Once Upon a Highland Summer (30 page)

C
aroline helped Alec into the cool dim sanctuary of the Grange. He slid to the floor as soon as they were in the door. “Hold still,” she said, kneeling beside him and tugging on his coat. He gritted his teeth, but didn’t complain.

“I’m sure it looks worse than it actually is,” he said, and she sent him a dubious look.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, knowing it did, if only from the pallor of his face, the beads of sweat on his brow.

“Of course it does, but allow me some masculine pride.”

She ignored that and unbuttoned his shirt, aware of the warmth of his skin, the beating of his heart under her fingers. His pulse was strong, and that, surely, was a good sign. She peeled the bloody linen away from his shoulder and began to search for the bullet wound.

“Ah!” she cried when she found it.

“Is it bad?”

“Depends,” she murmured. “It’s in your upper arm.” She tugged on him to roll him, and his breath hissed through his teeth as he bit back an oath. “I need to see if the bullet went through, or if it’s still inside,” she said crisply.

He forced his body forward so her probing hands could search. The room swam before his eyes.

“Ah!” she said again.

“Is that good?”

“Yes. Wherever the bullet went, it passed straight through. Have you a flask of whisky?” she asked.

“In my coat,” he said, watching her. She retrieved the silver flask and opened it. The peat-strong fragrance of the whisky overcame the musty damp smell of the Grange. He held out his good hand for the flask, but she shook her head. “Here first.”

He cursed as she poured it over the wound, setting it on fire. “Haven’t you ever been shot before?” she asked.

“Of course not!” he said. “No one’s ever tried to kill me before this, not even when I lived in London. I have been stabbed—well, nicked—with a knife, had my share of cuts and bruises, but never once . . .”

His breath caught in his throat as stood up and lifted her skirt, exposing the silken length of her shapely calf. He grabbed the flask and took a long swallow.

Caroline was aware that he was staring at her legs, but it couldn’t be helped. Still, her cheeks flamed as she fumbled with the ties to her petticoat. She drew it off and let her skirt drop, aware of the bright light in his eyes.

She tore the linen and made a thick pad to press to the wound. The bleeding was already slowing. She picked up his left hand and put it over the bandage. “Press,” she said, and tore another strip to bind the wound. “We need to get you back to Muira—”

There was a rattle at the door. Caroline gasped. Muffled voices spoke, and fists pounded.

Caroline gasped and tried to rise, but Alec grabbed her hand. “Don’t move,” he whispered.

Her heart pounded in her throat. “The door isn’t locked. I don’t remember closing it.”

“Seems locked to me,” he said, and she flinched as the thick panel shook against the bolt as a heavy body crashed against it.

He pulled her close to his side, put his good arm around her shoulders. Caroline put a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming as a face appeared in the window, an ugly splayed cheek pressed to the glass, dirty hands cupped around a glittering eye.

“Your Viscount Speed,” I believe,” Alec murmured. “Surely Mandeville can’t be far behind.” The door rattled again, but did not open.

“Hardly my Viscount Sped,” she muttered.

Another face appeared next to Speed’s. “Brodie,” Alec said softly, and swore. “I wouldn’t have thought he had the sense. I’m not surprised he missed.”

“Brodie shot you? Your cousin?”

“My heir,” he said dryly. “I doubt he thought of this himself.”

Caroline watched the door shake, but it held fast, as if it had been locked and barred—but not by her hand. She’d left it open, she was certain, more concerned for Alec. She held her breath as years of dirt and bits of rotten plaster fell to the floor, making a fearsome clatter on the dry boards of the old floor, like hundreds of tiny feet rushing at her. She found herself curling closer to Alec, afraid of rodents and men, and everything else. He squeezed her shoulder and kissed her forehead, and she felt safer.

As suddenly as they’d come, the men left, and there was silence. It was getting dark, the last vestiges of light fading, leaving the draped furniture ghostly and white against the blackness. She shivered, and turned to Alec. He hadn’t moved, and she wondered if . . . She reached up to feel for his pulse, and his hand came up to cover hers.

“I’m fine, Caroline,” he muttered thickly. “We’ll go once it’s dark.” He pulled her back against his side, kept her warm.

She fussed, feeling the bandage, checking for signs of fresh blood that she couldn’t see.

“Where did you learn to bandage a gunshot wound?” he asked, his voice warm, whisky-scented, near her ear.

“My mother was sick a lot. Between governesses, I spent my days in the kitchen with the servants. One day, one of the gamekeepers tripped on his gun, and shot himself in the leg. They forgot I was there, but I never forgot what I saw. Cook rolled up her sleeves, got out the brandy, took a tot herself, then poured some over the wound. She used proper bandages, of course . . .”

“Did he live?” Alec asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“Then there’s hope for me, I suppose. Unless she tries again.”

“She?” Caroline asked. “What do you mean?”

“Devorguilla. I have no doubt she put Brodie up to this. Probably promised him the riches of Glenlorne if he did as she said. He’s going to be disappointed,” he murmured. “But no matter. You’re leaving all this behind, and there are other things we should discuss.”

“Like what?” she asked.

“Like what do if you’re with child.”

She felt the shock of that rush through her. A dozen emotions followed, a whole herd of runaway horses. Dread, fear, shame, even delight. “I assure you I’m not—” She raised her chin. It was too soon to tell, of course. She resisted the urge to caress her flat stomach. “What if I am? It would hardly change anything.”

“Of course it would. I will protect you, see you have money, a place to live . . .”

She laughed, and he stopped. She could feel his eyes on her. “No, Alec,” she said, sobering. “I will not come back, won’t interfere. My time here is done, no matter what.” She was aware that her head on his shoulder belied her independence.

Alec sighed. “How I wish I’d met you in London,” he said.

“You would not have given me a second glance.”

“I would not have been able to look away from the first.”

Caroline felt her breath catch in her throat. “Perhaps it is better not to imagine what might have been.”

“I never thought I’d be Earl of Glenlorne, never wanted to be. I didn’t think I could until I saw you, in the tower, imagined you by my side.”

“I was here for weeks before you came home, Alec. There was no hope, no joy, no smiles. It’s different now and that’s because of you. You’ve made a good start.”

“I am not the laird my grandfather was, if that’s what they’re thinking. I cannot bring back the days of peace and power and prosperity. Those days are long gone, never to return.”

She raised her hand to his chest, drew circles with her fingertip. “Your clan wants a new beginning. You’ve already given them that—a pretty new countess, a handsome laird. Jock’s brother has ideas for breeding a new type of sheep with better, thicker wool, Alec, and Annie MacNabb has some ideas for weaving shawls with new patterns. She saw one of Sophie’s shawls. She thinks the clan could make them here and sell them in Glasgow or Edinburgh. So many others have ideas as well. Alastair MacNabb wants to build bridges. They only want your blessing, and a little money. They are willing to give Glenlorne their time, their loyalty. It’s their home too. Sophie’s money will do so much good.”

He caught her fingertip, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. “You’re a clever lass, Caroline. Did you know my grandfather was a sailor for a time? He told me about the wonders he saw while he was aboard ship. Other places, new ideas, different ways of doing things. Marvels.”

“Sophie’s dowry will help you do all those things, Alec,” she said.

“As a matter of fact, I’m not going to spend her money at all. I have an acquaintance in London, an earl, who owns a shipping company. He’s encouraged me to invest for years. I wrote to him, asked him if about shipping Glenlorne wool, investing in new ventures. He’s offered to advise me. He believes my investment could do very well. I shall need money for an initial investment, of course, which will come from Sophie’s dowry, but I will replace every penny, put it in trust, make my own way without living off my wife.”

Caroline felt a swelling of pride, and love. “That’s wonderful,” she said.

“If I survive.”

“The wound truly is minor,” she said.

“What about next time?” Brodie is trying to shoot me, and Speed and Mandeville have some reason of their own for wanting me dead.”

“They want Sophie—her dowry is many times more than mine was,” Caroline murmured.

“Ah yes, there’s you—if Somerson finds out I’ve debauched his little sister, he’ll probably try to run me through.”

She smiled. “No, he wouldn’t shoot you himself—he’d simply pay someone to call you out,” she joked. “Besides, if anyone would understand that you preferred to wed for money, it would be Somerson.” She realized too late how that sounded. “I mean, he doesn’t understand love.” She almost bit her tongue. She had never intended to admit she was in love with Alec.

“Is that why you gave up your dowry? Does money mean so little to you?”

“How do you know that?” she asked.

“Glenlorne is an old castle with cracks in the walls, windows that don’t shut tightly enough. I overheard your conversation with Somerson. You’re taking a huge risk.”

“I’ve always had money, of course, or at least I never wanted for anything money could buy. Yet I think I am happier without it. I can make my own choices, live my own life. Surely there are other folk in Scotland who wish their children to learn English.”

“So you’ll stay in Scotland?” he asked.

“It’s the first place in a very long time that’s felt like home.”

“It won’t be easy. Scots are suspicious of Sassenachs. Promise me you’ll write to me if you need help. At the very least, let me be the brother Somerson isn’t.”

“I could never think of you as a brother,” she whispered.

“Caroline, I have never been—”

The door swung open, and a long pool of moonlight raced across the floor. Caroline leaped to her feet, standing boldly between Alec and the intruders.

Jock jumped backward in alarm as she came forward, backing into Leith. “God a’mighty, lass, I thought you were a ghost!” Jock shifted and he pushed his tam back in relief. “Alec, lad! Are ye all right? We’ve been looking for ye for hours. Muira insisted something evil had befallen ye.” He crouched in front of Alec.

“He was shot,” Caroline said. “How did you open that door?”

Jock looked over his shoulder. The door? I didn’t open it. It was standing open when we got here, otherwise I wouldn’t have even bothered to look in this old place.”

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
-
T
WO

“W
e’re lost,” Viscount Speed said grimly. “We’ve been circling these woods in the dark for hours. I swear I’ve seen that tree stump before.”

“It’s too dark to see a hand in front of your face,” Brodie said, standing in a pool of moonlight, staring at his own palm.

“I thought you said you knew these woods intimately,” Mandeville said.

“O’ course I do!” Brodie said, and set off straight through a thick patch of thistles. Speed and Mandeville followed, crouched low. Brodie stopped suddenly, and they crashed into his back.

“For the love of God and all his angels, what is it now? Did you see something?” Mandeville said, straightening his coat.

“No, but I heard something,” Brodie replied, swinging his gun wildly at every shadow. It ended up poking into Mandeville’s bulging belly.

The Englishman pushed the barrel away with his fingertip. “Well, what did it sound like?”

“It was a terrible groaning sound,” Brodie said.

“Like a person—or an animal?” Speed asked. “What kind of animals are in these woods at night, anyway?”

“Fearsome things,” Brodie replied in a low voice. “Great, huge, nasty deer; furious badgers that could gnaw a man’s leg off, bats—”

“Ugh. I hate bats.” Speed shuddered.

“What about ghosts?” someone asked in a hollow tone.

“Ghosts?” Lord Mandeville exclaimed.

“The dead,” Speed said in a hollow voice. “The
recent
dead at the very least. They walk right up and tap you on the shoulder, all gory and grim, clad in nothing but grave clothes and ashes, and when you turn—” He cried out, discovering Brodie behind him, instead of in front where he’d been a moment before. At Speed’s cry, Brodie raised his gun, and nearly put the viscount’s eye out.

Mandeville took out his handkerchief and mopped the sweat from his face. “Ghosts. Ha! There’s no such thing, and if there were, you simply need to look it in the eye—”

“If it still has eyes to look into,” Speed put in.

“You look it in the eye and say, ‘Begone,’ and off it goes.” He waved a meaty hand.

“Is that so?”

“Which one of you said that?” Lord Mandeville asked.

“Wasna me,” Brodie said.

“Nor I,” Speed said, anxiously. “What’s that tapping noise?”

Mandeville peered around his friend. Brodie was shaking so hard his gun was clattering against his belt buckle. He was staring into the dark above the Englishmen’s heads, his face white, his eyes hollow. “Gh-ghost!” he managed, and raised his finger to point.

Speed shut his eyes and began to mutter what he hoped was an incantation against evil spirits, ill luck, and the pox. He spun when he heard Mandeville’s shriek, and looked straight into the eyes of a glowing form sitting on a branch, just above his head, grinning down at them, a winding cloth still wrapped around its horrible chin, its teeth bare, the eyes sockets empty. It raised a bony hand to unwind the cloth, and the jawbone dropped onto its hollow chest.