

  The girls laughed.

  “Say ‘How do you do,’ ” she instructed Fiona.

  “How d’you do?” Fiona said, adding a lilt.

  “She said ‘doo’ instead of ‘do,’ ” Elizabeth said.

  “But she said the words as if she was genuinely glad to meet me. That will make the person she’s meeting notice the sentiment, not the accent, and be pleased indeed.” At least Alanna hoped that was true. Her own accent refused to yield to pebbles or hours of instruction. It remained as an underpinning to her speech, like a homespun shift under a silk ball gown.