“Oh, I see,” Elizabeth said, beaming at her cousin. “It does sound charming, doesn’t it? It makes one want to lean in, listen more closely.”
“Is it the same for men?” Fiona asked, her brow furrowing.
She meant Iain, of course. Alanna thought of Iain’s mellow voice, the soothing sound of it, comforting, sensual and rich, like warmed whisky. The familiar heat that invaded her limbs whenever she was in his presence, or even when she merely thought of him, flooded her body even now, and he was nowhere in sight. “I’m sure it is,” she assured Fiona.
“You have a way with people, Alanna. Your marquess must love you very much. Is it a love match?” Elizabeth asked. “I mean, if it isn’t rude of me to ask.”
Alanna felt her skin prickle. “I—” She swallowed. “I am very pleased to accept your—his—proposal of marriage.” She said it just the way she’d practiced it, over and over again, until there was no accent at all and she could say the words without tears, or panic threatening to choke her. She looked up, met Fiona’s eyes, saw the question there, and forced a smile. “May I help with some of the sewing?”
Fiona dropped her gaze to the linen shirt in her lap. “Of course. Children are always growing out of things, or wearing them out. By the time hand-me-downs reach the littlest ones in a family, there’s nothing left. My mother would make new things for the very youngest ones, give them at Christmas, so they would have something brand-new to call their own.”
Alanna smiled at her kindness. “I can see the wisdom in that. I wore my older sister’s castoffs when we were children, and I hated it.” She had grown up in Megan’s shadow, the middle child, forgotten, always second in line for clothes, attention, and affection. Now, once she married Merridew, she would outrank her sister, who was a mere countess. She would be first at last. And yet, Merridew was still a castoff—he had wanted her sister before he’d wanted Alanna. She was still less worthy than Megan, even in marriage.
She shut her eyes for a moment. She wanted something—someone—who was just for her, who wanted her above anyone else, perfect, not second best.
She swallowed the bitter thought, chose something pleasant to think about. It was Christmas. If she were at Glenlorne now, she would be helping Muira and her sisters plan Christmas surprises for the folk there, and for each other. Since she could not be there, she would help here, in the company of strangers—nay, new friends. She smiled as Fiona put a tiny garment into her hands. She looked at the careful stitches that had already been added to a little shirt. The linen was soft, had been washed in lavender and heather to make it smell sweet. She threaded the needle with blue thread instead of white and began to stitch tiny flowers around the collar.
“Oh my,” Fiona said. “That’s lovely. You didn’t say you were so skilled.”
“My tutors despair of the way I paint, and I cannot play the piano or sing. Sorcha sings like an angel, and Megan collects stories. But they can’t sew. That is my talent,” Alanna said proudly.
“I am quite good at knitting,” Elizabeth said. “But my mother says it’s a skill better suited to peasants and old women. I’m ham-handed when it comes to any delicate work.”
“Would you like to knit a blanket or two?” Fiona asked. “There’s some red wool in the basket.”
“How festive!” Elizabeth enthused and picked up her needles. “My mother and Penelope would have fits if they knew I was knitting for ordinary folk.”
“But it’s charitable, and kind, and so much appreciated, especially as a gift. Why would anyone mind that?” Alanna asked.
“Oh, Mama’s charitable—she directs the servants at Woodford to make up baskets for distribution to the poor.”
Fiona looked at Alanna. “We tend to do it ourselves here in the Highlands. We call them handsels. I help Annie and Seonag make preserves and bake Yule cakes, and then Iain and I go out a few days before Christmas and visit everyone, take gifts, and invite the clan to the party on Christmas Eve. We see that no one wants for anything we can provide.”
“It’s the same at Glenlorne,” Alanna murmured. “My sisters and I would pack the handsels and make the rounds in the village.”
“May I help this year?” Elizabeth asked. “I would like to.”
“Of course—the more hands, the lighter the work. It makes everyone happy and merry, and sets the mood for the festivities.”
“It’s very different, the way folk are with each other here, than it is in England, isn’t it?” Elizabeth asked. “I mean, the way you treat your servants—they’re more like family.”
“They are family,” Fiona said. “They’re all MacGillivrays, like Iain, and me. Annie took care of me when my mother died—Iain too.”
Elizabeth leaned forward. “Does she truly have magic?”
Fiona’s expression turned solemn. “Aye. She saw a crown and ring in the fire even before Iain knew he’d inherited Purbrick. She saw Alanna’s arrival as well.”
Alanna glanced up.
“Can she tell my future, see what will happen to me?” Elizabeth asked.
“It isn’t like that,” Fiona said. “She sees what she sees. She doesn’t tell folk bad news, or try to stop it happening unless she’s sure she can.”
“We have Muira McNabb at Glenlorne. She’s a healer, a cook, and she sees things in the flames of the fire, or the sky, or in her own mind from time to time. We’ve learned to believe her, and to love her the way the MacGillivrays love Annie.”
The door opened. There was a flurry of hiding half-stitched garments under cushions and in the folds of skirts, but it was only Sandy, bringing in a basket of peat. He carried it to the fire with a sober expression.
“Seonag had the bairn this morning,” he said. “It’s a wee lad, just as Annie said it would be, healthy and strong. Lungs like a piper.”
“How wonderful!” Alanna said, and Fiona rose and kissed the old gamekeeper’s weathered cheek.
Sandy sighed. “Wonderful? There won’t be a moment’s peace in the cottage. The wee one will be wailing all day and night. A man needs his sleep.”
Fiona smiled. “You can sleep here in the castle, Sandy. There’s plenty of room.”
He looked at her in surprise. “What, and leave my family?”
“We’ll go and visit Seonag this afternoon,” Fiona said. “We’ll bring some sweeties for the children. That should keep them quiet at least.”
Sandy looked pleased. “They’ll be glad of the visit. Seonag’s proud of her bairns, loves ’em all. Logan too.”
“No wonder you don’t want to be anywhere else,” Alanna said, and he looked at her with soft eyes.
“The wee lad is my fourth grandchild, and I love him well. I’ll teach him to hunt if the good Lord gives me a few more years on this earth.” He bid them good day and left, and the needlework resumed.
“Who’ll cook now?” Elizabeth asked.
“Wee Janet, of course, and Annie and I will help,” Fiona said. “If I know Seonag, she’ll be back in a day or two, fussing about the Christmas baking, checking up on things, with the babe happy as a wee piglet in a basket by the stove.”
“You’ll help out, in the kitchen?” Elizabeth said to her cousin. “Mama would be horrified!”
“Then we shan’t tell her,” Fiona said. She looked at Alanna. “Are things truly so different in England, people so separate from one another?”
“So I’ve been told,” Alanna said.
“But you’ll be a marchioness. Surely you’ll be able to do things just as you wish,” Fiona said.
“I will do as my husband directs.” She’d been told that, too. An English wife, even a marchioness, was obedient and uncomplaining. She did as her husband thought best in all things without argument or demur. Alanna was already sure she’d burst if she could not express an opinion, make her own decisions on things. Would he
choose her clothes, her friends, her books?
“I wonder how many times a day a marchioness must change her clothes. Mama says it’s at least four times for a countess,” Elizabeth said. “More, if there’s a busy schedule on a given day.”
“What does a countess—or a marchioness—do all day?” Fiona asked. “Especially if the servants do everything for her?”
The girls looked at Alanna. Her mouth dried. “Well, as it’s been described to me, I shall confer with the housekeeper each morning, discuss my schedule of activities, advise her what my . . . h-husband . . . is doing that day, and approve her menus for luncheon and dinner. The cook, of course, will already know what his lordship likes to eat, and there will be little reason to make changes to her suggestions. I shall write letters in the morning, or read. I shall take lunch, then stroll the grounds or ride out a short distance with a groom if I am in the country, or take a carriage ride through the park if I am in London. Then I shall pay calls, or wait for others to call on me. I will rest before supper, and dress for whatever the evening plans are—a ball, or party, or a trip to the theater, then bed, then up the next day to do it all again.” Even as she recited the expected agenda of her days, she didn’t think she could bear it. Once she conceived Merridew’s heir, she would retire to the country to await the birth. The cycle would continue the same way year in and year out.
“The parties sound like fun,” Elizabeth said. “Penelope made her debut last year. She was out dancing every night and slept half the day away. We were called home, of course, when my great-uncle took sick, and Penelope was furious that her Season had to be interrupted. Now she’ll be married by the start of next Season, of course, and her flirting days will be over.”
“Doesn’t she want to marry my brother?” Fiona asked, her lips pinched. “She’ll not find a better man, no matter how much she flirts.”
Elizabeth concentrated on her stitches. “Maybe not, but if she had a bigger dowry—or any dowry at all—she’d have her choice of any man she wanted, earls, marquesses . . . even dukes.”
Alanna kept her eyes on her work.
“What about love?” Fiona asked. “Doesn’t she want to fall in love?”
Elizabeth giggled. “Mama says love has nothing to do with marriage. Marriage is about position, and power, and security—especially security, if you’re a woman.”
“It’s different here in Scotland, then,” Fiona said and looked at Alanna. “Do you love your marquess, Alanna? You never said.” She asked the dreaded question again.
Alanna’s tongue knotted itself around her tonsils, and the familiar lump of dread filled her chest. “I—” She paused, thinking carefully. “I understand he is a fine gentleman, much admired in England, and I have hopes—”
Fiona’s jaw dropped. “You don’t love him?”
“I do,” Alanna managed. “I mean, I will, I’m sure.” She stabbed her finger with the needle, winced, and sucked the digit. She would try, at least, to love him. She was certain he did not love her. She was merely a convenient substitute for her sister. Had he loved Megan?
“My mother loved my father. He loved her so much that he changed his name to MacGillivray for her so her father would allow him to wed her, and he promised to live in Scotland forever, and that his children would bear the MacGillivray name. I should like to be loved like that,” Fiona mused.
Alanna suppressed a sigh. So would she—oh, so would she. Longing filled her, and her toes curled in her shoes. Iain MacGillivray’s face came to mind, standing by the fire, wrapped in nothing more than her cloak. She shifted, winced at the twinge in her injured knee.
“Are you in pain?” Fiona asked at once. “Shall I fetch Annie—or Iain?”
“No.” Alanna set aside her needlework and rose, giving the girls a brave smile. “I’m just tired. I think I’ll go and rest for a little while.”
IAIN FROWNED AT the carving in his hands. The angel was beautiful, the lines of her body and her gown were graceful and elegant. Her wings curved softly over her head.
It was the face he was having trouble with. The expression was sweet, ethereal, and angelic indeed, but it was Alanna’s face, the way she’d looked when he found her in the snow under a halo of frost. It hadn’t been what he’d intended. He stared at the features that had appeared as if by magic under the delicate strokes of his knife.
There’d be questions asked if he gave this Alanna-angel to Fiona at Christmas. Why hadn’t Penelope’s face appeared under his knife, or Fiona’s own lovely features, or even their mother’s face? This angel’s distinct features could not be mistaken for any other woman’s. It was Alanna. He wrapped the figure in a cloth and opened a drawer. Then he put the little angel inside, took another block of wood, and began again.
ALANNA RETRIEVED THE fireplace poker and made her way across the library slowly, gently refusing offers of assistance from the girls. Surely walking would help her heal, allow her to regain her strength. She must go back to Dundrummie, face her responsibilities, prepare to travel to her new home in Kent. She could not stay here at Craigleith.
She reached the door, gave Elizabeth and Fiona a smile as she went through it. She shut it behind her and leaned on it a moment, catching her breath.
A door opened across the hall and Iain emerged. For a moment they stood and stared at each other. He took in the fireplace poker and frowned. She noted the wood shavings in his hair and the fragrance of pine that clung to him. He smelled like Christmas, and she smiled faintly.
“I hope that poker isn’t a weapon,” he said.
She raised her chin. “I’ll have you know it’s not a poker at all. It’s my walking stick, and I am doing very well with it. My leg is almost healed. I shall be ready to dance a gay Highland reel by Christmas Eve.”
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, if it’s a walking stick you need, I have a better one than that,” he said. He opened the door at his back again, then took her arm and escorted her into the space beyond.
Alanna looked at the well-worn table covered with curls of wood and sawdust. It smelled sweet in this room, warm. A half-carved angel stood on the bench, and she limped across to pick it up. Only one wing and the rough shape of her arm and gown had emerged from the wood. The lines were fluid and graceful, the shape lovely. The face was still a blank flat plane. “Did you make this?” she asked in surprise.
He moved to stand next to her, looking down at the carving in her hands. “It’s a Christmas present for Fiona. I make her one every year. Not always an angel—I made dolls for her when she was a child, and wooden animals.”
“How wonderful,” she said, running her fingers over the warmth of the wood.
“She couldn’t run with the other children, you see. So I carved friends for her out of wood, playmates to pass the days.”
She regarded him carefully, but his eyes were on the angel, his expression soft.
“She’s very lucky,” Alanna said.
“Is she?” he asked. “How will she fare in England? She’s too old for toys now.”
“She worries about you as well,” Alanna said. He met her eyes.
“And do you worry for yourself?”
She set the angel down. “You and Fiona will have each other,” she said. “I daresay I shall manage.”
He leaned on the bench and folded his arms. He had sawdust in his hair, she noticed, and she curled her fingers against a longing to brush it away. “You said that perfectly, my lady marchioness, in flawless English—‘I daresay I shall manage.’ I have no doubt you will. You will, of course, have your marquess.” His expression was slightly admiring, as if he thought she was brave, ready, capable of facing an unknown future. She tried to feel as brave as she apparently looked, but she felt bitterness fill her mouth, part fear, part regret. She changed the subject.
“I liked to receive books for Christmas when I w
as little. My mother despaired that so much reading would make me cross-eyed.”
“It didn’t,” he said, looking into her eyes.
She lowered her lashes. “It will be a very different Christmas this year,” she said. “And from now on, as well.”
“It will indeed,” he agreed soberly.
“Oh, but it needn’t be so different next year. You could introduce a few Scottish customs in your new home. No one would dare to refuse you, my lord earl.”
He regarded her with a slight frown. “Do you think it will truly be that easy? Will your husband—the marquess—allow you to make changes?”
She had no idea. “I . . . don’t know. But Penelope will surely—”
He took a step closer, picked up her hand. “Are you afraid, Alanna?” he asked.
She scanned his face, wondered for a moment what he meant—Marriage? England? Being in charge of her husband’s home? Yes, to all those. She swallowed and nodded. “Are you?”
“Deathly,” he murmured. She squeezed his fingers. His hand was warm, safe, familiar.
“I wish—” she began, and stopped. What did she wish? That she could marry Iain instead? That was impossible. She had spent hours daydreaming about her own future, wishing then, too, for a home, love, a husband like Iain. Instead, Merridew awaited her.
He brushed her hair back from her brow, his fingers soft on her skin. He let them linger on her cheek. “You’re beautiful, Alanna,” he said.
She read the admiration in his eyes, and something more—longing perhaps, a wish like her own that things could be different than they were, that the future held something better, something hopeful and bright instead of fearful.
She looked at Iain’s mouth and wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Would it be wrong to do that now, just to see how it felt to kiss a man you admired, desired, before she was forbidden from kissing anyone at all besides Lord Merridew?
She didn’t hesitate. She threw herself into his arms, her mouth mashing against his. She did not have very much experience with kisses. None, really. Iain made a sound of surprise as her lips bumped his, and he gripped her shoulders. Then his mouth softened against hers, and his arms came around her, pulled her tight against his chest, and he kissed her back. Awareness shot through her body, made her tingle everywhere. Was it always this way between a man and a woman? Would Merridew’s touch do this to her? She felt as if bubbles were coursing through her veins, popping in the most remarkable places, her nipples, low in her belly.
Once Upon a Highland Christmas Page 14
