Once Upon a Highland Christmas

by Lecia Cornwall

  Caroline clutched her husband’s arm. “Alec, I’m sure everything is all right. Who would harm Alanna?”

  Alec frowned. “When I last heard from her, she was at Dundrummie, safe with her mother and her aunt. I haven’t forgotten the trouble Megan got herself into.”

  Caroline smiled. “But Megan is now happily married. You said you liked Kit Rossington.”

  “This is different. How many English lords are there in the Scottish Highlands, and how did Alanna get herself betrothed to one without my even meeting the man? She ran away from her wedding, was kidnapped by a reiver.” He looked at her, the worry in his eyes softening as he laid his hand on her rounded belly. “I only hope that this child is not a girl. I couldn’t go through this again.”

  She put her hand on his and smiled back. “Ah, but that’s years away. You still have one more sister to see married long before then.”

  He groaned. “Sorcha. How could I have forgotten?”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Two days before Christmas

  LADY SORCHA MCNABB looked at her mother across the width of the coach from where she sat beside her aunt, bundled into blankets. Her mother had been travelling with Lord Merridew but had gotten into this coach this morning, without even bidding his lordship good morning.

  Sorcha had been dreadfully afraid something awful had happened to Alanna. She’d been glad to hear that her sister was safe, and she saw this journey as a grand adventure. She understood by the whispers and the speaking looks that there was much about Alanna’s own adventure that Sorcha wasn’t being told and didn’t entirely understand, but still, Alanna was alive, and at least mostly well, and her wedding to Lord Merridew had been postponed. Sorcha didn’t like Lord Merridew, and despite Alanna’s quiet acceptance of the marquess’s proposal, Sorcha suspected Alanna didn’t like him much either. Alec loved Caroline, and Megan loved her English lord too. Love was very important to Alanna, and Sorcha knew her sister would suffer without it. It was obvious that Lord Merridew didn’t love Alanna. He had been more annoyed at the necessity of having to go and fetch her than he was glad to hear she was safe.

  His lordship wasn’t a very kind man. Nor was he smart—­Sorcha could best him at chess, and cards, and even stump him by speaking French. He had insisted she be banished to the nursery, out of sight and mind. Eleanor had insisted that Sorcha be allowed to come to Craigleith, just in case they were gone over Christmas, and in case Lord Merridew insisted on marrying Alanna as soon as they found her. She was, after all, the second McNabb bride who had managed to slip through his fat fingers. When her turn came to choose, Sorcha vowed she would pick a better husband, and marry for love. She hoped Mama wouldn’t mind too much.

  Sorcha clung to Aunt Eleanor for warmth under the heavy swaddling of blankets while her mother yelled at the coachman through the hole in the roof. Lord Merridew followed in his heavy, luxurious coach, slowing them down with constant stops.

  “Can’t you go any faster?” Mama said to their own coachman.

  “He’s doing his best,” Eleanor said. “We’re fortunate we can get there at all in this snow. We might as well arrive safely. Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. We’ll be there by then, a fine Christmas surprise for Alanna.”

  “I heard the most wonderful story at the inn,” Sorcha said, bored by the long journey, even if she was eager to see Alanna.

  “Oh? What was it?” Eleanor asked.

  “They say the Laird of Craigleith has a new bride. He found her in the hills, frozen in the ice, and thawed her out. She’s twice as fair as the hills in spring. The laird carried her home to his castle, stark naked, and—­”

  “Sorcha!” Devorguilla put a dismayed hand to her cheek. “Not another word!”

  But Sorcha was not to be deterred. “But they say the laird’s bride came to him by magic, carried there by a powerful spell. It was she who brought all this snow to Craigleith. Perhaps the story is true, or maybe it isn’t, but don’t you think it’s odd there’s so much snow here? Much, much more than at Dundrummie.”

  “Well, magic or not, I must admit I’ve never seen so much snow,” Eleanor said. “Perhaps it is magic.”

  “Magic?” Devorguilla scoffed. “The snow is an inconvenience, but nothing more sinister than that. Have you forgotten Alanna was caught in a snowstorm, might have frozen to death if not for the kindness of a stranger?”

  “And after all, Craigleith is exactly where we’re going. I wonder if Alanna will know the story?” Sorcha said.

  She watched her mother’s face bloom with color and her eyes widen. “Magic,” she muttered. “Sorcha—­what’s the rest of the story?”

  “There isn’t any more,” Sorcha said.

  Her mother leaned toward her. “A name, a description of the lass in the ice?”

  Sorcha frowned and considered. “I don’t think anyone mentioned her name.”

  The three ladies stared at each other. “Alanna,” Eleanor murmured. “Could it be?”

  “Naked?” Sorcha gasped.

  Her mother tossed aside the blanket, opened the window, and thrust her head out into the snow. She bellowed into the wind, ordering the driver to whip the horses to a gallop.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  ALANNA WOKE AND STRETCHED. Every muscle in her body was pleasantly sore. She turned toward the fire and smiled. Iain was crouched there, stark naked, his back to her. This time, her heart sang in her breast at the sight of him. She wished they could stay here forever.

  “Is it morning?” she asked, and he turned.

  “Almost. It’s still early.”

  She lay back. “Then come back to bed.”

  “How can I resist an offer like that?” he said, sliding back under the plaid. “You’re an insatiable lass, Alanna McNabb.” He kissed her again, pulled her close to his side.

  She curled against him, felt the fire warmth of his skin, and dipped her hand beneath the blankets to find what she was looking for. He groaned as her hand closed on his erection.

  “We should get dressed, go home—­back—­to Craigleith,” he said.

  She smiled at him. “Not just yet,” she said, and he laughed and kissed her, before he rolled her beneath him one more time.

  “MARRY ME,” HE said afterward, as they lay in each other’s arms, limbs tangled, hearts pounding. “We can announce it when we return to Craigleith.”

  She frowned. “I can’t—­there is still Lord Merridew to consider. I made a promise to him. How can I make another to you now?”

  “And what will you tell him, that we spent the night together, that you and I—­” She put a finger against his lips.

  “Of course not,” she said, blushing, imagining that conversation. She would go home, find Lord Merridew if he was still at Dundrummie, and tell him she could not marry him. He would be angry—­furious no doubt, just the way he’d been when Megan had rejected him, but the choice was hers. She would not allow him, or her mother, to blame anyone else, especially Iain, for this.

  She’d fallen in love with Iain MacGillivray. Spending the night in his arms had made that unbreakable, indelible. Was this how Caroline felt when she looked at Alec, how Megan felt with Kit? Then it was indeed magic. She opened her lips to tell him, to say the words, but he got up slowly, left her, avoiding her eyes. His expression was closed, cool. She watched him stalk around the room, picking up his clothing. He turned away, began to dress, his motions crisp and angry—­or hurt.

  He’d mistaken her silence for stubbornness, or worse, cowardice. It took more courage not to say yes, to give him hope for happiness where none may exist. A future together might still be impossible, and if that turned out to be so, then the heartbreak would be hers alone to bear. She would not cause Iain pain by speaking now, before she’d made her peace with Lord Merridew and her mother—­and there was Alec’s blessing to gain as well.

  “I’ll
see to the garron,” he said and went out the door.

  She picked up his plaid and wrapped it around her body, smelled heather and smoke and sex. She loved Iain with all her heart, wished it could be different. Perhaps in the future, when she was free, she would find him again, and tell him, ask him . . .

  But not yet.

  IAIN LEANED ON the wall, let the wind scrub the scent of her body away from his hair, his hands, his lips. He’d been right. Loving her, knowing he must give her up now, had made it much worse indeed. His hands curled against his sides. He wanted to throw her over his shoulder yet again and carry her off, go—­where?

  She had made her choice. She had chosen a marquess over a laird, an earl. Over him.

  She had made a promise, and he respected that. He had to. Was that noble of her, or stupid? She loved him—­he was sure of that. And he loved her. Would she now condemn them both to a life of loss and longing? He walked around the side of the cottage to the lean-­to and patted the horse.

  There was nothing to do but take her back to Dundrummie as soon as possible, let her go on with her own life, and get on with his own. Honor, duty and responsibility were damnable inconveniences.

  So was love.

  Chapter Fifty

  FIONA STARED OUT the window of the library at the swirling snow. It had begun in the late hours of yesterday afternoon, as the early winter darkness had been falling. Iain had ridden out to look for Alanna. The snow had grown thicker throughout the night, and they had not returned. Now it was morning, and the sky had subsided to a grumbling gray pout.

  Tonight was Christmas Eve, and she worried that Iain—­and Alanna—­would not be here. She had never celebrated Christmas without her brother, and even with the rest of the clan here, it wouldn’t be the same. Was he lost, or hurt? Perhaps he’d taken Alanna home, all the way to Dundrummie, and would not return in time for Christmas here at Craigleith. She wished she’d had the opportunity to say good-­bye to Alanna McNabb. She had made Craigleith merry indeed, and it felt almost gloomy without her.

  Elizabeth entered the room and climbed up on the window seat beside Fiona.

  “Any sign of them yet?” she asked.

  “No, not yet,” Fiona said through tight lips.

  Elizabeth sighed. “Aren’t we supposed to go out today, gather greens, get ready for Christmas? That’s what we’d be doing in England, anyway.”

  Fiona turned on her cousin. “This isn’t England, Elizabeth. Alanna left without a word to anyone, and Iain had to go after her.”

  “Is that another Highland tradition?” Elizabeth asked.

  “It’s simple kindness.”

  “Oh. I thought perhaps it was a chase of some sort. He loves her, doesn’t he?”

  Fiona nodded. “Yes, I think he does.”

  “Is it magic?” Elizabeth whispered. She bit her lip. “I mean, it wasn’t our spell, was it?” She hesitated, picking at her nails. “Tell me, what would—­could—­happen if another spell was cast, with the best of intentions, of course, but it went wrong?”

  Her voice fell away, and Fiona looked at her, noted her cousin’s flushed cheeks, felt her stomach sink. “Oh, Elizabeth, what did you do?”

  Elizabeth shrugged uneasily. “Nothing really—­I may have taken a little bit of Alanna’s hair after all. And I might have stolen some of Penelope’s too. I might have said the words and tossed them into the fireplace at the stroke of midnight. But I had to know—­Penelope is so sure Iain will marry her, but he only ever looks at Alanna. Penelope and Mama whisper and plot and decide things and never tell me what’s happening. I wanted to be the first to know this time.”

  Fiona stared at her. “What happened?”

  “Penelope’s burned up at once. But Alanna’s burned slowly. There were sparks, then it burst into flames. The ashes floated, Fee. They swooped over the flames, still burning at the edges, like red lace. They hovered, then drifted down to land on the hearth. A gust of wind came down the chimney and blew them right into the room. What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re lucky you didn’t set the house on fire,” Fiona said tartly.

  Elizabeth looked contrite, and Fiona grabbed her hand.

  “Come on—­we’d better ask Annie.”

  “THEY’VE BEEN GONE all night—­what if they’ve eloped?” Penelope asked her mother.

  Marjorie frowned and crossed her sitting room to peer out the window. Was it necessary to go to Gretna Green if one was already in Scotland, she wondered, or would any anvil do for a hasty wedding? She shook the thought away. “Don’t be silly, Penelope. Of course they haven’t.”

  Penelope paced the rug of her mother’s room. “The whole castle is in an uproar because she’s gone, left without a word of farewell, without wishing anyone a Merry Christmas. Children are crying for her, the men are talking about mounting a search party. And Iain—­he went after her.”

  Marjorie frowned. What would become of Purbrick if Iain was lost in the storm, injured or killed? On the other hand, Alanna McNabb’s departure was welcome news indeed.

  “I thought I’d convinced her that Iain didn’t want her.”

  Marjorie turned to her daughter. “Convinced her? How did you convince her?”

  Penelope stopped pacing, and her face flamed scarlet. “She saw me, with Iain. I was in bed, naked.” She gave her mother a sharp, nasty little smile. “The look on her face . . .”

  Marjorie’s limbs turned to water, and she gaped at her daughter. “You seduced Iain, let him—­”

  Penelope tossed her chin. “You said I should do anything—­anything—­to make him propose. It wasn’t Alanna who was supposed to find us together. It was supposed to be my maid. She was to scream, and draw everyone, make them think . . . well, once they saw me, and Iain, he would have no choice but to marry me.”

  Marjorie felt her chest constrict. “Perhaps I should have been more clear. That isn’t what I meant, Penelope. What happened?”

  “He took one look at me and told me he would not propose, that he had decided we would not suit. He did not want me. It was most humiliating.”

  “He refused to b-­bed you, or to marry you?”

  “Both,” Penelope said. She had tears glittering in her eyes now. “Oh mama, is there something wrong with me?”

  Marjorie began pacing the rug herself, fury rising like a bonfire. “He refused? A bumpkin, a lout, a fool like Iain MacGillivray dared to refuse my daughter?”

  “What will you do, Mama?” Penelope asked. “How can we fix this, make him marry me? I told him I didn’t care, but I do. I will not let her—­”

  Marjorie considered. “You say Lady Alanna saw you with Iain?”

  “Yes. She came through the door and turned white as snow when she saw me in bed, with Iain looking at me, as if we had actually been—­”

  Marjorie rang the bell. “We need her back after all.”

  “Why?”

  Marjorie smiled at her daughter. “She will have to admit what she saw. Then Iain will be forced to marry you. He will have no choice. We will have won.”

  Penelope smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. She didn’t look like a happy bride. She looked hateful. For an instant, Marjorie’s throat closed. What had she done?

  But Penelope was turning toward the door. “Then we will announce our betrothal tonight after all. If—­when—­he comes back, with Alanna or without her. I do hope she’s there. If I had one Christmas wish, that would be it.”

  “Penelope,” Marjorie began, but Penelope opened the door.

  “I’ll have my maid work the creases out of my blue silk after all,” she said. “I want to look like a countess tonight.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  WILFRED ESMOND, MARQUESS of Merridew, sniffed as his coach finally pulled up at the door of Craigleith Castle. He stared up at the cold gray stones and they stared
back at him, suspicious and unwelcoming. It was an unimpressive place, a forbidding stone tower with a pointed turret, half buried in snow.

  Wilfred longed for the comforts of his father’s estates, the grand ducal palace set in the hospitable English countryside. He tightened his fist on the head of his walking stick, angry, and threw back the mountain of furs that protected him from the wolfish teeth of the Highland winter. He would have been at Lyall this very moment, sitting in the elegant salon drinking hot rum punch, if it wasn’t for the silly chit who had delayed him, ruined his plans.

  Now he would be forced to spend a miserable Christmas here, in the middle of nowhere, among ­people who were little better than barbarians, if the exterior of their home was any indication. Castle indeed. They did not know the meaning of the word. He’d make his bride pay for her sins against him.

  “I hope they have claret in the cellar,” he muttered as he waited for the coachman to open the door and let down the steps. Or brandy.

  ­People began to crowd around the coach as if they’d never seen a modern vehicle before. Rosy-­cheeked urchins, broad-­backed women, and squint-­eyed men regarded the crest on the door as if it was a declaration of nefarious intent—­or superiority.

  Wilfred waited until the footman let down the steps and opened the door before he descended among the peasants, his nose in the air, his stick at the ready, demonstrating he was better than they were in every possible way, offering them a brief glimpse of his impressive dignity and power as he swept past them, toward the steps.

  They didn’t say a word—­until he set his foot on a patch of ice. He felt his boot slip out from beneath him, betraying him. His arms flailed, and he toppled backward, landed hard on his broad backside. He watched his beaver hat shoot up into the air above him and come down again to land on his chest.

  For a long moment, no one moved. Wilfred lay in the snow and stared up at the leaden sky. One by one, faces appeared above him, peered down at him, their eyes filled more with curiosity than concern.