She felt intense love for her clan, and for her sisters, her brother, her mother, and her aunt.
Yet only Iain made her feel dizzy, unsettled, and breathless. She ached to touch him, to kiss him.
But he belonged to Penelope, would be her husband. Alanna shut her eyes.
She’d been shocked when Megan had run away, refused to wed Lord Merridew, had risked scandal and shame and the anger of her family for a man she barely knew. Alanna hadn’t understood then. She understood now. Megan had been in love. Her mother was wrong—titles and fortunes meant nothing without love. But Devorguilla had grown up a poor Highlander’s daughter with nothing but her looks to give her hope. She had married an earl, decided her daughters would never know the hardships, the fear of hunger and privation that she had known. And in Devorguilla’s eyes, an English lord was better by far than a Scottish one.
Alanna recognized her feelings for what they were now. It wasn’t gratitude or admiration or even fond regard. It was love. She loved Iain MacGillivray. Alanna pressed a fist to her midsection, felt the pounding of her heart. If this was love, it hurt.
She thought of her betrothal. Would she feel the same thrill when Merridew kissed her, or touched her hand? She swallowed. She knew she would not. When he touched her, she would close her eyes and think of Iain.
She crossed to the window. A bridal veil of frost clung to the windowpane. Her own veil would hide her regrets, her lack of enthusiasm as she met Merridew at the altar. Her heart would remain as cold and frozen as the snow. She wished— She swallowed.
She wished it could be different, all of it. She imagined her mother’s shock and rage. If she did not marry Merridew, she would be disappointing so many people—even Lord Merridew himself, perhaps.
And still she could not have Iain. He was betrothed to Penelope. His clan, his kin, and his English tenants were counting on that match, the happy union of their laird and the perfect lady.
Alanna breathed on the windowpane, rubbed away a patch of frost, a hole in the veil. She peered across the windswept moor, white with snow.
She had stayed at Craigleith too long. She realized now it wasn’t the snow or her injured knee that had kept her here. It was Iain.
And now it was time to go.
Chapter Forty-One
IAIN ENTERED THE sitting room of his father’s apartments. The room was exactly the same as it had been when he had died, nearly a decade earlier. The furniture was English, gentlemanly, rich. The books were scholarly tomes on English history, husbandry, and politics. Iain supposed he should read them now. A cut crystal decanter stood on an elegant table near the window, glasses at the ready, waiting to be filled with the brandy Lord Anthony had preferred over whisky.
This room, filled with English comforts, was part of the wing that had been added to the castle when Iain’s parents had married. His mother’s rooms were across the hall, part of the fourteenth-century Scottish castle. His own room was in the old castle. Penelope, Elizabeth, and Marjorie were housed in the new part, in English rooms with English furniture.
He wondered why Penelope had asked to see him here, of all places. Perhaps she wished to offer him a lesson on how an English earl should live, as compared to a Scottish one. His own room was crammed with books, accounts, and simple furnishings, his belongings held in a chest built to hold the armor of a Scottish ancestor. He liked it there, felt more comfortable with his Scottish blood than the English, and he knew that would have to change. He must find a way to be both.
The door to the bedchamber was ajar.
“Penelope?” he called.
“Here,” she answered, and he crossed the room, the colorful Turkey carpet absorbing his footfalls.
He opened the door fully, and his breath caught in his throat. Penelope was lying in his father’s bed. Her blond hair was loose, spread across the monogrammed pillowcase, her cheeks flushed. She sat up and let the satin coverlet fall away from her creamy white shoulders—very naked shoulders.
Iain glanced around the room, noted the discarded garments that lay over the chair at the end of the bed. He felt dread climb his throat. He glanced at her again. She held out her hand.
“Come here,” she said, her voice a low purr. She smiled at him, but it did not reach her eyes. They remained as hard and as cold as sapphires. “I thought you might like to unwrap your Christmas surprise a few days early.”
He didn’t move. She let the coverlet fall further, exposing her breasts. Two spots of hectic color filled her cheeks. Her chin rose defiantly. She didn’t look like a woman in love. She looked like a woman who intended to get what she wanted. “Do you need help unwrapping it?” she asked.
He looked away. “Penelope—” he began.
“There’ll be time for talking later,” she said. There was a hard edge to her voice as she interrupted him, a touch of desperation, of anger, but no love or desire. He met her eyes, saw the fierce determination there. It took his breath away, but not in the way she expected.
“No, Penelope,” he said. “I can’t stay. I just came up here to tell you I can’t marry you, that I won’t be proposing.”
Her eyes grew harder and colder still. She snatched the sheet and wrapped it around her breasts. “This is because of her, isn’t it?” she demanded.
There was no need to clarify who she meant. Iain sent her a level look. “This has nothing to do with anyone else. This is about whether or not you and I would suit.”
“Of course we would,” Penelope insisted. “We’re perfectly matched.”
Iain looked around the room. “This was my father’s room. He spent a fortune bringing the finest furnishings from London, France—even China. Still, he spent every night in my mother’s room. He only slept here after she died. They married for love, you see. The tale was that he was riding through the hills, here in Scotland to do a spot of climbing, when he happened to stop at a castle to ask directions. Once he’d set foot over the threshold, met the laird’s daughter, he never left again.” He met Penelope’s eyes. “Can you honestly say you love me?” he asked her.
The spots of color grew, and she looked away. “I’m sure I will grow to see you with a—fond regard—in time.”
He shook his head. “Would that be enough for you? Haven’t you ever wanted something more, something better? Something beyond what is expected of you?”
Her brow crumpled. “Whatever are you talking about? We would marry for power and position, not love. Love is for peasants because they haven’t got anything better to look forward to. I was raised to be a countess.”
“And if another man had inherited the title instead of me, another cousin, would you be sitting in his bed?” Iain asked.
She didn’t answer, but her lips pursed tightly.
“You deserve a better man than me, cousin, someone you have more than a fond regard for. I hope you find love along with the title you’re looking for, but it won’t be my title.” He turned to go. “I’ll go now, and let you dress.”
“Stop!” she said, and he turned. She had her arms folded over her chest. “It doesn’t matter if we do this or not, Iain. All it will take is for me to tell my mother that you and I were in this room together, that you—” Her mouth worked, but she didn’t say it. Her chin rose, her eyes commanded. “You will be forced to marry me. What do you say now?”
She let the sheet fall again.
“ANNIE, HAVE YOU seen the laird?” Alanna asked, coming into a kitchen full of the sweet smell of cinnamon.
“He’s upstairs, in the old lord’s quarters,” Wee Janet said, stirring a pot of stew over the fire and turning to look over her shoulder at Alanna.
Alanna turned and left the room, climbing the stairs slowly. Her leg was healed, and it felt perfectly well now. Or almost. She winced as she took the next step up. Still, she would force herself to stand straight and tall before him.
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She would thank the Laird of Craigleith for his kind hospitality, and she would tell him that she had decided the time had come for her to go. She would leave in the morning, ask if he could have someone take her even part of the way to Dundrummie. She hoped he would assign the task to someone else. Surely he had more important duties to see to, as well as the announcement of his betrothal.
She came to the double doors that guarded the formal apartments in the English wing of the castle. They were grand panels of oak with polished brass hardware. One door stood open, and she slipped into the room, stopping when she heard voices.
“That would condemn us both to a lifetime of unhappiness and mistrust. Do you want that?” she heard Iain ask.
“I don’t care,” she heard Penelope say, her tone cold.
Alanna saw Iain standing in an inner doorway, his back toward her. “No,” he said, his voice firm.
Penelope let out a shriek, and Iain ducked as a pillow flew past his head. It landed at Alanna’s feet, and she jumped back. Something far heavier followed the pillow, and shattered against the door. It swung open, and Alanna’s eyes widened. She met Penelope Curry’s angry eyes over Iain’s shoulder. He didn’t even realize Alanna was behind him. He was staring at Penelope.
Penelope was wrapped in a bedsheet . . . well, mostly. Alanna took in the sight of rumpled bedclothes, saw Penelope’s discarded clothing, and felt her mouth dry. The blood drained from her body. For an instant she was unable to move. She felt—what? Heartbreak? It wasn’t her right. Penelope and Iain had every right, every reason to— She saw triumph bloom in Penelope’s eyes, watched her smile coldly, mocking Alanna.
The blood rushed back again, filled Alanna’s cheeks, burning her with shame and humiliation. She had to get away before Iain saw her. She could not bear it if he turned now, saw her. She could not hide the hurt in her eyes.
But he had no idea she was there. His eyes were full of the sight of his intended, naked, in the bed they shared, would always share, as man and wife.
Alanna stumbled backward, tripped over the damned pillow, and flailed her way toward the door. She had to get out, had to leave. She felt tears blur her vision as she hurried down the hall. She didn’t stop in her room—Iain’s room. She had come to Craigleith with nothing at all, and she would leave the same way.
She hurried through the busy kitchen, took her cloak from the peg, and flung it over her shoulders. It was midafternoon, plenty of time to reach shelter somewhere, at one of the outlying farmsteads, an inn, or a shieling. Someone would help her travel on, reach Dundrummie or Glenlorne.
She paused by the door that led to the bailey. “Are we going outside to play?” she heard a little voice ask. She turned to find Seonag’s daughter, Molly, just six, standing behind her.
“No, sweetheart, not today.”
“Annie says it’s going to snow,” Molly said. “Can we build another snowman?”
“Tomorrow, perhaps—and Christmas Eve will soon be here, and then there’ll be greens to gather, and the Cailleach Nollaigh to ride around the castle, and bring inside. Won’t that be fun?” Alanna babbled, her heart thumping. She felt a wistful edge of regret that she would not be here, or anywhere warm and familiar, when Christmas arrived.
“And the party,” Molly said.
“Aye,” Alanna said. They would announce their betrothal on Christmas Eve, Iain and Penelope. Alanna was grateful she would not be here for that.
She smiled at Molly, hoped the child didn’t see the tears in her eyes. “Annie was baking biscuits when I came through the kitchen. She might let you have one if you offer to help wrap them up and put them away.”
She watched as Molly’s eyes lit up and the girl hurried away toward the kitchen.
Alanna watched her go, then opened the door and slipped out into the cold.
A gust of wind sucked the warm breath out of her lungs, and Alanna pulled her cloak more tightly around her throat as she forged on into the snow.
Chapter Forty-Two
IAIN DIDN’T UNDERSTAND IT. In one moment, Penelope had gone from being furious, insisting that she would force him to marry her, to laughing like a loon the next. He didn’t see the joke. Was she joking?
“Perhaps I won’t insist you marry me after all. Maybe you’re right. I could find a marquess of my own, or a duke, even. Then you would be the one to bow to me, cousin, my lord earl.” She threw the words at him like insults. Then she descended from the bed like a queen wrapped in ermine instead of a sheet, her chin high. “Get out.”
He hadn’t needed a second invitation. He had no idea what had changed her mind. He just counted it as a Christmas miracle.
Iain went into the armory and looked down at the log that would become the Cailleach Nollaigh, a huge trunk of a pine tree, gnarled and knotted and fragrant. It was his task to carve a face into the wood, the face of the winter goddess.
He began to work, using hammer and chisel to remove pieces of bark and wood. Around him, the sheep made soft, contented sounds, and the cattle chewed their cud and watched him work. They were tethered to hooks and pegs that had once held armor and weapons for Craigleith’s fighting men, knights and champions of old, who had probably enjoyed many a Christmas party in the great hall, with the laird and his lady seated at the top table, watching the merriment. His clan would have to be content with just Iain yet again this year. Would there be questions? Many expected him to marry Penelope. But there’d be no announcement. He pursed his lips bitterly. There might have been if things were different, but Alanna had made it clear enough she intended to wed her marquess, and that was that.
He chipped away at the log and pictured her by his side on Christmas Eve. He’d dance with her, laugh, but that was all. There’d be mistletoe hung in the hall. Perhaps he could steal a kiss—one final kiss that would have to last him for the rest of his days. Then he’d return her to Dundrummie, to the arms of her betrothed.
The door opened and Annie came in, holding Molly’s hand. He grinned, but Molly didn’t smile back. He glanced at Annie, saw the worry in her eyes.
“Laird, Alanna’s gone.”
He rose to his feet, set the chisel down. “Gone? Gone where?” he asked, though he knew by the look in Auld Annie’s eyes.
“She left an hour or two ago, perhaps longer. Molly saw her go, but she can’t recall exactly when that was.”
“I was eating cookies,” Molly said in her own defense.
“Wee Janet said Alanna came into the kitchen, asked where you were. She sent her upstairs to Lord Anthony’s chamber. Did she find you there?” Annie asked, her eyes sharp.
Iain didn’t answer. He suddenly knew exactly what Alanna had seen. He’d tried to kiss her in the solar, and less than an hour later— He swallowed. Did she imagine him such a cad?
“It’s going to snow, Iain. Another storm,” Annie said.
He remembered finding her in the last storm. She’s almost died. He rose, set the chisel aside. “I’ll go after her. The snow won’t have covered her tracks yet.”
Annie tilted her head. “There’s only one reason why a woman runs away if you ask me. She ran away from what she didn’t want. Perhaps now she’s running away from what she thinks she cannot have. Am I right? Is there something between you and Alanna? I can’t read the signs. They’ve been hidden from me. If this is a spell, it’s been laid by someone else’s magic, not mine.”
“There she is,” Molly chirped, pointing. Annie and Iain spun to look. But Molly was pointing at the Cailleach Nollaigh.
Once again, without meaning to, Iain had carved Alanna’s face into the wood. She looked out at them with a sweet, mischievous smile. He heard Annie chuckle softly, and she squeezed his shoulder.
“Never mind. The signs are all pointing one way now. You’d best go and find her.”
Chapter Forty-Three
LORD MERRIDEW WRAPPED hi
s cashmere scarf more tightly around his throat and straightened the rug that covered his knees. He looked out the window of the coach, but the landscape was blank, white and uninformative. He had no idea where he was. Devorguilla watched him from the seat opposite his own, her expression carefully blank. They’d been travelling at a snail’s pace for three days, the weather forcing them to take the long way, go some sixty miles around a glen that took mere hours to cross in summer. As the crow flew—if a crow could fly in all this snow—it would be a distance of less than fifteen miles to reach Craigleith, where his bride was hiding, or staying. It wasn’t quite clear to him why she hadn’t returned to Dundrummie before now. He understood she had been injured somehow. He hoped it wasn’t anything disfiguring, or something that would prevent her from breeding. Lady Marjorie’s letter hadn’t said, just suggested that he come at once.
He looked out the window yet again, bored with the interminable journey, and saw the hopeful sight of lights and an inn yard. He knocked on the roof to alert his driver. “We’ll stop for the night,” he said.
“But we’re almost at Craigleith, my lord,” Devorguilla said. “A few more hours. I have no doubt that they will offer us hot food and warm beds, and you can be reunited with Alanna.”
He was far more interested in the inn’s hot food and a deep tot of whisky than he was in the girl. She’d keep. Craigleith Castle was still hours away. In truth, he barely even recalled what Alanna McNabb looked like. Not that it mattered. All cats were gray in the dark, as the proverb said.
“No. We’ll stop,” he insisted. Lady Marjorie’s coach was following this one, carrying Lady Eleanor and the youngest McNabb chit, Sorcha. Eleanor had insisted on coming to Craigleith, and bringing the child. Apparently, the girl couldn’t be expected to remain alone at Dundrummie if there was to be a wedding and Christmas at Craigleith. Wilfred could not abide children, especially female children. He had insisted in his turn that the girl be confined to the other coach with Eleanor.
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