Once Upon a Highland Summer (11 page)

“Devina summoned me when the last laird died—in case you were dead too. I see you aren’t.”

He didn’t sound happy about that, Alec noted. He also noted the way Megan looked at him. He stepped forward and put his arm around his sister. “I’m sure there’s plenty of news I need to catch up on,” he said, turning away from Brodie.

“What time is it?” Megan asked as a cloud passed over the sun.

Alec took out his watch. “Nearly five. Why? Is the Midsummer fire tonight?”

“Of course not—you have been away too long. It’s not until tomorrow night,” Alanna said.

“I’m to be the lord of Midsummer at the bonfire,” Brodie said.

“Alec is home now, and he’s the laird. He’ll do it—won’t you, Alec?” Alanna insisted.

“We’re late for tea!” Megan said. “Mother will be livid!”

“Livid?” Alec asked.

“Fair vexed,” Sorcha translated. “She’s probably sitting in the drawing room with Miss Forrester, both of them dressed for tea, wondering where we are.”

“And who is Miss Forrester? Alec asked.

“Our governess,” Megan said distractedly, still gazing at Brodie.

“Did you bring us presents?” Alanna asked, linking her arm with his, grinning at him. She used to have plaits he liked to pull. Her hair was loose now, swirling in the breeze. He twined a lock of it around his finger, and felt the curls cling like vines.

“Of course I did.”

“Books?” Alanna asked.

“Silk? Lace?” Megan pleaded.

“Sweets?” Sorcha demanded, and Alec laughed.

“Wait and see,” he said, and offered his youngest sister his other arm. Megan walked down the hill with Brodie and a half-dozen other lasses who had the same besotted looks on their rosy faces.

It wasn’t until he reached the bottom of the hill he remembered that he’d left poor Lady Sophie alone near the tower. Who else could it have been but Sophie? Englishwomen were hardly common in the Highlands. He scanned the hill around the tower—and the window, just to be sure she hadn’t climbed back to her perch—but there was no sign of her.

She’d probably slipped away, gone back to the inn, or wherever she was staying with her father to wait for a proper arrival, a formal introduction. He marveled again that Bray had arrived so quickly. Sophie was a beauty, and he recalled the soft, feminine weight of her in his arms as he’d caught her in the tower. He hadn’t wanted to let her go.

Perhaps marriage wouldn’t be so bad after all.

A
ngus and Georgiana watched Alec go down the hillside. Angus wiped away a tear. “He’s home at last. I’d say we’re off to a good start, wouldn’t you?”

“You frightened Caroline witless when you pushed her,” Georgiana replied.

“ ’Twas all for the good. Did you see the look in Alec’s eyes when he caught her?” Angus chuckled. “I know what the lad was feeling—the same thing I felt the moment I saw you.”

“I remember,” Georgiana said. “How could I ever forget?”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

T
he countess had assigned Caroline to a room on the top floor of the tower. The room was large, with a bed, large wooden table, a shelf of books, and a window that offered a breathtaking view of the glen. It wasn’t a servant’s room, but it wasn’t near the family’s apartments either. In the safety of her quarters, Caroline splashed cool water over her flushed face, but the sun-kissed glow—and the glow of mortification at her own behavior—wouldn’t come off. She bound her hair extra tight, and put on the plainest gown she could find, a soft gray muslin with a high neck she had purchased in Edinburgh before arriving here. Now she looked like a governess.

Muira followed her up. “The lasses are back. They found their brother on the hillside, and they all but carried him home.” The old woman gave Caroline an almost toothless grin. “It’s good to have a laird back at Glenlorne again. He’ll set things right now.”

Laird? Caroline felt her cheeks flame anew. There could be no mistaking whom she met in the tower, then. Her stomach shrank into her spine. She’d acted like a ninny! She’d have to face him at dinner, since teatime had long since passed. Or line up for inspection with the rest of the servants, the way Charlotte made her staff do whenever she arrived at one or another of the Somerson estates. Impropriety, or even a stain on one’s uniform, might result in instant dismissal or a mild rebuke, depending on Charlotte’s mood.

“She
insists there be a formal dinner in the hall tonight to welcome His Lordship home.” Muira set her hands on her hips. “His Lordship! He’ll always be wee Alec to me, and I know he’d prefer a good hot supper with all the folk, and a dram or two of good whisky to toast his homecoming.” She looked around the room. “This was his bedchamber when he was a lad, but he’ll be in the laird’s quarters now. I was actually sent to say ye’ll have to sup with us in the kitchen tonight, miss. The meal is for family only.
She
would like you to help the girls dress, make sure they look like proper ladies.”

“Of course.” Caroline almost sighed with relief. She wouldn’t have to face the new Earl of Glenlorne just yet. She gave Muira a blinding smile. “I would like that very much—dining in the kitchen, I mean.”

“Aye?” Muira squinted at her. “Ye’re not even curious to get a look at him? He’s a braw man. He always was, o’ course, but he’s filled out now, all fit and fine.”

Caroline felt a blush creep over her cheeks. Yes, the man was braw indeed. And strong. She could still feel his hands on her waist, his eyes on her exposed ankles.

“Ye looked flushed, lass. Did ye get too much sun today?” Muira asked.

She turned away from Muira’s curious eyes. “I think I’d better go down and help the girls dress.”

She took the curved stairs, so like the ones in the old tower, yet broader here. How long could she manage to avoid the new laird? Hopefully, he’d have a great many things to do over the next days, weeks, or even months, and forget her entirely if she kept to the schoolroom. Somerson barely remembered she existed at all—unless there was a problem, such as the need to marry her off so he might forget her permanently. She doubted her half brother had ever bothered himself to even wonder about his daughters’ governess. She was a servant herself now, more invisible than she’d ever been before.

A
lec looked around the table at the gracious young ladies surrounding him. His half sisters weren’t the carefree girls they’d been on the hillside. They sat at their mother’s table—his table—with their backs straight, their gloved hands clasped in their laps, and polite debutante smiles pasted on their faces. He could almost believe he was back in London, at the kind of dinner party the Countess of Westlake might give on her husband’s behalf for influential people.

The conversation tonight was in English, and the girls were dressed in English finery. Only the excited glow in their eyes gave him hope that they were still the girls he remembered.

Muira substituted for Westlake’s proper butler, and two clansmen assisted, lads he’d grown up with, now his servants. Jock MacNabb winked at him as he poured wine into Alec’s glass, and Leith Rennie beamed from his post at the sideboard.

“Where did these come from?” Sorcha asked, holding up a crystal wineglass.

“Heirlooms,” Muira replied as she served the soup, a rich chicken broth. She refrained from looking at the countess, but Alec knew her next remark was directed at Devorguilla like a poison-tipped arrow shot from a bow. “Many fine things were sold off when old Laird Angus died, but a few of the important ones were preserved.”

“Like the tales grandfather used to tell about family treasures hidden after Culloden?” Alanna asked.

Muira’s lips tightened. “Best not to speak of that day.”

Alec watched Devorguilla’s chin rise. “And I suppose these fine things will disappear again after the meal, along with the silver, and the wine?”

Muira smiled archly. “Och, they’ll just be put back into safekeeping, so the silver doesn’t need polishing all the time. They’ll get more use now the laird is home.”

“It was necessary to sell some things to feed and clothe ourselves,” Devorguilla said, not quite making eye contact with Alec.

“In luxury,” Muira murmured in Alec’s ear as she served his soup with a flourish.

“Did you expect the girls to wear rags, go about with no shoes on their feet?” Devorguilla demanded. Alec realized that Muira was speaking Gaelic, and Devorguilla was answering in English. “They are the daughters of an earl.”

“And the sisters of an earl too,” Muira shot back. “He’ll see them well cared for.” Every eye in the room looked to him for assurance of that. Alec sipped his wine and stared into his soup.

“Oh, no doubt he will—just as his father did.” Devorguilla said acidly. “The girls are my responsibility. They must be fit to wed earls and lords according to their station in life.”

“How grand that sounds!” Alanna ventured bravely, fording into the rising tide of family enmity. Devorguilla silenced her middle daughter with a lift of her brows, and Alec watched Alanna subside into ladylike silence once again. The soup suddenly became the most fascinating thing in the room.

“Alec, are the tales we’ve heard about England true?” Sorcha asked cautiously.

“What tales are those?” he asked her.

“The one about English lords having tails they keep tucked in their breeches,” Muira interrupted.

Alanna hid a giggle behind her napkin, and earned a sharp look from her mother.

Alec had often wondered if Westlake was the devil, but doubted it could be proven by such an easy method as exposing his forked tail. “Of course not.”

“How would they sit down?” Sorcha asked, unperturbed.

“I hear that English gentlemen do nothing but ride roughshod over the countryside, killing babies and eating huge quantities of beef, chicken, and pork for breakfast, lunch, and supper. They drink three gallons of ale with each meal, wash it all down with a cask of brandy, and sleep until noon,” Megan added.

Alec couldn’t help but laugh. “ ’Tisn’t far from the truth,” he said lightly.

“And the ladies,” Alanna said. “Is it true they are allowed to do nothing but sit on cushions all day, so they don’t dirty their dresses or muss their hair, and spend their time doing needlework?”

“Except gossip and drink tea,” Sorcha added. She imitated a lady sipping from her cup with pinkie outstretched. “I hear that gossip is the passion of English ladies. If they haven’t heard anything of note, they make things up to cut each other most cruelly.”

“Everyone in England has three houses—a country house, a city house, and a hunting lodge—is that correct?” Megan asked.

“That’s why London is so crowded that there’s no room for anything green to grow. Too many buildings and too many people,” Sorcha added. “Is it true there are no flowers in London, and are the houses so tall you can’t see the sky? I would be sad indeed if I could not see the sky.”

Alec realized his sisters—and Muira—were awaiting his pronouncements on the stories they’d heard.

“Miss Forrester says that Englishmen are gentlemen like any other,” Megan said hopefully, and in English too.

“Does she now?” Alec asked. “And what has she to say about the gentlemen’s tails?”

“She says the only tails are upon their evening coats,” Alanna said.

Alec nodded. “True enough.”

“She says men and ladies both sleep until noon if they’ve been out at a ball or a party. Miss Forrester says they dance until dawn and drink champagne at the best parties. She’s been teaching us English dances, though the waltz is still considered scandalous in some places,” Megan said. “Still, if we are to take our place in English society as mother believes we must, we must go to London as soon as circumstances allow.” She looked to Alec for reassurance that this fate would not be so terrible.

“What’s wrong with Scottish lads?” Muira grumbled. “There’s plenty of lords with fine, strapping sons here.”

“Penniless,” Alanna sighed, as if by rote.

“What about love?” Alec asked, sipping the claret. Leith instantly leaped forward to refill his glass. “What if you fall in love with a poor man?”

Megan looked at him as if he’d lost his wits. “I would never be so foolish as that!”

“Miss Forrester believes in love,” Sorcha said. “At least I think she does. She likes poetry and stories.”

“I certainly hope she is not teaching you any such nonsense,” Devorguilla said. “She is here to instruct you about English language and manners and customs, not fill your head with foolish notions.”

“What a dreadful thing to say at Midsummer!” Muira said, hovering behind Alec’s chair. “ ’Tis the time when a young lass
should
be thinking of love, reading the omens, watching for a sign of the man she’ll marry!”

The three girls looked at her with bright eyes.

“I believe we are quite finished with the soup. You may remove the plates,” Devorguilla said.

“I want to marry for love.” Alanna sighed, ignoring the brewing argument.

“Then you had better plan to fall in love with a rich English lord, for that is who you will wed,” Devorguilla said tartly.

An ancient shield that hadn’t been there that afternoon threw itself from the wall and clattered onto the floor. The girls jumped, and Alec instinctively reached for a pistol that wasn’t there. This was Glenlorne, not the dark alleys of London.

Jock picked up the shield. “Sorry, Alec. I put this up myself this afternoon. ’Tis the targe of Malcolm, if you recall. It’s been hidden away for years. Muira insisted we bring it out now ye’re home. I thought I’d done it right.”

“Yet more hidden treasures,” Devorguilla said sharply, her gaze clashing with Muira’s.

“I canna understand how it fell. That nail has been waiting for that shield to return for nigh on sixty years,” Muira said. “ ’Tis the spirits of the auld ones, come to welcome ye home, Laird.”

“Or perhaps the nail has rusted at last,” Devorguilla said. “Like the fortunes of the MacNabbs.”