Once Upon a Highland Autumn (12 page)

“So why
did
you buy Glen Dorian?” she asked, fixing him with a sharp look. “You’re not going to tear it down, are you?”

He slid his eyes away. He’d imagined this would be a simple adventure, a lark before he returned to London in the fall, to duty, responsibility, and sanity. He would solve the mystery of the treasure, follow the story laid out in Nathaniel’s journal, and go home. He hadn’t intended to buy a glen, complete with a ruined castle on an island in a loch. Now it was his, he could do as he pleased—even, if he wished, come back. The idea suddenly appealed to him very much.

“No, I won’t tear it down. If I wish to build something, I’d put it there, perhaps, so there would be a view of the loch and the old castle.”

“But that’s Mairi’s Hill!” she said. “It’s part of the legend. For years she stood on that crag and waited for her true love to return to her.”

“What happened to her?”

She shrugged. “Some say he came back and took her away from here, because they’d known as much unhappiness as happiness in this place. Others say she died waiting, and is waiting still.”

He scanned the hill, looking for a lone woman watching the road that led into the glen, and the otters, and the castle. But there was nothing there. He felt an overwhelming rush of disappointment.

“What will you build?” she persisted. “A fine English hunting lodge?”

“I really just came to visit, a kind of grand tour. My great-uncle came here once, and wrote—”

Her eyes sharpened. “Yes?”

“He was a soldier,” he began, then stopped again. Had Nathaniel had a hand in the burning of Glen Dorian? What if he was responsible for causing the terrible pain, the sadness that haunted the glen?

Her lips tightened. “After Culloden, you mean?” She said the word as if it was poisonous, and it felt wrong to utter it here.

“Yes,” he said, and she drew a sharp breath and got to her feet, and began to walk around the side of the castle, her chin high. He scrambled to catch up. She stopped and turned on him so suddenly he nearly crashed into her. He caught her arm to steady her, but she pulled away.

“Did
he
burn the castle?” she demanded. He read loathing in her eyes, suspicion, disgust. It made him angry that she would judge him by the actions of men long dead.

“Why I’ve come here is none of your business, my lady. If you must know, I wanted a little peace and quiet, away from chattering females. Need I remind you that you are the one trespassing? I own this land, and I will do as I please with it, is that clear?”

Her eyes glittered as she dipped a mocking curtsy. “Perfectly so, your lordship. There’s no need to call your bailiff to arrest me. I shall bid you good day, and be on my way at once.” She turned and flounced back to the causeway, and he leaned against the old tower and watched her cross, her cloak catching the wind, her tangled hair swirling around her head in a dark halo. She looked like an angel, or a spirit, he thought, watching her go. He glanced back up toward Mairi’s Hill, scanned it again, but there was no one else watching Lady Megan McNabb flee the little island in high dudgeon. Still, the wind stuttered as it rushed through the broken stones and ruffled the dry grass, and it sounded like laughter.

Tomorrow he would bring tools and begin to search in earnest for the treasure hidden in the old castle. Tonight, he would return to the inn and spend the evening reading more of Nathaniel’s journal. He had to know what had happened here. He would concentrate on that, and only that.

But watching Megan McNabb continue on her way, he hoped it wouldn’t take too long to find the truth and the treasure. A pretty woman, a captivating, incredible woman, especially a marriageable one, was a complication he didn’t need.

M
egan slipped through the kitchen door and up the back stairs to her room, making certain no one saw her. She was scrubbing her face raw, trying to cool the hot blood that filled her cheeks when Alanna arrived.

“Where on earth have you been? You missed tea,” Alanna said, seating herself on Megan’s bed. Megan ignored her sister and scrubbed all the harder. How many times would that man make her look foolish? Once again, he’d dismissed her sharply, made it perfectly clear he did not like her in the least.

Alanna caught sight of Megan’s ruined gown and leaped to her feet, her jaw dropping in horror. She took in the mud, the grass stains, and the blood. “What happened?”

Megan tossed her chin. “Nothing at all.” She went into the dressing room and took off the gown, bundled it angrily into a ball and tossed it into the corner. She would bury or burn it later. Even if it could be saved, she never wanted to see it again, have it remind her of
him
.

“Nothing?” Alanna said. She waited, and Megan knew her sister was both patient and stubborn enough to wait forever if she had to, but she would have the truth.

Some explanation
was
required, Megan supposed. She offered the barest description she could—the door of the old castle had blown shut, and the Earl of Rossington had helped her climb out a window.

Alanna was scandalized enough at that. “Rossington? You were
alone
with
him
?”

“Yes,” Megan said. The tale of tending to his splinter, of falling out the window and landing spread-eagled on top of him in the heather, with every inch of her pressed to every inch of him, died on her lips at the look of shock on her sister’s face.

“You saw him again after he was so definite about not liking you?”

“I didn’t intend to, Alanna. I wasn’t looking for him. It just happened we were both in the same place at the same time, and the door just blew shut.”

“So you said. But just how did you come to be at Glen Dorian? I thought you were going to the village to take a basket of scones to Granny Fraser and hear her tell tales.”

Megan leaped at the change of subject. “And so I did—it was a wonderful visit—Granny knew Mairi MacIntosh, saw the destruction of the castle by the English soldiers after Culloden—”

“Why was his lordship at Glen Dorian?” Alanna asked.

Megan shrugged uneasily. “I don’t know. Look, I just wanted to look at the old place on my way back here for tea.”

“But you missed tea,” Alanna pointed out again, her tone prim.

“I got locked in!” Megan insisted again, as if that explained everything. Or nothing at all.

“With the English earl who refused to marry you and left Dundrummie without even having his dinner,” Alanna marveled, setting her hands on her hips.

Megan felt hot blood rush to her face, and she sat at the dressing table and began to undo the tattered ribbon that held what was left of her braid. “I had no idea he was inside,” she lied. “Granny said the view from the battlements was magnificent. I went to see that, not him.”

“Was it?” Alanna took over the comb, worked at the wind tangles in Megan’s hair.

“The roof has fallen in. There’s no way to climb up.”

Alanna’s eyes widened. “How dangerous! Perhaps it was a good thing the earl was there after all.”

Megan lowered her eyes, hiding from her sister’s questioning gaze. Alanna knew her better than anyone else, would know if she had feelings for the Englishman, which she most certainly did not. He was arrogant, rude, and . . . her heart flipped. He’d rescued her, caught her when she fell, protected her from coming to harm. She suppressed the sigh that bubbled up in her chest, and tossed her head instead and pasted on a ferocious scowl. “He had the audacity to accuse me of trespassing! Apparently he’s bought the castle and the whole of the old MacIntosh holding. I was only too happy to come away.”

“After he helped you climb out a window.”

“I hope I’ll never see him again,” Megan said fervently. She saw the flash of his grin in her mind, roguish and charming, and blushed again.

“So exactly how did you happen to get blood on your gown if it was all so civilized?” Alanna asked.

Megan lowered her eyes. “It isn’t my blood. I suppose he might have cut himself,” she murmured. “There are sharp stones, and bits of broken timber everywhere.”

“How unchivalrous of him to bleed on your gown.”

“I hope I never set eyes on him again!” Megan repeated.

“So you said.” Alanna set down the comb. “There. I have a fitting for a tea gown, whatever that might be, and Mama wants me to choose a pattern for a riding habit. No doubt a riding master will be coming here next. I hate horses. No doubt you’ll want to commit the tales of the day—the ones Granny told you, of course—to paper, so I’ll leave you to it. Of course, Mother will have questions about why you missed tea when you see her at dinner, so you’ll want to be prepared.”

“You won’t tell her?” Megan said, horrified.

Alanna looked smug. “Miss Carruthers says that English manners require that if a lady is alone with a gentleman, even if the circumstances are quite innocent, the gentleman is expected to do the honorable thing and offer to marry her.”

Megan felt her skin blanch. “Does Mother know this?”

“Of course she does. I can picture it: She’d drag you and Lord Rossington to the nearest anvil, and see you wed by the blacksmith, willing or not. No, I won’t tell her—if you’re sure you never want to see him again.”

“Of course I am,” Megan said, and Alanna smiled and left the room.

Megan stared at the closed door, her stomach churning. She’d never trick a man into marriage that way—or allow herself to be tricked. Especially not with a man like Kit—Lord Rossington—who so clearly did not want her. She stared into the mirror, pictured his gray eyes inches from her own, remembered the scent of his skin, the feel of her hand in his, the sensation of lying on top of him with his arms around her . . . smoke curled through her belly and she pressed her fist there. She opened the trinket box on her dressing table and took out Eachann’s promise ring, and gazed into the tiny golden-green chip of the cairngorm in the center.

She slipped the promise ring onto her finger, and sent up a prayer that her true love came home very, very soon.

“T
here’s a caller for you downstairs,” the maid said, interrupting the embroidery lesson. “An English gentleman.”

“A caller?” Sorcha asked eagerly, tossing aside her stitchery, thrilled that something—anything—might interrupt the hated task.

Alanna looked up from her perfect work, met Megan’s eyes with her brows raised. Alanna’s embroidered silk rose bloomed on her linen sampler, the stitches so perfect that the dew looked wet, and it was possible to believe that if one pressed their nose to it, it would even smell like a rose.

Devorguilla shot to her feet. “An English gentleman? Is it Lord Rossington?”

Megan plunged the needle into her finger and let out a cry. She sucked the small injury, but that reminded her of extracting the splinter, and her stomach knotted as tightly as her tangled embroidery threads.

“Would it be such a great surprise?” Devorguilla asked, mistaking Megan’s outburst. “He might have changed his mind upon reflection. We shall make him sweat if he has.” She grinned unpleasantly.

Alanna’s gaze was full of speculation, and Megan felt her stomach turn to water. Did Rossington feel honor bound to wed her now, having been alone with her?

But perhaps he’d come only to see if she was well after their misadventure three days earlier—it
would
be the gentlemanly, chivalrous thing to do.

And when her mother found out the dreadful details of their encounter at Glen Dorian, she would insist that he marry her, and Megan would be the one to sweat.

“It’s not the gentleman who was here the other night, no. It’s a different one,” the maid said.

Megan felt her spine melt with sheer relief, even as her mouth dried with a certain measure of disappointment. Of course he had not come—he made it plain on both the times they’d met that he had no liking for her as a wife, as a neighbor, or even a friend, for that matter.

“A different gentleman! Girls, tidy yourselves at once,” Devorguilla said, her smile instantly transforming to the one she reserved for eligible gentlemen.

“And I’ll say no if you propose to this one,” Megan said, raising her chin.

“You most certainly will not!” her mother said.

“Perhaps we’d best let this one have tea at least,” Alanna said with a twinkle in her eye, and Megan warned her with a sharp glare.

“Jeannie, go and tell Graves to nail the man to the floor if he has to, but to keep him in the salon until we’ve heard what he has to say for himself,” Devorguilla said, and took Megan by one arm and Alanna by the other and hauled them both downstairs.

Megan braced herself to face this new English invader, schooled her features to what she hoped was haughty disinterest.

Her mother stopped outside the door to the salon, and pinched Megan’s cheeks to pinken them, and smoothed back a wayward lock of hair before she opened the door and shoved her into the room.

A gentleman rose to his feet, and turned to regard Megan.

“Here’s another one, Devorguilla,” Eleanor piped up from her chair by the fire. “I do hope you’ll be more gentle this time.”

But if the visitor found anything curious in the old lady’s remark, he said nothing. His eyes were on Megan. He bowed deeply, and his pate shone like the moon through his thin hair.

“Good afternoon, dear ladies. I’m the Marquess of Merridew.” He smiled, and a spread of teeth filled his face.

“A
marquess
?” Devorguilla warbled. “I am Lady McNabb. Let me introduce my daughters. This is Lady Margaret McNabb, my eldest, and Lady Alice, and Sarah.”

“A veritable rose garden of Highland beauties,” the marquess said and snorted a laugh at his own wit.

“Won’t you sit down? I see Eleanor has already ordered tea,” Devorguilla said, looking the marquess over like a housewife considering a particular fish at the market stall. Megan half expected her to lean in and sniff him to see if he was fresh. “What brings you to Scotland?” she asked as they settled themselves.