Once Upon a Highland Autumn (24 page)

He rode back to the glen deep in thought. When he had inherited his father’s titles and lands, he’d received some of the same advice from his managers in England, too. He could tear down Shearwater and build a factory instead. Or if he were to revoke the leases of the tenant farms on his lands at Coalfax Castle, he could increase sheep production and ship more wool. Those men promised the same thing as Grant had—another fortune for him, and certain destitution for the people who had lived on the land for generations. Instead, Kit had built new houses at Shearwater, added hardier new breeds of sheep, and encouraged his steward to try new crops. So far, he had indeed realized another fortune. At Coalfax, he funded a weaver’s collective, providing looms and raw materials—wool from Shearwater and his other estates—and invited new tenants with weaving skills to come and live there, rather than throwing folk off the land.

But this was Scotland. He knew nothing of how a clan would feel if he brought in new folk, introduced new ways of doing things. It could be a disaster. Even if he intended to go back to England—especially since he intended to do so—he needed advice.

One thing was certain. He intended to leave Glen Dorian better than he found it.

K
it didn’t come to the lodge for supper. Megan waited in her room, dressed and ready, yet not wishing to appear eager when he arrived to bathe and change, but the clock ticked on, and her stomach grumbled, and he did not appear.

She went down to the kitchen, where Jeannie was waiting with Leslie. They looked up at her hopefully. “Has his lordship not arrived yet, Mister Leslie?”

“No, my lady, and it’s growing quite dark,” the manservant said, despite the fact it was still light. He rubbed his hands together anxiously. “If I may be so bold as to ask, are there wolves in these mountains?”

Megan’s heart clenched. There may not be wolves, but there were other things. What if Kit had fallen, or something had fallen on him? Again the old worry filled her, the thought that even now he might be lying in the castle, watching the sky darken above him, his leg or his arm trapped, or bleeding, or his leg broken.

“I’m sure he’s just lost track of the time. Jeannie, pack up some food, and I’ll take it up to him. I’ll just go up and change my gown and come back.”

She hurried upstairs, wondering if she’d need bandages, or a sharp knife. She decided to take both, stuffing a sheet into a bag to tear up if it was necessary to bind a wound or staunch bleeding, and a knife to cut the cloth. Her heart was pounding when she returned downstairs and found the basket ready and waiting.

By the time she’d arrived at the glen, she was imagining the worst, and praying that he would live until she arrived. She recalled with a twinge of guilt that she’d wished him ill after he’d so rudely rejected her mother’s proposal at Dundrummie—more than ill. And if there was the curse . . . She picked up her skirts and moved faster. Highland tales were full of ghosts and curses and ill-wishings. Surely some must come true. She stopped dead in her tracks as she reached the edge of the glen.

He was sitting on the grass in front of the cottage, staring down at the loch, lost in thought, the setting sun lighting his face, turning it to bronze, his hair to burnished copper. She paused with her hand on her heart, so relieved her knees nearly gave way. Then she switched the basket to her opposite arm and carried on toward him. She wanted to fall into his arms, tell him she’s been worried, afraid.

She frowned. If he was unhurt, why hadn’t he bothered to come for supper? She felt the sharp pinch of anger. He was avoiding her. She was tempted to melt back into the trees and go back to the lodge and let him go hungry.

But he turned his head and saw her standing there. For a moment they stared at one another. Then he rose and began to come down the slope toward her.

“Leslie and Jeannie were most concerned when you didn’t come for supper. They imagined something dreadful must have happened to you.”

He took the basket from her. “You weren’t worried?” he asked.

She sent him a level look. “Of course not. I assumed you were avoiding me. If that’s the case, I’ll not interrupt. I’ve brought the food—Jeannie insisted—and I’ll go.”

“No, stay. Please stay. This basket is heavy enough that I assume there’s enough food for at least two.”

Megan followed him up the slope, and he stopped on the hillside in front of the cottage, and opened the basket. He found the sheet she’d brought for bandages, and looked at her. She felt her face heat at her own foolish fears. She snatched it from his hand and spread it over the grass. “Jeannie thought it would be a fine night for a picnic.”

“Jeannie does a great deal of thinking,” he said. “What did she pack for supper?”

“Ham,” Megan said, and watched as he unwrapped the pot. “Chicken,” she amended, seeing the contents.

They ate in silence. Megan was too anxious to eat very much. She pretended to nibble, all the while watching him to see if he was indeed injured, looking for signs of a bandage under his shirt, an awkward movement, a wince of pain, but he simply looked lost in his own thoughts.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked at last, and he turned to look at her, his eyes widening as if surprised to see her there.

“Hmm? Oh, I was wondering what people do here. Does Eleanor have tenants?”

“Yes, of course. She raises Highland cattle. They’re in the hills now, fattening up. In a few weeks, before the frost, they’ll come down and go to market.”

“And are there farms?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And what do people grow? What crops, what livestock, how do they live?” he fired at her and she drew back.

“They raise cows, and sheep, and grow oats and barley. They fish, too. Is that so different from what folk do in England?”

“No, not at all. I just wondered . . .”

“I’ve heard tales that they used to make whisky here in the glen,” she said. “Eleanor told me.”

“Whisky?” He looked at her.

“Yes, whisky. The oldest folk remember it, and they make it sound as if there was no finer drink on earth, or heaven, for that matter.”

“Why did they stop?”

She looked across the glen. “The most fanciful tales say the heart went out of the people after the forty-five, and their tears made the whisky bitter. More sensible folk say the government taxed the making of whisky, and since many couldn’t pay, they took their kettles deep into the hills, became smugglers, then they died out.”

“What does your brother do at Glenlorne?” Kit asked.

“Alec? Oh I suppose he’s a rare creature, a laird determined to protect and provide for his people. He’s given them hope and opportunities.”

He turned to look at her. “But if there are opportunities here, then why do young men like your Eachann have to leave?”

She bristled. “He’ll come back.”

“Then what?” he asked, biting into a mouthful of bread.

“Then we’ll build a house, and live in it.”

“And after that?” he insisted. “What will your children do, and their children, and all the children of Clan McNabb for that matter?”

She bit her lip. “Well, I suppose they will be free to do whatever they wish to do. They will remember the old ways, the stories, and the traditions—I’ll see to that—but we want them to know the new ways as well. Alec feels that way too. He’s building new cottages, a school, and adding more cattle, new breeds of sheep. He’s offered to send the brightest lads to school in Edinburgh, so they can learn to be doctors, or to build bridges and roads. He’s determined to keep the clan intact, or give those who wish to go a helping hand, let them know they’re always, always welcome to come home again. I will do likewise—my children will learn to care for the land, the people, and each other.”

“But what if your brother’s heir decides that his land is better suited to livestock than people, and the cottages and tenant farms are in the way? What then?”

“Alec? Never!”

“What about Eleanor? What of Dundrummie after she’s gone?”

Megan frowned. “So many questions! I don’t know. I don’t know who will inherit her land. Someone will.”

He studied her. “Someone like Eachann, perhaps?”

“No, not like Eachann. Eachann took ship for India. He wants to become a trader. If he’s successful, he intends to ask Alec to invest in another venture, a bigger one, and let him lead it.”

“How could your brother say no if Eachann is married to you?”

She felt her skin heat. She hadn’t thought of that. She recalled now how long and often Eachann had spoken of his plans, his travels, and Alec’s money. She’d been the one who talked of a house and babies. It gave her an uneasy feeling.

“How indeed?” she chirped, and began to clear away the remains of their meal. “I’d best be getting back. It’s getting dark earlier, now that autumn is coming closer.”

“I’ll walk you back.” He rose, offered her his hand, and pulled her up. She felt lightning sing through her veins at his touch, and she found herself standing inches from him, nearly nose to nose. Her hand still clasped in his.

“Oh,” she said.

His gaze fell to her mouth, and he drew a sharp breath. Her heart leaped in anticipation as he leaned in and lowered his lips to hers.

Megan shut her eyes, concentrated on the buzz of desire that coursed through her at the simple, gentle kiss. After a moment, he pulled her into his arms, and slanted his mouth over hers. Her body melted into his, her breasts pressed to his chest, her belly against his.

He was the second man she’d ever kissed, if she counted Eachann. Perhaps that didn’t count at all—this kiss was completely different. She felt hot all over, and cold, and drunk, and infinitely aware of the feeling of his lips on hers. His lips were mobile, insistent. He drew her lower lip into his mouth and she stayed still, allowed it, and he gently explored the inside of her lip. He kissed her mouth, her cheek, moved along her jaw to the pulse point at the base of her neck, and kissed her there too. Her heart was beating like a trapped bird. When he found her lips again, she sighed and kissed him back, inexpertly. He nipped at her lips, slipped his tongue inside her mouth to spar with hers. The intimacy was stunning, unbelievable, delicious. Her knees weakened and she slid her arms around his neck, and pressed closer still.

He let her go so suddenly that she almost fell, and he steadied her. “Forgive me,” he said, his eyes on hers, his breath ragged. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“No harm done,” she managed. “I wasn’t thinking.”

He stepped back a little. “Honesty, remember? What
were
you thinking?”

She let her eyes drop to the open collar of his shirt, stared at the vee of golden skin. “Um, I was thinking it was a very nice kiss,” she said. “What were
you
thinking?”

“That I’d never enjoyed a kiss so thoroughly.”

Her mouth watered to do it again, but he sighed and turned away. “I don’t think we should, though,” he said, answering her unspoken desire.

“No,” she agreed, though there was nothing she wanted more. “It was only a kiss, of course. I think that it would be perfectly within the rules.”

“What rules?” he asked.

“The rules of handfasting.”

He gave her a slow grin that made her heart pirouette in her chest. “I daresay the rules allow far more than a kiss, but we’d best leave it at that, and see that it doesn’t happen again, just to be on the safe side.”

“What if it does?” she whispered. They were still inches away from each other, and she raised her hands to the lapel of his coat, and his hands found her waist, rested there.

“Then I will apologize profusely,” he said, and lowered his mouth to hers once again, even as she rose on her toes to meet him halfway.

H
e walked her home, his hand under her arm in the twilight. It was a simple, polite, careful touch, and nothing more, but she was aware of him, the rub of his shoulder against hers, the careful way he guided her past roots and rocks that poked through the path, as if she was the most precious thing on earth. At the gate, he’d stepped back, let her go, and smiled at her, the light in his eyes intimate, devastating, and she’d wanted to kiss him again. He gave her a half-smile and bowed, taking her hand instead. He kissed her fingertips in a courtly gesture. “Goodnight, Megan,” he said softly.

She resisted the urge to curtsy, to hold tight to his hand and not let him go. She’d clasped her hands together instead. “Goodnight, Kit.”

He waited until she reached the door, and went inside. She felt his eyes on her back. The second the latch clicked behind her, she raced upstairs, threw back the curtains on the nearest window, and watched him go, his strides long and sure, his hands clasped behind his back. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and her lips tingled. Sweet, he’d tasted sweet, and as long as she lived, she wouldn’t forget that, no matter how old she grew, or how much she loved Eachann. Was that wrong? She laid the back of her hand against her lips. It most certainly was.

K
it walked slowly through the twilight, back to the glen, and the cottage. He wouldn’t sleep tonight. He had thinking to do. Oh, not about Megan, or kissing her, or the overpowering desire he felt for her, but other, more important things. Unfortunately, he could not seem to tear his thoughts away from the way she felt in his arms, the soft sounds she made when he kissed her, half surprise, half desire.

He should not have done it. In England, a kiss like that—
kisses
like that, for they’d stood there in each other’s arms for quite some time—would be tantamount to a clear declaration of a gentleman’s intent, if not an actual proposal. He’d find himself forced to marry Megan McNabb in earnest if he wasn’t careful. He stopped walking, watched a hawk on the wing, hunting for a last meal before night came. Would it be so bad to have Megan for a wife?

He pictured his mother’s reaction, her shock veiled, yet visible in every disapproving line of her body, and the purse of her lips. She was the only woman he knew who could purse her lips and smile at the same time. Arabella would laugh—she’d bray like a horse—and his brother would regard him with the familiar look of bafflement and pity, as if Kit was somehow letting the family down, disappointing their father’s hopes, yet could not precisely understand how. He simply was not his father, or his older brother.