Once Upon a Highland Autumn (19 page)

Kit nodded. “My family name.”

The old man gave him another soul-searing look. “Then it’s begun,” he murmured. “I never thought I’d live to see it.”

“What does that mean?” Megan asked.

Duncan turned his eyes to her. “It means ’tis done,” he said.

“You said begun,” Megan said.

“So I did,” he said, still staring at Kit. “I’m an old man, lass. You came to me to beg a tale. I’d say you found one after all, and the telling of it has just begun, and who knows how it will end?”

He turned and pulled a battered cup out of his pack, a once grand thing carved of horn and decorated with silver, now cracked and all but naked of metal. He poured a splash of whisky into it and held it out to Kit. He sipped, felt fire burn his throat, sear his limbs, draw the breath from his lungs. He watched Megan’s eyes water as she sipped after him.

“Now kiss her,” Duncan said.

Kit hesitated, and Megan looked at him in surprise, blushing again.

“Go on!” Duncan insisted. “I haven’t got all day.”

Kit reached for her, set his hands on her waist, drew her closer. Fear warred with something softer in her eyes, and she lowered her lashes as their lips met. He could feel the warmth of her breath as he brushed his lips against hers. He could taste the whisky, too, and it warmed him yet again, and he closed his own eyes, pulled her nearer, kissed her more firmly. She rose on her toes, pressed closer, kissed him back.

“There now, that’ll do nicely,” Duncan said, interrupting.

Kit didn’t want to stop kissing her, but he pulled back reluctantly, and looked at the old man. “I haven’t got a broom, just my staff. It will do to jump over, I think.” He laid a gnarled root on the ground, nearly five feet in length. The topmost end was shiny from years of use, shaped to the old man’s palm, and the bottom end was blackened by dirt.

With their hands still clasped Kit grinned at her. “Ready?”

She nodded, smiling back, her lips and cheeks pink from his kiss, her eyes bright. He counted to three, and they jumped. For better or worse, they were joined—and free.

“M
egan McNabb! What are you
doing
?” a voice screeched, and Megan looked up to see her mother staring at her in horror. Her eyes were so wide, Megan feared they might pop out of their sockets, fall on the dusty ground, and roll away. Lord Merridew stood beside Devorguilla, his eyes narrowed on Kit like a rival dog. His lip curled back and he growled. Megan held tight to Kit’s hand.

“We—that is, Lord Rossington and I—have agreed to handfast for a year and a day.”

Devorguilla’s face turned purple with fury. She reached out to grab her daughter’s arm, her nails biting into Megan’s flesh. “Oh no you will not, young lady! Stop this foolishness and get back to Dundrummie at once!”

Duncan held up a gnarled hand. “It’s not a ‘will not’ anymore, missus. It’s been done. I performed the ritual myself. He was willing and she was willing and—”

“Be quiet!” Devorguilla commanded. Duncan stepped back. She turned to Merridew. “This is not binding in any way, my lord. ’Tis just an old superstition, a silly Highland game, something fey to amuse the children.”

Merridew continued to glare at Kit. “Lady Margaret is hardly a child, Countess. Nor is Rossington. I saw them kissing.”

“They’re old enough, aye, and they’ve agreed,” Duncan added.

Devorguilla turned her ire on Kit. “How dare you, my lord? Is this the way an English gentleman behaves, taking a respectable earl’s daughter, turning her into a strumpet at a village fair?”

“Badly done, Rossington,” Merridew added. “Your brother would never have done such a thing.”

Megan felt Kit tense beside her, and his hand tightened on hers. “I am not my brother, Merridew.”

“Mother, I tried to tell you that I did not wish to marry Lord Merridew. You would not listen. I asked Kit—Lord Rossington—”

“He’s a Linwood,” Duncan murmured, grinning. “A Linwood! I never thought I’d see it come full circle, but it has, at long last. What did you call him, lass?” he asked Megan, but she was watching Jane Parkhill push through the crowd.

“Rossington? Lady Margaret?” Jane looked suspiciously at their clasped hands, her over-bright smile fading. “What’s all this?”

“They’ve been joined together,” Duncan said, but no one was listening.

“How dare you? You refused to marry her, and now
this
?” Devorguilla stepped forward and slapped Kit with all her might. Kit’s head jerked sideways, and a bead of blood bloomed on his lip.

“Blackguard!” Merridew said, the only warning Kit had before the viscount’s fist connected with his jaw.

“Married?” He heard Jane Parkhill squawk the word like an angry farmyard goose. “Married?” She advanced on Megan, her claws flexed, and her brother restrained her. “She said she was not in the least interested in marrying him. Edward,” she wailed.

Edward’s eyes bored into Megan’s, condemning her with a scathing look. “She obviously lied,” Edward said. “Damned Scots.”

“Perhaps it was destined,” Duncan said calmly. “These things happen, you know. Curses are placed and lifted and you never know how a tale will turn out until the ending of it,” he told the crowd that was gathering to watch. The old
seannachaidh
was the only one still smiling. Everyone else was in varying states of fury and dismay.

Kit glared at Edward. “If we were in London, I’d call you out for that insult, Parkhill.”

“Then do so,” Parkhill said, thrusting his sister behind him, throwing out his chest.

Merridew pushed him aside. “Not until I’m done with him, Parkhill,” Merridew said, rolling up his sleeves and advancing on Kit. “If he’s still alive, then you have my blessing to kill him.”

“Come along at once, Margaret,” Devorguilla said, grabbing Megan’s arm. “No harm has been done.” She grabbed her daughter’s arm and pulled hard, and Megan jerked forward, and stopped. She was still tethered to Kit by the knotted handkerchief. Everyone stared at the snowy linen, and fell silent. The crowd murmured, and wagers were made.

“As I said, the match is made,” Duncan said happily. He looked at Jane and Edward. “Perhaps you two would like to join hands yourselves? You seem very keen to marry someone.”

“He’s my brother!” Jane bellowed, and the crowd murmured again, translating, and laughter broke out.

Kit stared around him. There was blood dripping from his lip, and he wanted a bath, a cold drink, and a way out of this nightmare. Merridew was yelling at Devorguilla, who was screeching at her daughter. Jane Parkhill was railing at her brother and shaking her fist at Megan, and Edward was threatening to murder him. And he, for better or worse, for a year and a day, was married. What the hell had he done?

He began by putting Megan safely behind him, slipping his hand out of the handkerchief. Then he turned and punched Edward Parkhill square in the center of his smug, ugly face. Parkhill fell backward, landing into the mud, taking Jane with him.

Jane screamed like a banshee. She picked up a handful of mud and flung it at Megan. Instead, she caught Devorguilla square in the chest. The dowager countess shrieked like a scalded alley cat.

Merridew swung his fist at Kit, but this time, Kit saw it coming and ducked. Merridew’s punch connected with the jaw of a very large Highlander standing behind him. The man shook off the blow and advanced on the marquess, cursing in Gaelic, raising his own fist. Merridew’s eyes rolled up in his head as he toppled into the mud beside Edward Parkhill.

Jane’s next handful of mud caught the butcher’s wife, and she picked up a stout stick and Jane fled, screaming, with the good wife hard on her heels. She tripped over a lamb, part of a flock being herded to market, sending the poor creatures fleeing into the crowd in panic. More folk went down shrieking.

Kit stared around him at the mayhem. Tables were overturned by the unruly sheep, chicken cages broke open, and feathers flew. Dogs barked, and the brawl began in earnest, fists and curses, chicken, sheep and feathers filled the air. Kit doubted anyone knew why they were fighting.

Duncan caught his sleeve, and Kit nearly punched him. He held off as the old man raised his hands. “Och, lad, I’m on your side. I think it would be best if you take your lass and slip away while you can, Linwood.”

He looked at Megan, standing under the tree, regarding the mayhem in utter dismay. She was spattered with mud and dust, her gown ruined, if he was any judge of such things. Not as bad as Jane Parkhill’s ruffled summer frock, but—

How the hell could he have been so stupid? Perhaps if he just untied the handkerchief, put Megan’s hand back in her mother’s grip, where it belonged, all would be well again. He reached for her and began to undo the knot.

He felt the old man’s hand grip his. “Go on, take her home.” His eyes were bright on Kit’s, insistent.

Kit stopped thinking. With Megan’s hand in his, he began to run. He tugged her down a narrow lane between the inn and a stable. She didn’t let go. She ran with him.

He didn’t stop until the village was behind them. Only then did he look back. A lone sheep was following them, trotting up the hill behind them like a bridesmaid. A cloud of dust rose in the air above the village as the melee continued. Megan’s hand was still in his, and he looked at her. She stared back solemnly.

“That will be a Lugnasadh Fair that Dundrummie village will never forget,” she said.

Kit couldn’t help it. Despite the pain on his bruised jaw and his split lip, he began to laugh. For a moment, Megan stared at him, and then she laughed as well. They stood on the hillside and laughed like loons until their sides hurt.

“Where will we go?” she panted. “I had thought it would be a simple matter of speaking the words, and then I could go home, and you could go home, and all would be well,” she gasped. “But I think that’s impossible now.”

“I assume we’ll have to stay together.”

Her smile faded, and tears sprang into her eyes. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said, and began to cry in earnest. “Oh, how horrible!” She pulled her fingers free, taking the handkerchief with her, and pressed it to her eyes. His hand felt cold without hers.

“Look, we needn’t go any further with this. Surely the point is made. You could go home, if you wished. I’ll take you,” he said, wondering how else to comfort her.

“I can’t! I’d be married off at once to Merridew,” she wailed. “Or Miss Carruthers would make me marry
you
for real.” She put her hands around her sides and sobbed.

Was he so horrible? Kit felt a withering sense of rejection.

“Who the devil is Miss Carruthers?” he demanded, but the question just made Megan cry all the harder.

Kit had no idea how to deal with crying females. He hated tears. He usually fled, let someone else handle things like this. He looked around for help, but only the ewe that had followed them out of the village stood by. She chewed on a patch of scrub and looked balefully at him, her yellow gaze putting the responsibility firmly on Kit’s shoulders.

Megan was shaking. Not knowing what else to do, Kit put his arm around her, and patted her back awkwardly. When that didn’t work, he pulled her into his arms and held her, let her cry on his chest, soaking his shirtfront. He found he didn’t mind. He liked holding her. She was soft and warm, and her hair smelled like heather and roses—as well as mud. He kissed the top of her head, and she looked up at him, her rain-washed eyes meeting his. Her nose was swollen and red, her face blotchy. She was still beautiful, he thought, and took the handkerchief from her and wiped away the tears.

“Come on,” he said, taking her hand. And they walked up the hill toward Glen Dorian together, with only a sheep to see them off.

“Y
our lip is bleeding,” Megan said as they sat on the hillside outside the cottage, watching the otters. She had collapsed here in the soft heather and he had folded himself beside her, sitting close, but not touching her. He was staring down at the castle, his brow furrowed. There was a dreadful bruise on his jaw, slowly turning from red to purple. She held out the handkerchief, only to discover it was too thoroughly soaked by her tears to help the blood on his lip. It made her start weeping all over again.

“Really, it doesn’t hurt at all,” he said, putting a hand to his mouth, mistaking her reason for crying. “In fact, it’s hardly bleeding at all.”

“What will we do now?” she asked again.

He was silent for a moment. “I don’t know. I doubt we’d be welcome to stay in the village,” he said.

“Not after the fight,” she agreed.

“The castle is not habitable, and the cottage—” He hesitated. “It’s very small inside.”

“How small?” she asked.

“A single box bed, a table, a pair of stools, a hearth, and a loft.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Perhaps I could speak to your mother, explain how things are, that we—I—have no intention of, um, consummating this match.”

“You have the right to do so, you know,” said a voice behind them, and Megan turned to find Eleanor standing on the hillside. Behind her Graves carried a heavy basket. He stopped at a safe distance, just out of hearing, his expression as stiff and unreadable as ever. He kept one hand on his hat against the wind, and his eyes fixed on the distant hills.

“Aunt Eleanor!” Megan got to her feet.

“Tears? On such a happy day?” Eleanor said, approaching slowly over the uneven ground. She handed Megan her own handkerchief. “Well, I won’t say I’m surprised. When Jeannie came back from the fair and told me what had happened in the village, I went to see for myself. It must have been quite a ceremony. How bold of you, Megan! It’s set your mother into a terrible fit.” She looked positively gleeful.

“Is she very angry?” Megan asked.

Eleanor grinned. “Livid. She’s locked your sisters in, says she won’t let them out until the English lords she chooses for them come to fetch them. She’s talking of taking Alanna to London for the fall Season instead of waiting for spring.”

Megan felt guilt climb her spine. She hadn’t thought that her actions would harm Alanna. “Oh no. I didn’t think—I just didn’t want to wed Lord Merridew.”