Once Upon a Highland Autumn (18 page)

M
egan slipped out of the kitchen door as the sun peeped over the horizon. The maids were already up, primping and making themselves pretty for the fair, and she hurried past them and out the door.

She picked up her skirts and all but ran toward Glen Dorian. She was taking a dreadful chance. What if Rossington laughed at her? She would find herself with no choice but to marry Lord Merridew. Even if she was able to rid herself of the marquess somehow, there were other suitors already lined up to take his place, and propose to her in their turn until she finally said yes to someone. She would not be able to wait for Eachann, and her heart would break.

The Earl of Rossington was in the precisely the same predicament.

Megan had seen the eager ladies at the dance, had heard the rumors in the village that Rossington was a prime catch, and would not be allowed to get away this time. He would not get the peace he wanted unless—she drew a sharp breath, felt her stomach flip—unless he was able to find a way to dissuade them.

A temporary way, of course. Something—or someone—close at hand and convenient.

Her.

She reached the edge of the glen with the first rays of the morning sun and stared at the cottage, wondered if he was inside. He had to be. She hurried down and knocked. There was no answer. She looked around the glen, saw the otters peering at her curiously. The sun stretched like a lazy cat across the walls of the castle, turning the gray stones to gold.

The castle—he must be there. She ran down the slope.

Soon, her mother would send the maid to wake her, and Miss Carruthers would arrive to begin the arduous task of preparing Lady Margaret McNabb to accept the marriage proposal of the Marquess of Merridew. Megan’s heart climbed into her throat as she rushed across the causeway as if a thousand devils—along with one marquess, an English companion, and one angry dowager countess—were chasing her.

“Hello?” she called as she reached the castle, out of breath. “Lord Rossington?”

Her voice echoed through the ruined space. She hurried to the inner door. It swung open as she reached it, the hinges groaning a welcome—or a warning.

She didn’t take the time to consider which it might be. “Hello?” she called again, but there was no answer. Buttery fingers of sunlight were creeping over the lip of the windowsill.

Then she saw him. He was curled against the wall, wrapped in his coat, his eyes shut.

She felt her heart stop beating, sure this time that the curse had killed him. He lay unmoving, as the sun caressed his face, and glanced off his fair hair and the blond stubble on his jaw, making him look gilded.

Megan crouched beside him and stared at him. He had long eyelashes for a man, high, sculpted cheekbones, and a broad clear brow. His shirt was open at the neck, his cravat missing, and she stared at the line of his collarbone, the strong sinews in his neck, and suppressed a sigh. She let her eyes move back toward his face—and let out a cry of surprise when she realized his eyes were open, and he was staring at her. She fell backward and landed on her bottom.

“I thought you were dead,” she managed. He sat up, tousled and muzzy with sleep.

“I thought I was too,” he muttered. He ran a hand through his hair. “What time is it?”

“Just past dawn.”

“Are they gone?” he asked.

“Who?” Megan asked, frowning.

He rose to his feet and looked out the window, then his eyes widened and he looked at her again. “Why are you here?”

She scrambled to her feet and advanced a step toward him. He retreated the same distance. She ran her hands over her skirt, her palms sweating. “You said you wished to go to the fair today. It’s Lugnasadh.”

He shut his eyes for a moment, his relief evident. “Oh, yes. I did—I do.”

Megan couldn’t resist a smile. “Lord Rossington, I have a proposition for you. Well, more of a proposal.”

She saw disbelief bloom in his eyes, and panic stiffened his limbs, and he looked around for an escape.

“How is it the curse did not kill you in the night?” she asked.

“There is no curse, my lady—and the greater danger lay outside, not inside.”

“You sound as if you were afraid you’d be ravished, my lord.”

She watched his throat bob as he swallowed.

“Have you ever heard of handfasting?”

“It’s a kind of betrothal, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice thick.

“More a type of marriage—a temporary marriage, that is. Um, I wanted—” Nerves made her mouth dry, and her voice faltered. She took a breath and began again. “You see, Lugnasadh is a traditional time for contracts of all kinds, including handfasting, and I thought, that is, I hoped . . . um, I wanted to ask—” She was babbling. She took a breath. “I wanted to ask you to join with me in a handfasting.” The last part came out in a rush, and she held his eyes, saw nothing register there for a moment.

She took another step toward him. “You see, I don’t want to get married, not to Merridew, or anyone else—except Eachann Rennie, of course. But my mother is insisting I accept Lord Merridew, and I would rather not, but if I don’t marry
him
, there are others, and I’ll run out of time and excuses, and—”

She paused as he took a step toward her, frowning. “Are you asking for my protection?”

She felt her skin heat. She knew what that term meant, had been warned about it by Miss Carruthers. A mistress. “Not exactly. Well, not in
that
way. I just thought that since you are trying to escape from the same fate as I am—”

“A fate worse than death,” he interrupted.

“If you would rather not be pursued, then you might consider entering into this—”

“Handfasting,” he supplied when the word failed her. “It’s a marriage, but not forever, is that correct?”

“A year and a day is the usual term,” she said. “I suppose it would end when you return to England, or when Eachann comes home again. Until then, we would be as man and wife—almost.” She felt her skin heat once more. “No one could expect you or I to marry until the year was over.”

He folded his arms over his chest and rubbed his hand over his stubbled chin, considering. “And we would be married for that time?”

She raised her chin. “A match of convenience only,” she said. “If we were to, um, that is, if there were any—children, then we would be required to stay together, permanently.” She was making a dreadful mess of this.

“Eternity,” he murmured.

“Yes. There couldn’t be any, um—romantic entanglements.”

“I see. But I would still be considered married, off the market, unavailable?”

“We
would,” Megan assured him. “Will you do it? I don’t want to wed Merridew.”

“I don’t blame you,” he said, and paced the floor. “So how is it accomplished? Do we simply shake hands and agree, or cut an X on our palms and exchange a blood oath?”

“We go to the fair, and stand with the other couples who wish to handfast today. We promise to stay together for a year and a day, take a sip of whisky to seal the pledge, and jump over a broom.”

“That’s all there is to it?”

“Aye,” she said. “That’s all.”

“It seems far too easy. Are you sure this is binding?”

She glared at him. “Would you like to go and seek proper legal advice? Perhaps you’d like to talk it over with your admirers. No doubt they’ll be back just as soon as they’ve breakfasted.”

He glanced anxiously out the window. He straightened the collar of his shirt, and ran his hand through his hair. “Will I do as I am? I could stop at the inn, have Leslie shave me, change my clothes—”

“No, you’ll do,” Megan said quickly. By now, her mother probably had the whole household searching for her. Merridew was probably on his way to Dundrummie, flowers in hand, a ring in his pocket, ready to drop to one knee and— “We’d best hurry.” She moved toward the door.

“Do we need a ring?” he asked, following. “I haven’t one, I’m afraid.”

“We just need strip of cloth to bind our hands together,” she said. She stared at the portal, wondering if the castle would lock them in again. She realized she didn’t have so much as a sash.

“Will this do?” he asked, and drew her handkerchief from his pocket. He’d washed the blood from it, and it had been laundered and ironed. She stared at it. “I’ve been meaning to return it to you.”

“It will do.”

He pulled on his coat, and ran his fingers through his hair, and they walked in silence, side by side, across the causeway, up the hill, and on toward the village to wed—in name only, and for just a year and a day.

T
he village market square, so empty days before, was crowded with people, animals, and goods for sale. Kit instinctively drew Megan closer to his side, and guided her through the crush. “Where do we go?” he asked.

She pointed. “There’s a
seannachaidh
—he’s a clan’s tradition bearer. He keeps the stories of his clan, including records. In the old times, when there weren’t always priests on hand to marry a couple, they would ask the
seannachaidh
to witness their handfasting, and if all went well, when a priest did eventually travel through, he could marry them in the eyes of the church—but the handfasting was lawful in the eyes of the clan, and that was enough.”

“I see. Will this fellow—the
seannachaidh
—ask any questions?”

Megan skirted around a stack of cages containing chickens, and nearly tripped over a wooly sheep, which muttered a rude objection. Kit caught her arm to steady her, drew her against his side. For a moment he met her wide hazel eyes, felt the softness of her skin, the warmth of her hip against his and saw her lips part in surprise.

“He will ask—” Her eyes roamed over his face, settled on his mouth, and stayed there. He wanted to kiss her. His mouth watered with it. “He will ask if we wish to join together, and if we agree to remain so for a year and a day.”

“Oh,” he said, staring at her lush lips, speaking slowly, his mind moving slower still. “I meant will he ask to see a license, or some kind of paper that gives me permission to enter into this contract? Will your father object?”

“My father’s dead,” she said. “There’s only my brother—”

A lass with a basket of flowers bumped into them, and broke the spell. They sprang apart, and started walking again.

“Buy a
Bonnach lunastain
for luck?” called a buxom woman with very few teeth. She held out a pair of loaves. Megan drew Kit to a stop.

“They bring good luck. I give you a
luinean
loaf—” She pointed. “And you give me a
luineag
like that one.”

He examined the lumpy oaten bread. “And what do we do with it?”

The good wife behind the stall began to laugh, her bosom shaking. “You eat it, of course!”

Kit felt his skin color. “In England we have wedding cake.”

Megan rolled her eyes and handed him a
luinean
. He placed the
luineag
in her hands, and gave the baker a few coins. “Good luck to you both,” the baker said, pocketing the money. “Are you going to see old Duncan?”

Megan’s smile wobbled. “We are.”

“Then good luck to you indeed. May the year be a sweet one.”

They walked on, until they found an old man lounging under a tree by the well in the center of the square. “Are you the
seannachaidh
?” Megan asked in Gaelic.

The gentleman glanced from her to Kit, then back again. He blew out a puff of smoke from his pipe. “The lass from the glen, isn’t it? Have ye come to hear another tale?” he asked.

Kit saw Megan’s eyes widen with recognition. “You!”

He grinned and sketched an exaggerated bow. “Duncan MacIntosh at your service. Did you find what you wanted in the old castle?”

Kit watched Megan blush. “I don’t know.”

The old man’s eyes were canny. “What did you find there?”

“Him,” she murmured. “I found him.”

The old man turned to look at him, his pale eyes sharp amid the folds of his weathered skin. It felt as if the old man could see inside his skull, but Kit held his gaze.

“Rossington,” he murmured.

“A Sassenach,” Duncan replied. “Now what were you doing at Glen Dorian, I wonder?”

“We wish to handfast,” Megan interrupted.

“Do ye now?”

“Yes,” Megan said with conviction.

“You did tell me you had a true love when we met? Is this the man?”

Kit watched Megan’s cheeks bloom with color. As long as he lived, he would never forget the way she blushed. It was like watching a rose bloom. He curled his hand against his side to keep from running his knuckles over her cheek, to see if her skin was as hot as it looked, or as cool as a rose petal.

Megan straightened her spine. “He—Lord Rossington—has agreed to keep me for a year and a day. Is that not enough?”

The old man squinted. “For me, aye. I need only that. And you agree?” he asked Kit.

“I do,” he said firmly.

“Then tie your hands together,” the
seannachaidh
said. Kit produced Megan’s handkerchief, tied it into a loose knot, put it over his wrist, and held out his hand.

Megan put her hand into his, and he closed his grip over her fingertips, ice cold though the day was hot, and felt a pulse of awareness flow through him. She raised her eyes to his, and he slid the cloth over their joined hands. Duncan took a fold of his plaid and draped it over their hands. “Say the words,” he commanded.

“What words?” Kit asked.

The old man rolled his eyes. “Your name, her name, the pledge you’re making. You show him, lass.”

She swallowed, and blushed again. “I Megan Catriona McNabb pledge to remain by your side for a year and a day. Will that do?”

Duncan scratched his head. “Well, it isn’t very romantic, but aye, it will do.” He turned to Kit. “And now you say the same.”

“I, Christopher Nathaniel Alexander Linwood, Earl of Rossington, pledge to remain by your side for a year and a day.”

The air grew thick and still, and the old man stared at Kit for a moment. “
Linwood
did ye say?”