Once Upon a Highland Christmas (7 page)

He was proud of his home. Was Glenlorne grander? He wondered about her fiancé's home too. Alanna was a lady, not just a simple Highland lass who'd gotten lost while out looking for her cows. She was used to finer luxuries than she would find here. Would he have treated her differently last night had he known? An interesting question, that. Not that he had an answer to it.

Annie opened the door of his bedchamber. Iain drew a breath as he carried Alanna over yet another threshold, this one more intimate than the last. His clothes and belongings still lay where he'd left them, on hooks and over the chair and on the chest in the corner. A stack of books stood on his desk by the window. His bed was freshly made, the sheets warmed, and Annie turned back the blankets invitingly. A fire burned in the grate. Alanna stiffened in his arms. “Oh, but this is obviously someone's room—­”

“ 'Tis Iain's, but he doesn't mind,” Annie said before he could say it himself. “You'll be most comfortable here.”

Iain carefully deposited her on the bed, and she looked up at him. “Where will you sleep?”

The question rattled through his brain, shot to his groin. He imagined tumbling into bed next to her, both of them warm this time, wide awake, and . . . he shook the thought off and stepped back, clasped his hands behind his back.

“Craigleith has other rooms.”

“The lord's chamber is free, Iain. You could sleep there,” Penelope said.

He still thought of it as his father's room. He had left it untouched and uninhabited since Lord Anthony Marston MacGillivray death nearly ten years ago. Iain preferred this room, since it was less grand, less English. Even his father, who had built his apartments in the image of the grand English manors he'd grown up in, had preferred to sleep in his bride's simpler apartments.

“The tower will do me just fine.”

Annie looked at Alanna as Iain set her down on the bed and stepped back at once. “He refuses to move into the lord's chamber until he's wed.”

“Then it's certainly appropriate now,” Penelope said, and came forward to slip her arm though his. Her hand was like a talon on his sleeve, sharp and possessive.

Iain watched Alanna's eyes slide over Penelope's hand. She understood at once—­he saw that in her eyes. He kept his gaze flat as he detached himself from his cousin and began to gather his things.

Annie was watching him like a curious bird, and he wondered what she was thinking. He sent her a warning look and went to the door. He glanced back at Alanna. She sat on his bed looking wan and tired, and his heart went out to her. He had the damnedest urge to lay his hand on her brow, check for fever before he tucked her between the sheets, settled her on the pillow, and closed the drapes.

“Rest well, Lady Alanna,” he said and bowed crisply before fleeing along the hall.

Penelope followed him. “Would she not be more comfortable at her own home? Annie should not have troubled you. There are servants who can tend to her, and if she needs a doctor, then surely one can be found for her.”

Iain gritted his teeth. “It is a Highland custom to welcome travellers, to see that they have what they need. In this case, she needs kindness and care and rest. Annie can see to her health.”

“I could ask my mother's opinion, of course,” Penelope said. “She'd know best what to do.”

He stopped so suddenly that she nearly crashed into his back again. “Not here, Penelope. Not in Scotland. This is my home, and as Laird of Craigleith, I will decide. I'm glad to help the lass—­the
lady
—­if she needs it. She is my guest, as you are.”

Penelope blanched. “Oh, but I'm more than that, Iain—­” she began, but he turned down the corridor that led to the old part of the castle, and the tower. He could—­
should
—­stop walking, turn back, drop to his knee, and ask her. But he glanced back at the door of his bedchamber, firmly shut now, with Alanna inside, and the words stuck in his throat yet again.

“I'll see you at supper, Penelope,” he said instead.

“Iain?” she called after him, and he stopped.

“Yes?”

“What would you like for a Christmas present?”

A Christmas present
? He turned to look at her. “That's not necessary,” he said. “You're a guest.”

“Oh, but I could be more—­so very much more,” she reminded him again. “Did you know my room is just steps down the hall from the lord's apartments?”

She looked hopeful, her blue eyes wide. Another opportunity to propose dropped into the well of silence that yawned between them. “I'll be quite comfortable in the tower,” he said and climbed the stairs two at a time, leaving her standing there watching him.

Running away, perhaps, just like Alanna had. He tightened his jaw and kept going. Of course he wasn't.

No doubt his cousin would head straight for his aunt's room. Together mother and daughter would plot the next step in his capture, decide how to bring him to his knees—­or one knee, he supposed. They'd think him stubborn, backwards, but he was in fact only careful, both of his feelings and Penelope's. Still, he knew he
must
come to terms with it, find a way to speak the words.

But not now—­In a day or two, perhaps. Once Alanna McNabb had gone.

 

Chapter Eight

“E
LI
Z
A
B
E
T
H
,
W
A
K
E
U
P
!
”
Fiona shook her cousin awake.

“What time is it?” Elizabeth demanded. “It can't be past dawn.”

Fiona wondered if everyone in England slept so late. “It's nearly ten o'clock. It's just dark outside because of the weather. Iain's back safely, but you won't believe this—­we have a visitor, just like Annie said.”

“Who? Is it your true love?” Elizabeth grunted, covering her head with the blanket. Fiona pulled it back again, all the way to the bottom of the bed, and her cousin curled into a ball and shrieked at the room's chill.

Fiona folded her arms over her chest. “Not my true love, but somebody's, perhaps. She's pretty, and young, and she's an earl's sister.”

Elizabeth's eyes opened at last. “Truly? Where on earth did she come from?”

Fiona grabbed the pillow and hugged it to her breast. “She was lost in the snow, and Iain rescued her. Isn't that romantic?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth sighed, sitting up, her eyes glowing now. “Who is she?”

“Her name is Alanna McNabb. Annie says she's sure to set the cat among the pigeons,” Fiona said.

Elizabeth frowned. “What pigeons?” Fiona raised her eyebrows and waited for her cousin to figure it out. “Oh! You mean Penelope. Penelope Pigeon,” she giggled.

“Aye,” Fiona said with a sly grin.

“She's pretty?”

Fiona sighed. “Yes, very.”

“Dark or fair?”

“Dark hair,” Fiona reported.

Elizabeth sighed. “Oh, well then. The English prefer blonds, or so mama says—­well, she tells Penelope that, since she's the family beauty, and I have mousy hair. What about her eyes?”

“She has two of them,” Fiona quipped.

“The color, silly.”

“The color of the Highland hills on a frosty morn, golden brown and silver all at once,” Fiona said.

“Pen's are plain blue. Is she plump or thin?”

“Slender, but still—­” Fiona rolled her hands in front of her own flat chest. Elizabeth's eyes popped. “She has pretty legs, too, well, the one I saw was pretty, despite the cuts and bruises. She got hurt in the storm, and Iain carried her all the way home, and—­”

“He
carried
her?” Elizabeth clasped her hands to her breast. “How far?”

“All the way, of course—­miles and miles, wrapped in his plaid and his handkerchief, the very one I made him last Christmas.”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “His handkerchief? Is that some kind of a Scottish custom?”

Fiona remembered the way her brother had looked at Alanna, his eyes soft. Her eyes had been soft too, and neither one of them seemed to be able to look elsewhere. “I don't know,” she said slowly. “If it is, I think I'm too young to understand the full importance of it.”

“Oh, but we
have
to know!” Elizabeth got out of bed and hurried to the wardrobe. She pulled out the gown she'd worn the day before and rummaged through the pockets. “There's still one left—­” She held out a bundle of herbs like the ones they'd thrown into the fireplace. “Can we get a lock of her hair?”

Fiona stared at her cousin. “Don't be daft. We can hardly go up to a guest—­an injured guest—­and ask her for a lock of her hair, now, can we?”

“Why not?” Elizabeth asked. “Perhaps we could get it while she wasn't looking.”

“She'd think we were both daft!”

“Don't you want to know?” Elizabeth asked. “What if she's Iain's true love, sent by magic in time for Christmas?”

Fiona felt a tingle rush through her body.
Was she
? She shook off the feeling. “If you'll recall, the spell didn't work for us, Lizzy. What makes you think it will work for her?”

She recalled the roar of the sparks as they rushed up the chimney, the wind's reply, the suddenness of the storm, and felt a tingle rush up her spine again.

“What if it
does
work this time?” Elizabeth insisted. “Don't you think it's odd, the two of us casting spells, asking for a true love by Christmas, and then she appears, wrapped in your brother's plaid—­and his handkerchief?”

Fiona sobered. “And Annie did see that we'd have a visitor, and here she is. But what if we do see something in the flames? That will indeed set the cat among the pigeons.”

Elizabeth giggled. “Yes, it will, won't it? Penelope will be livid. It's going to be such fun!”

 

Chapter Nine

“H
ERE'S THE CHIC
KENS,
Annie,” Iain said as he laid three birds on the kitchen table. Sandy had caught a goose, which Iain had returned to the fold. Sandy crossed to the fire to light his pipe and settle by the hearth.

Seonag crossed the kitchen, poked the birds, and grinned. “Fine and plump, too. How's the goose fattening up? I trust he'll be ready for Christmas dinner?”

“I didn't think to ask,” Iain said with a smile. Seonag looked ready to burst with her fourth babe. Annie predicted the child would come before Christmas, and there was a lively pool of wagers as to the exact date of the happy event. Logan was as proud as a father could be, and though Sandy complained that the cottage he shared with his son's family would be even noisier with the newborn child's cries than it was now, he too was delighted.

Annie folded her arms over her chest and leveled a sharp look at Iain. “Do you mean to keep her?”

“The goose?” Iain asked, though he knew well enough whom she meant. Sandy and Seonag looked at him with the same question in their eyes.

“Not the goose—­the lass, Lady Alanna McNabb.”

“Aye,” said Sandy from his seat by the fire. “In the old Highland tradition a stray cow or a stray lass is fair game. She's a pretty thing, and when she's back on her feet, she'll make a fine and fetching wife.”

Iain folded his arms over his chest and stared Annie down. “That she will, since she's betrothed to someone else—­almost married, in fact.”

“Almost is a long way from is,” Annie said and turned her hand to helping Seonag pluck the chickens.

“We don't steal our brides anymore. We're civilized folk,” Iain reminded them.

Sandy rubbed his bearded chin. “My grandfather stole his wife. She was a Fraser lass. He'd gone a-­reiving for a cow, but she wouldn't let go of the beastie's halter, so he brought her home right along with it. He would have returned her—­the lass, not the cow—­but she declared herself in love with him and insisted on staying. He handfasted with her to give her time to think it through and change her mind, but then he fell in love with her too.”

“The lass upstairs seems like someone a man could very easily fall in love with,” Seonag said, pulling feathers while keeping one eye on Iain. He kept his expression flat.

“Och, aye. She's a bonnie wee thing,” Sandy agreed. “I'd keep her.”

Annie sent him a sharp look. “Not you—­Iain.”

“I've told you that I intend to—­” Iain began, but Annie held up a feather-­covered hand.

“Oh, I know, the Sassenach. She—­they—­expect you to marry her. But the omens aren't favorable.”

“What do the omens say about the McNabb lass?” Sandy said, leaning forward.

Iain made a sound of frustration. Making a success of Purbrick was what mattered. Did they not understand? “Omens won't build a new roof for this castle, or add new cattle to the herds in the spring,” he said.

“They won't keep you warm at night either,” Annie said.

Iain swallowed, remembered the icy chill of Alanna's flesh against his. She'd warmed, though, become a soft, warm, feminine weight in his arms. Every time he thought of her, tucked up in his arms, or his plaid, or his bloody bed, other images rose—­lusty, improper ones. He clenched his fists against such thoughts. “I will do what's necessary,” he growled. “My duty is to this place and my ­people—­all my ­people.” Even so, the thought of Penelope in his bed, even warm and willing, left him cold.

“Stubborn,” Annie muttered.

“The lass is spoken for. It isn't magic or omens that brought her here—­it was misfortune. When the weather allows, we'll see she gets safely home for her wedding.”

Annie reached into her pocket. “I forgot—­she wrote a letter, just in case it can be delivered. She said she couldn't sleep until it was done, knowing her kin will be fretting about her.”

“Is it a love letter?” Sandy asked.

“It's addressed to her brother, Glenlorne,” Annie said, dropping the folded note on the table. “Makes no mention of her betrothed at all. Odd she wouldn't write to
him,
whoever he is, don't you think?”

Iain stared at the letter, the corners adorned with white feathers from the chicken, like an imitation of angel's wings. Omens indeed. “You didn't read it?”

Annie shrugged. “I may have glanced at it. It isn't sealed.”

Sandy got to his feet and picked up the letter. “I'll take it through to Jock MacIntosh's farm. He's planning to go and visit his daughter, storm or no, to see his first grandchild born. Her man Connor can take it on to his folks at Loch Rain when he goes with the news of the birth. Someone will take it on from there until it gets to Glenlorne. Her brother will know she's here, and safe.”

Iain nodded. “Good.”

“You could ask a ransom for her. She's bound to be worth a good number of cows,” Sandy suggested.

Iain rolled his eyes. “We will tell Glenlorne that his sister is welcome here at Craigleith until the weather breaks—­no ransom.”

“Perhaps she'll be with us for Christmas then,” Seonag said eagerly. “The weather looks truly terrible.”

“It will get worse as the days pass,” Annie said softly, as if she knew.

Iain shook off the thought. “Christmas is still weeks away. No doubt she'll be gone by then.”
Gone, married, forgotten
.

Annie pursed her lips. “Maybe yes, maybe no. The signs suggest the snow will grow deeper still, keep us here.” The feathers floated around her head like a snowstorm, and Iain felt a guilty twinge of hope that neither he nor Alanna would be able to go anywhere. He was as bad as old Sandy.

Annie pointed to the ceiling. “Will you go up and check on her, Iain? I don't want to leave her alone too long, in case she needs something. She can hardly get out of bed and call down the stairs, now, can she? I've got the chickens to pluck, and the soup to make, and the bread won't bake itself, and Seonag should stay off her feet.”

Seonag cast a wide-­eyed glance at Annie. “Why? Is it time? I don't feel anything yet . . .”

Annie ignored her. “ 'Tis the lass I'm worried about. The babe will come when it comes.”

Iain thought about opening the door of his room, looking down at Alanna in his bed—­not that he hadn't been imaging that very thing all morning. “It's hardly proper for me to go up,” he said stiffly. “What about Marjorie, or Penelope? Where's Fiona?”

Sandy snickered. “Proper? You spent the night in Ewan's cott alone with her.”

Annie cast the old gamekeeper a quelling look. “Proper or not, someone must look in. Lady Marjorie is still abed, and your Lady Penelope looked like she'd strangle the lass in her sleep if she got the chance. Fiona could go, I suppose, if I can find her, but she'll drive Alanna daft with her chatter,” Annie said. “Just have a wee look, Iain, and I'll be up as soon as I'm done here. It's part of being a good host, and you said yourself you take your duties seriously.”

“A quick look, then,” Iain said, feeling a very foolish and ill-­advised anticipation of seeing Alanna. “I'll come back at once and let you know if she wants anything.”

“Of course,” Annie said, waving him out of the kitchen. “Just do whatever you think is necessary, Laird.”