Once Upon a Highland Autumn (21 page)

“I have found myself infatuated a time a two, but love? No. I have left that to my sister, and my younger brother. My sister’s marriage is a battleground. My brother is newly wed. He chose his bride from a list my mother gave him, for her fortune and her father’s title. He had decided to marry her before he’d even set eyes on her.”

“Truly? What if she’d been ugly or bossy, or had a limp or crossed eyes? What if she didn’t care for any of the things he did, or didn’t like
him
? Did they fall in love when they met?”

Kit pursed his lips. “He was introduced to her at a ball, and they exchanged less than a dozen words. Still, he called upon her the next day, and spent the requisite fifteen minutes in her company. Then, the day after that, he asked her father for her hand, and was given permission to propose. My brother was determined to wed a fortune, you see, and Regina offered the best and the biggest. It hardly mattered what she looked like. She isn’t a beauty, not like—” His eyes were on her face, but he looked away.

“And does it matter to you?” she asked. “Not what she looks like, but if there’s love between you?”

For a moment he looked wistful. There was love in his eyes as he scanned the glen, taking in the beauty of the hills and the loch. “I should like to have at least a sense of regard for the woman I marry. It is difficult in my position to expect to find love. How would I know if the lady’s feelings for me were genuine, or if she simply wished to be a countess?”

“How
would
you know?”

“Not one of the debutantes, or any of the widows and ladies who have set their cap for me since I inherited my title, even bothered to glance at me before that. That’s how I know. My brother used to be the one mobbed by debutantes and their matchmaking mamas.”

“I can’t believe that,” she said without thinking. How could a woman not long to make Kit’s acquaintance? He was the most handsome man she’d ever met, and kind and intriguing.

“Love is for poor folk, because they can’t afford a better match,” he said. “That’s my mother’s motto. I’m sure she has it embroidered on a pillow somewhere. Better to marry for money and hope to fall in love later than to marry for love and hope riches will follow.”

“Would it not be best to have both? Before marrying, I mean?” she said. “Surely that is the only guarantee of happiness. Otherwise—” She shrugged. “And I think you should have something in common, as well. And an admiration for the other person.”

He met her eyes with a wry smile. “Your Eachann must be quite a man.”

She blinked. Was he? “Of course he is,” she said quickly.

“My lady?” Jeannie Fraser stood at the corner of the cottage shyly. She dipped a curtsy when they turned to her. “All is in readiness at the lodge. Lady Eleanor asked me to fetch you.”

Kit rose as well. “I’ll escort you both there and then come back,” he said, and they walked in silence, over the hill, through the forest and along the river, and up to the back gate of the lodge. There he paused, and bowed.

“Goodnight, my lady,” he said stiffly. “I suppose I shall see you tomorrow.”

“Indeed.” She curtsied. “Goodnight—” She paused, unsure what to call him in front of Jeannie. He was her husband. It seemed strange to call him “my lord” or “Rossington,” yet she blushed at the idea of using his first name, though he’d given her permission once. “Goodnight, Kit,” she said it softly. He met her eyes and then turned and left, and she watched him go before she climbed the steps and went into her new home.

K
it woke in the cottage the next morning as a shadow blocked the sun that streamed across his bed through the open window. He opened his eyes to find Megan McNabb leaning over the sill, peering in at him.

Or was she Megan Linwood now, or perhaps Lady Rossington? Like his mother . . . Those frightening thoughts brought him fully awake, and he grabbed for the sheet, and pulled it up to his chin like a modest maiden.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning,” he replied and stared at her. Silhouetted by the morning sun, her hair shone, and her cheeks were flushed. Was that from walking up from the lodge, or because she was surprised to find him lying in bed? She wasn’t actually
looking
at him—she was staring fixedly at a point high above his head. It gave him the opportunity to look at her. She was quite fetching, perched on his windowsill like a sparrow, and in his half-awake state he wondered what she would do if he threw off the covers and invited her into bed.

It would be disastrous.

“I fear I may have arrived earlier than expected. I was coming down the path and noticed the window was open. I—I brought breakfast. I wasn’t sure if you had arrangements for food. Jeannie told me you have a valet staying in the village,” she babbled, her gaze averted, her cheeks flaming.

“Yes, Leslie,” he said. “Yes.” He didn’t move. She really was quite mesmerizing to look at. His grandfather had hired an artist to paint the ceiling in the earl’s apartments at Bellemont Park with a regiment of adoring angels. They stared down at the earl—him—as he lay in his bed, encouraging pure thoughts, good governance, and blessing the begetting of heirs. Megan might have descended straight off the plaster to Earth . . .

She cast a quick glance at him, and raised the basket to the sill. “Shall I leave the basket and go?”

He remembered his manners. What were the rules of proper behavior for a situation like this? “No,” he said. “I mean, please come in.”

By the time she had come around to the front of the cottage and opened the door, he was on his feet, wrapped in the sheet, only his bare feet visible. She glanced at them, and her lips parted in surprise, and she blushed all over again, no doubt guessing what lay beneath the linen, or in this case, what did not. She turned away at once and busied herself with unpacking the basket.

There was not an inch of private space in the tiny cottage. Should he send her out, make her wait on the bench, or ask her to stroll the grounds for a half-hour while he dressed, made himself decent and ready to face her? He needed to shave, to bathe, and to pass water. He frowned at her back. What time was it, anyway?

He carefully reached for his watch, and flipped it open. Leslie would not be here for at least an hour, and he could hardly wear the sheet until then. He frowned. Why had she come so damnably early? Of course, he was usually up long before now, dressed, ready for the day. But he hadn’t slept well.

He grabbed his clothes in one arm, and strode toward the door. He awkwardly grabbed a bucket by the door too, all without meeting her eye. “I’ll go and fetch some water.” He hurried out before she could stop him.

The heather prickled his feet, and he hung on to his makeshift robe like an ancient Celtic king. All he needed was a crown, a brooch at his shoulder, and a queen by his side—he put a stop to that line of thinking right there, and glanced nervously back at the cottage. There was no sign of Megan.

He dropped his clothing and the bucket by the shore of the loch and rubbed the end of the sheet over his face. The surface of the water was placid, calm, and silent, and the hills and the castle reflected in the black depths. The sun on his back was warm and pleasant, though the breeze was crisp enough to remind him autumn and cooler days were not far off. Responsibility loomed at home.

But for now, he was here, free, and unencumbered. He took a deep breath, tossed aside the sheet, and dove into the loch.

The water chilled him instantly, and he swam for the surface and gasped for breath before diving again, swimming outward in strong, swift strokes, until his body grew accustomed to the cold water, the weightlessness, and the simple joy of floating.

He rolled over, floated on his back, stared up into the sky and watched the clouds. The glen was blissfully silent. There were no crowds of marriage-minded females, no brothers or fathers hoping to convince him to marry his wealth into their family. There was nothing and no one. Save Megan McNabb. He clasped his palms over his crotch and looked nervously at the cottage, but he could scarce see it from here. Still, he swam farther out, behind the castle, out of sight entirely.

Had she tricked him, or guaranteed everything he wanted—peace and quiet, and time to solve the mystery of Mairi’s treasure? He’d been awake half the night trying to decide.

The only determination he’d made was that he would have to set some rules. Not that the setting of rules ever worked with his mother or his sister, but he would be firm with Megan. He would forbid her to so much as set one foot on the causeway. The castle would be completely off limits. She could remain at the cottage and read, or write, or sew, or go away and visit her family and friends. Just because they were handfasted there was really no reason why his life and his plans must be disrupted any further than they already had been. She had asked him to assist her, and he had.

By marrying her.
Temporarily
.

He remembered the way she looked with the dappled shade of the ancient trysting tree on her skin like a lace veil, the way she’d tasted when he kissed her, the trust in her eyes, the flare in the hazel depths of some emotion he did not wish to contemplate. That had kept him awake, too. He clenched his fist in the water now, reliving the feeling of her hand in his, the slight weight of the lace-edged handkerchief that bound them together. And the kiss—yet again. Why couldn’t he forget kissing her? It had been a peck, a sip, and nothing more. Despite the coldness of the water his body responded. He rolled, dove deep, and swam for shore, banishing any more thoughts of Megan McNabb—or Megan Linwood. Which was it?

He would have to ask . . .

M
egan leaned against the table as he left her, her cheeks burning. She had no idea he would be still abed when she arrived. Nor had she had any idea that a man might sleep—well, in nothing but a sheet. She felt her heart turn over in her chest. She would have left at once if he hadn’t opened his eyes and looked up at her. How was it possible for a man to look so remarkably handsome clad in nothing but a sheet, his hair tousled, his eyes still full of sleep? His chest, before he yanked the sheet up to cover it, had been broad, sun-kissed, and naked. She blushed even now, the image refusing to leave her mind.

She wore a nightgown to bed, buttoned to the neck, her hair carefully braided, her robe near to hand. She concentrated on unpacking the basket—a loaf of bread, a pot of butter, some cheese, a pitcher of ale, apple jam, and some ham, but her hands shook. She wondered what it felt like to sleep entirely unclothed and nearly dropped a pot of cream.

She set it down carefully and crossed to the bed and ran her hand over the mattress. It was still warm from his body. She picked up his pillow, held it to her nose, breathed in the scent of his hair, the faint fragrance of his soap, and felt her pulse race. She hugged it to her chest, tried to imagine the two of them, here, the way they’d been the day she’d landed on him, only without the barrier of clothing between them.

Then she made the mistake of looking out the window. Rossington was emerging from the loch, sleek and wet, his shoulders naked, his chest naked, his belly and—
oh my
—

She stood in the middle of the cottage and stared, clutching his pillow in a death grip.

She had seen men without shirts on, of course—hewing wood or hauling heavy stones, but she had never felt like this. Her belly trembled, her limbs felt slack and heavy. She knew she should look away, but she couldn’t make her eyes obey.

He used the sheet to dry the water from his limbs, and dressed. She saw white buttocks as he drew on his breeches, and the broad muscles of his back and shoulders rippled as he shrugged into his shirt. He looked tall and fit. She watched until he turned, and began coming back up the hill, carrying the sheet over his arm now, fully dressed, every inch an English earl once more.

She tossed the pillow back on the bed and threw the blanket over it, tried to tidy it with shaking fingers.

“I assume you usually have servants to do that sort of thing,” he said, obviously seeing how she was struggling with the simple task, and she spun, feeling guilt rise in her throat. He leaned in the doorway, and suddenly the cottage was very crowded, as if he took up all the space and all the air with it.

“I just thought—” What had she thought? “My, it’s hot in here. Shall we go outside?”

He began to gather the food, and she helped, and their hands met on the loaf. She drew back as if he were on fire.

He looked at her oddly. “Is anything wrong?” he asked.

She shook her head, the power of speech gone, her whole body tingling from one simple, accidental touch. She picked up the basket and hurried outside. She sat on the very farthest edge of the bench, and tore the bread, handed him some.

“Thank you.” He smeared it with jam, and bit into it, and looked as if he were eating ambrosia. Megan smoothed her palms over her skirt, and picked up a plum, and bit into it. She tasted the sweetness of the fruit, felt the burst of saliva in her mouth, and the warmth of the sun on her skin, the sudden cool rush of the breeze. But most of all, she was aware of Kit Rossington, seated by her side. Her skin buzzed. If she reached out her hand just the slightest bit, she’d be able to touch his, and bring it to her lips. Would he taste of the loch, the sweetness of clear water, with a tang of peat and heather? He was looking out over the loch, his eyes narrowed against the sun, crinkled at the corners. His hair was soft and fair, lighter than brown, darker than gold, and streaked with sunlight where the breeze lifted it back from his brow.

She forced herself to swallow the fruit, to take another bite. “What shall we do today?” she asked him.

He looked up at her. The contented look vanished. He looked startled for an instant before he schooled his features to calm. “We? I thought I would go and spend time in the castle, clear some of the rubble, perhaps.”