Once Upon a Highland Christmas

by Lecia Cornwall

  He nearly collided with a man hurrying up the slope, bound tight in his cloak. The garron shied, and the man cried out when he saw Sandy.

  “Ho there,” Sandy said. “You’re in a hurry, friend.”

  “To get away from a madman,” the fellow said. “That’s the last time I do a favor for any man. I offered to carry a letter, a simple enough thing. All it got me was a hard punch in the mouth.”

  “Are the folk here at Glenlorne not friendly?” Sandy asked, frowning.

  “Not the laird,” the man said. He pulled aside his cloak to show Sandy the bruise on his jaw. Sandy winced.

  “The McNabb did that? The earl?”

  “Aye,” the man confirmed. “I gave him the letter, and while he read it I was enjoying a pot of ale, and telling a lad a fine tale I’d heard. Then all of a sudden the McNabb himself grabbed hold of me and hit me for no reason I know of.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t like tales,” Sandy said. He wondered how the man would react to the story he had to tell.

  “Not this one, though ’twas a good tale indeed.”

  “How’d it go?” Sandy said, none too anxious to arrive at Glenlorne now. He offered the man the flask from his pack, watched him drink deeply.

  “Och, ’tis a bonnie tale. It seems the laird of a place called Craigleith stole a lass and five hundred—­or was it six hundred?—­fine cows along with her. She was so fair of face and form that he bound her hand and foot in his plaid and carried her to his castle. He refuses to give her up—­or is it the cows he wants to keep? Either way, he refuses to return anything unless the lass’s kin pay him a ransom in gold. He keeps the lass in a high tower, tied to his bed, clad in naught but a wee small handkerchief.” He waggled his brows.

  Sandy gaped at him. “Where on God’s green—­white—­earth did you hear that?”

  “At the local inn. There’s a lad there who’s writing a song about it.”

  Sandy was off the horse in an instant, his fists raised. He popped the stranger in the eye.

  The man reeled. “What the devil did you do that for?”

  “The MacGillivray is a good man, and the lass is a fine lady. I won’t hear a word against them, d’you understand me?”

  “Who the devil are you to care about a tale?” the stranger asked.

  “I’m Sandy MacGillivray.”

  “MacGillivray?” The man recoiled, and his eyes widened. “Of Craigleith?”

  “Aye. D’you know it?”

  The man was stumbling away already. “I know enough to stay away from MacGillivrays and McNabbs,” he said, stumbling backward. “You’re all mad.” He turned and fled.

  Sandy looked down at the castle and imagined the earl inside it. Even if he was the most forgiving man in the world, the kindest, most understanding laird that ever was, as good as Iain MacGillivray himself, he wasn’t going to like a story like this one. The lass was his sister, after all, a sweet and gentle lady.

  “Tied to his bed? A wee small handkerchief?” Sandy muttered. He took out his own generous kerchief and blew his nose. The garron snorted as if he didn’t believe it either. And the lass—­he blushed to think of how her reputation had been besmirched.

  The only true part of the tale was the report of Alanna’s beauty.

  His heart quailed. He looked back up the track and almost turned the garron’s head around to go back the way he’d come.

  But Lady Alanna McNabb had done him a favor, given him a chance to redeem himself with Iain. All he had to do was face her brother.

  He remembered the messenger’s bruised jaw and swallowed.

  “Still, I owe her a debt,” he whispered. He cast his eyes skyward, said a quick prayer for mercy, and nudged the garron on toward Glenlorne.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  WHEN IAIN MACGILLIVRAY looked into the hall two hours later, the dancing lesson was still in progress. To be honest, it was more mayhem than dancing, with ­couples of every age and size crashing together, dissolving in laughter, having fun.

  Alanna looked up to find him watching, leaning on the doorway, his arms crossed, his expression bemused. Lasses rushed across the room to take his hands and insist that he join the lesson.

  Alanna wasn’t dancing, since her leg still wasn’t ready for such vigorous exercise, but she was demonstrating the steps with Elizabeth’s help, and the English girl was having as much fun as anyone else. Alanna did not doubt that if Marjorie was anything like Devorguilla, Elizabeth was in for a long lecture about decorum and maintaining a strict and dignified distance from servants and tenants. She’d heard that lecture a dozen times and had ignored it whenever possible. The parties at Glenlorne were for everyone—­laird and lady, gamekeeper and cowherd alike.

  She sat next to the piper and watched as Iain partnered one lass after another, spinning each through the steps, making them blush and smile. He was a good dancer, but that hardly surprised her. He had a lean, athletic grace. Her breath caught in her throat, and her body warmed. He made a fine figure on the floor. Had she ever seen a handsomer man? His russet hair caught the snow light that poured through the high windows. Donal’s pipes rang like Christmas bells, accompanied by laughter and clapping hands. How long had it been since she’d laughed like this, been this happy? Not since she’d left Glenlorne months ago.

  Iain caught her eye and grinned as he spun his partner through the figures of the dance. Her heart leaped in her breast, and she could not help but smile back. He held his hand out to Fiona, who sat among the old folks, clapping the beat. She shook her head, sure her leg would make her clumsy. Alanna saw the wistful light in Fiona’s eyes, the desire to dance. Iain bowed to her again, refusing to take no for an answer, and Fiona bit her lip and set her hand in his. Her brother swept her into his arms, lifting her off the floor. He twirled her through the air until she was laughing. He set her on the floor; she placed her damaged foot on his, and they danced smoothly around the floor. He returned Fiona back to her seat when the music ended. Alanna watched Fiona nod in her direction

  “Ask Alanna.” She read the words on Fiona’s lips from across the room, watched Iain turn toward her.

  Alanna felt hot blood rise in her cheeks as he crossed the floor, held out his hand, and bowed, offering a roguish smile by way of added encouragement. There was something in the depths of his eyes that took her breath away. She swallowed, hesitated, her fingertips curling on his palm, her heart hammering against her ribs.

  “Up with you, lass,” Donal said. “I’ll play a reel.”

  She glanced around the room, saw everyone waiting, staring at the pair of them, their eyes expectant, and she clasped Iain’s hand and nodded, felt electricity travel up her arm, warm her everywhere.

  “Can you waltz?” he asked.

  She looked up at him in surprise. “Yes, can you?”

  His eyebrows rose. “I do get to Edinburgh from time to time.”

  “Of course, I didn’t mean—­ Of course, I can’t waltz now, with my knee—­”

  He lifted her in his arms, the way he’d done with Fiona, and held her against his chest. He spun her through the steps. She was aware of his arm around her waist, her breast pressed to his, his laughing gray eyes inches from her own. Close enough to kiss. She tightened her grip on his hand, curled her opposite hand on his shoulder, and wished the dance could go on forever.

  She had only ever waltzed with her sisters, under the strict instruction of a dancing master. It had been tedious, mechanical, and dull. But with Iain it felt like flying, like—­ She dropped her eyes to his mouth. Dancing with him made her feel the way kissing him did. It made her imagine them together, naked under his plaid, both of them awake and warm this time. The light in his eyes turned serious, as if he was thinking the same thing, and his heartbeat quickened under her breast. His eyes dropped to her mouth, his smile slipping a little.

  “We should stop,�
� she whispered. “Donal isn’t playing anymore.”

  In fact the whole room had gone silent, and they were dancing alone, surrounded by a ring of bright eyes and besotted grins. Iain set her carefully on her feet, held her until he was sure she had her balance, and Alanna felt her cheeks flame. She didn’t want to let him go.

  “I want to learn how to dance like that,” someone said in a breathless voice, and everyone laughed.

  Iain turned and bowed deeply over her hand, the way he might at a London ball, to a lady—­or a marchioness—­ who had honored him with a dance. She bit her lip, but he squeezed her fingers until she looked at him.

  “Come to the solar,” he whispered for her ears alone.

  Her mouth dried and she clenched her fist in the wool of her skirt. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she managed, remembering the last time she’d been in the solar with him. Only now, she knew how it felt to kiss him, desire him. If she kissed him now, she wouldn’t want to stop.

  “I’ve got Fiona’s Christmas gift partly finished, and I want your opinion,” he murmured, and Alanna’s face flamed again.

  “Oh.” She felt like a ninny. Of course he didn’t wish to kiss her again—­he had Penelope for kisses. Alanna had been the one to kiss him the last time. She’d practically thrown herself at him. Not practically. She unwound her fist from her gown, clasped her hands loosely at her waist, and forced a placid smile. “Of course I’ll come.” He nodded and left the room.

  An hour later, when the dancers were exhausted and happy, Alanna knocked softly on the door of the solar. Iain opened it a crack and peered out at her like a spy. Would she always feel this unsettling sense of breathless excitement when she looked at him? Did it show? Oh, how she hoped it didn’t show.

  He stepped back to let her in, and she breathed in the scent of wood shavings, and of peat burning in the fireplace, and the familiar scent of Iain himself.

  He lifted a cloth on the table to reveal a pair of Fiona’s boots, one with a sole slightly thicker than the other. Alanna crossed and looked at it. It was still rough, but he’d hollowed out the heel so it wasn’t too heavy or bulky.

  He took it in his hand and turned it, running his thumb over it. “I’ll smooth it out, paint it the same color as the sole of the other boot.”

  “It’s perfect,” she said, taking it, marveling at it.

  “It may need some adjustments when Fiona tries it on. Here, for instance—­” His hand touched the heel, brushed her fingers, and she felt a rush of longing pass through her. Her breath hitched in her throat, and she nearly dropped the boot. He stopped, but didn’t move his hand. Instead, he moved his fingertips more firmly over hers, caressed her fingertips, her knuckles, her wrist. She shivered.

  “I have been—­happy—­since you came to Craigleith,” he said softly, standing inches from her. “You make me feel as if—­well, as if being an English earl might not be such a terrifying thing after all, not if you—­” She laid her finger against his lips, but his meaning was plain enough when he kissed it. “Why is it I can’t be near you without wanting to kiss you?” he asked.

  So it wasn’t just her. Was her desire for him so easy to see, to read? She looked into his eyes, read his own need there, and her mouth watered. She closed her eyes, forced herself to think of Merridew and Penelope. Her heart clenched tight in her chest. They had both made promises to others. Penelope loved Iain. She must. How could she not?

  Even if Alanna did not love Merridew, she loved her mother. Devorguilla had been devastated when Megan had eloped with Rossington. It had caused so much unhappiness, regret, and pain. Kissing Iain now, falling in love with him, would only cause more pain, if not for her, then for others, ­people she loved, ­people Iain loved. She shut her eyes and fought desire. How easy it would be to give in and take what she wanted, just this once.

  She pulled away, shook her head, wrapped her hands around her body. “We cannot do this, Iain—­I cannot do this. We’ve both made promises.”

  He came around the table, stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders. He kissed her ear. “What of desire?” he asked.

  She tilted her head, gave him access to her throat. “What of honor and duty?” she asked.

  His arms slid around to enfold her, draw her back against him. It felt good, right.

  “What of destiny? Perhaps it was fate that brought you here to me.”

  Her heart ached, but she found the strength to move away. “I don’t believe in fate,” she lied. She wanted very much to believe in it, along with magic, and true love, and happy endings. But she was betrothed to the Marquess of Merridew. He was her fate, not Iain MacGillivray. “I promised—­”

  “So you are willing to please everyone else, even if it means disappointing yourself. I see it in your eyes, Alanna.”

  “What do you see?” she asked, afraid.

  “I see you, and I see myself there. You make it easy to imagine a different future than the ones we both expected a few weeks ago.”

  She shut her traitorous eyes, felt tears sting the back of them. “I wish—­” she said, and stopped. Would it make it any better to say it aloud, would it change anything? Did a wish trump promises, expectations?

  “What do you wish?” he asked, and the low timbre of his voice vibrated over her nerves, drew them taut. She wished she had never agreed to wed Merridew, that she was as brave as her sister, had dared to refuse his offer of marriage, even at the risk of disappointing her mother. She wished she had met Iain sooner. Much sooner. She clasped her hands together to stem the need to touch him. It wasn’t enough. She thought of him in Penelope’s arms, Penelope’s husband, father of her children.

  “I wish I had not left Dundrummie that day,” she lied. “You are a very lucky man, Iain MacGillivray. Penelope will make a wonderful wife.”

  “Will she?” he asked, his tone flat.

  “Of course. She’s lovely.”

  “And will Merridew make a wonderful husband?” he asked.

  Alanna swallowed. She couldn’t answer that. Bitterness filled her throat. She backed toward the door. “I must go,” she said. “I promised Annie I’d help her in the kitchen, and Fiona needs—­” She had no idea what Fiona needed. She only knew she had to leave the room. “She’ll love the shoes, Iain. You are—­” Her tongue tripped on itself.

  He tilted his head. “Wonderful?” he asked dully. “Honorable?”

  She felt tears coming, and fled.

  IAIN CAREFULLY WRAPPED the shoes and pushed them into the drawer of the workbench. He found the angel there, still wrapped in the square of linen. He took it out, stood it on the table, and regarded it. He ran a fingertip over the carved face—­Alanna’s face—­and touched the wave of her hair, the curving wings. It would be all he had left of her when she went away, married her marquess.

  He imagined the future. What if he did marry Penelope, and then someday he met Alanna again—­Marchioness Merridew—­by chance at a London ball? He would smile, bow, and make some bland remark about the weather, or the crush of ­people attending the party. They’d part as strangers. He shut his eyes. Were they more than strangers now?

  He wanted Alanna McNabb as he had never wanted anything or anyone before. He looked into the angel’s face, saw Alanna’s sweetness, her soft smile. Damn duty and honor. What of desire, love? He turned the angel in his hands, letting the light fall on her face. He knew what he wished, what he wanted.

  There was a knock on the door. His heart skipped a beat, expecting Alanna. Had she changed her mind? Wee Janet stood outside the door.

  “Laird, Lady Penelope asked me to give you this.” She held out a folded note with his name scrawled across the front. If she was curious about the contents, or surprised that Penelope had written to someone here in the same castle instead of just coming herself to speak to him, she didn’t say. She went on her way, too busy, no doubt, to
give it much thought. Iain broke the seal.

  There is something I wish to discuss, the note said. Come to the earl’s apartments.

  It was simply signed P.

  He held it in his hand and considered. What could she want? For weeks, he’d left her hoping for a proposal. She’d been waiting for him most patiently. He looked at the angel again, still standing on the table. He crossed and picked it up, wrapped it once more, and tucked it back into the drawer beside Fiona’s shoes.

  Iain turned his steps toward the laird’s apartment—­his father’s rooms. What would his father do now, if he were here? Anthony Marston had married for love, changed his own name for the woman he loved, a Highland beauty with little to bring to a marriage with an English earl’s youngest son. His parents had loved each other passionately, forged a new life together. His father had been lost when his wife had died.

  Iain put the note into his pocket and turned toward the stairs. He’d made a decision. It was time to speak to Penelope.

  Chapter Forty

  ALANNA WENT TO her room, her heart aching. She paced the floor, thinking. There must be a solution to this. She could not possibly be in love with a man she could not have.

  She was too sensible, too smart for that. Surely what she was feeling was something else entirely. Perhaps it was gratitude because Iain had rescued her and made her feel safe. But then, Alec made her feel just as safe, and it wasn’t the same at all. Alec didn’t make her heart pound whenever he walked into a room. And in truth, anyone else would have done the same if they had come upon her in the storm, wouldn’t they? And yet she’d known this was different, that he was different, the moment she’d woken up, found him crouched by the fire, wearing her cloak for a kilt.

  Maybe it was admiration. Iain was a fine and noble laird who did his best for his ­people. But that described a hundred other men as well . . . surely, a thousand. She didn’t feel dizzy in the presence of her father’s friend Laird Melrose, and he was most beloved by his clan for his kindness. Her admiration for Iain was different from that. It was how he made her feel just by looking at her, as if she was different, perfect, not a second daughter, a shadow of her sisters, but first.