Once Upon a Highland Christmas (15 page)

 

Chapter Twenty-Five

A
NNIE WA
TCHED THE
laird stride through the kitchen without a word to anyone, heading toward the stable. She exchanged a look with Wee Janet. “The laird's in a hurry,” Janet said.

“Aye,” Annie replied, turning back to cutting carrots. Iain had fled to the stable the night his father died, when he was a boy. She'd found him curled up in the hay, pretending not to cry. He'd gone there after Fiona's accident as well. He would stand in the shadows amid the peaceable company of the garrons and the milk cow and think—­or worry. Not that he shared his thoughts with Annie or anyone else—­he was a quiet man who kept his own counsel. And he had a lot to think about. Annie sniffed the air as he passed. Heather. The Sassenach wore lavender.

She stared at the doorway and smiled.

“What are you grinning at, Annie?” Wee Janet asked.

“The cat,” Annie murmured. “And the pigeon.”

“The cat's outside somewhere, isn't she?”

“She's wherever Iain is, I'm thinking,” Annie replied, tapping her forehead, and she smiled again.

 

Chapter Twenty-Six

A
LANNA SA
T BY
the window of her room and stared out across the moor. The world was tucked up under a fine thick feather quilt, white satin embroidered with the tracks of rabbits, the bold black lines of the bare trees. Their bony branches pointed accusingly at the sky and the mountains, blaming them for the snow. The tops of the distant hills kept their noses in the air, remained aloof, gray and proud against the clouds, daring them to shake down more snow, to just try and bury them if they thought they could.

She could see the barn and byre, and the cluster of houses that formed the village, just down the hill from the castle.

She was trying to read, but the words kept dissolving on the page, and all she saw was Iain's face. Her lips still buzzed from the kiss they'd shared. It had been a very nice kiss, memorable indeed. It would be the kiss against which she measured all other kisses. She forced her thoughts away from that idea. Her hand, her kisses, her body, belonged to the Marquess of Merridew. Had it been only five days since she'd left Dundrummie? It felt as if she'd been away for a lifetime, had come to another world, another time, where Merridew didn't exist.

But he did, and he was waiting for her. If she had not gone out for that walk, gotten caught in the storm, she would be travelling through England at this very moment with her new husband, on her way to spend Christmas with her esteemed in-­laws, the Duke and Duchess of Lyall. They'd be complete strangers to her, and she to them. Her heart lurched. Christmas shouldn't be spent among strangers. She'd have Merridew—­would he feel like less of a stranger after they had consummated their marriage? She repressed a shudder. But she had made a promise, she reminded herself again.

A knock at the door surprised her, and she stared at the panels for a moment before she bade her visitor enter. What if it was Iain? What if he wanted to kiss her again? She would not—­should not. Not again. “Come in,” she said, her voice husky. She put a hand to her hair, smoothed a wayward strand back behind her ear, and bit her lip.

Penelope opened the door and, as usual, swept the room with a suspicious glance before she entered, as if she hoped to catch Alanna doing something she shouldn't be.

Like kissing Iain MacGillivray. Alanna felt her cheeks heat. This time, she was indeed guilty. She resisted putting her hand to her lips. Was it possible to look at a woman and know she'd been kissing a man? She got to her feet and dipped a curtsy, ignoring the pull of pain from her knee. “Good afternoon, Lady Penelope.”

Penelope blinked at her, her eyes narrow. “I was wondering if you'd heard from your family as yet—­or Lord Merridew.”

Alanna swallowed. “No, not yet.”

“Surely you're anxious to leave this place, go home, marry him.” She clenched her teeth on the last word, spat it out like a curse.

Did
she know about the kiss? Alanna clutched the book against her chest and wondered if she should apologize. What would she say, that it had been a mistake? Not to her.

Penelope's eyes fell on the book. “You're reading a book,” she said, making it an accusation. “I suppose you love books.”

“Very much. This is poetry. Robert Burns. Have you read his poems?”

Penelope's expression stayed hard, and she ignored the question. She folded her arms over her lush breasts. “Tell me, if you had to choose a Christmas present, would you choose jewels or books?”

Alanna swallowed. Was this a test? As Marchioness of Merridew, she could have both, she supposed. She wouldn't have to choose. “I think—­” She looked at Penelope, noted the fine wool of her gown, blue, to match her eyes, and the expensive cashmere shawl, embroidered with summer roses—­and noticed the delicate curl of the wood shaving hanging from the fringe, like a decoration, or a signal. Alanna felt her stomach knot. Had Penelope been in the solar before or after her? Had Iain kissed her as well?

“Books or jewels?” Penelope asked again.

“Um—­books,” she said, wishing she were in the library at Glenlorne, curled up in her favorite chair by the fire, safe, where the only adventures were the ones written on the pages.

Penelope's face bloomed redder than any rose, and she unfolded her arms. For a moment, Alanna wondered if Iain's cousin meant to hit her, but Penelope's manicured hands clenched at her waist instead. “I'd choose jewels. Diamonds, rubies, sapphires . . . even if one is disappointed in love, the jewels never lose their sparkle, do they?” She stroked her skin, as if the jewels already lay upon her white bosom.

“I suppose not,” Alanna murmured.

“Do you have a betrothal ring from Lord Merridew?” Penelope asked.

Alanna stared at the curl of wood. It would fit perfectly around a lady's finger. “Um, no. He was to bring it with him to the wedding, present it to me the night before we married. I suppose it's at Dundrummie.”

Penelope stretched her naked left hand before her, stared at it, and smiled. “The MacGillivray betrothal ring has a sapphire as big as a pigeon's egg. It's too heavy to wear every day, of course, so I keep it locked away. I shall wear it at Christmas, let everyone see it.” Her eyes glowed. “It will be official then, and everyone will know.”

Alanna's chest tightened. So Iain had asked Penelope to marry him. Her heart dropped to her ankles even as she forced herself to smile. It made her jaw hurt. “I'm sure it's a lovely ring indeed,” she managed. “You'll make a beautiful bride,” she added, parroting the words she'd heard so often from her mother, her aunt, the seamstress, and every other person at Dundrummie. Their smiles hadn't reached their eyes. No one at all expected her to be truly happy, it seemed.

“Thank you.” Penelope preened like a contented cat, full of cream. “Now, we should see what we can do to get you back to your own groom for your own wedding as quickly as possible. You'll be his Christmas present, safe and sound.”

Christmas had always been Alanna's favorite time of year. She suddenly wished that her wedding could have been at any other time of year.

She felt more like Merridew's Christmas dinner than his present.

 

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Twelve days before Christmas

A
NNIE STARE
D INTO
the embers of the fire and blew on them. She watched the banked fire open a sleepy red eye and glare back at her, awaiting her bidding. It was after midnight, and the kitchen was quiet and empty.

Annie was gathering herbs for Seonag's new bairn—­elderflower and holly, to be made into a tisane to wash the child, to ensure protection from evil. She tied bundles of hawthorn and mulberry leaf together too, to place in the wee one's cradle to ward off sorrow. It was a happy task.

In a few days, she would begin to gather the herbs she needed for
Nollaig Beag,
blend them, and brew potions to make folk merry on Christmas Eve—­meadowsweet to steep in wine, elfwort to add fragrance to the fire and bring joy and love.

Her hands hovered over the rows of pots and jars, and she wondered if she'd need extra holly and ivy, for purposes other than decoration. That was up to Iain, of course. Holly crowned a bridegroom, and ivy his bride. To hear the Sassenach ladies talk, Iain would be betrothed to Lady Penelope by Christmas.

Or not.

She thought of Alanna McNabb, one of their own, a Highland lass, gentle, kind, and lost. Annie's hand moved on along the row. Perhaps mistletoe, to encourage kisses, or lavender, to draw her true love to her side—­whichever man she was fated to wed—­and bring joy, peace, and healing. She liked the lass but dared not meddle in things that fate had already decided. Still, when Annie thought of how Iain looked at Alanna, and how she looked back at him, her heart swelled.

Her fingers dipped into a pot of cedar. She crushed it between her palms, inhaled the bright, earthen scent. Still, she hesitated as she stood before the fire. Cedar enhanced the sight. If she dared, she could look into the flames, see what lay in store for Iain.

She made a soft sound and put the cedar back into the pot. She must not cast spells, especially love spells, now. What if they went wrong? It could be that the fates intended for Iain to wed Penelope, and for Alanna to wed her Sassenach lord.

She frowned. But why bring them together, and set the cat among the pigeons now, if that was so? She pursed her lips and reached for the cedar again, gathered several other herbs too, and crouched beside the fire. It wouldn't hurt to take a wee look. Iain's fate would touch everyone at Craigleith, after all. “His happiness is our own, and our joy is his,” she murmured, meeting the flames eye to eye.

She opened the first jar and tossed a handful of twigs and leaves onto the fire. “Cedar, for clear sight,” she murmured. The flames leaped. She opened another pot. “Juniper, to attract love to this place.” She added mistletoe next. “To strengthen magic.” If, of course, magic was at work here. She considered the pot of starwort and shook her head. It was for the most potent love spells and might not be needed. Yet. Fiona and her English cousin had perhaps already begun things with their silly love spell. Annie had no doubt that at the very least they had managed to call down snow from a clear sky, and that snow had brought Alanna McNabb to Craigleith in Iain's arms. What was next, what awaited Iain?

She cocked her head and watched as the flames digested the herbs, waited for a sign. What was it the lasses had said?
Show me my true love, send him to me by Christmas
. She murmured the words now, but the flames burned sedately, calmly, guarding their secrets. “Come now,” Annie coaxed. “You can do better than that.”

The door of the kitchen burst open, hit the wall with a bang that shattered the silence. Annie spun, her hand on her heart.

Alanna stood there, out of breath, leaning on her walking stick, her eyes filled with panic.

“Annie—­there's fire in the village. The barn is ablaze,” she said. “Sandy came upstairs to Iain's room to wake him. I sent him up to the tower.”

Iain was right behind her, still pulling on his clothes. His shirt was half buttoned, and he was pushing his arms into his coat. “There's a fire,” he repeated through grim lips. He glanced at Alanna before he looked at Annie. “You'll stay here,” he ordered tersely, and dove through the door, letting in a gasp of cold wind.

Annie stared after him. “I'll get blankets ready,” she murmured, feeling dread fill her breast. They'd need bandages too, if there were burns, shrouds if it was worse. She glanced at the fire and frowned. The omens hadn't shown her this, or she'd mistaken the signs, had been looking in another direction. She ran a hand over her wrinkled cheek, felt the ache of age and fear in her bones. She saw—­or imagined—­the worst, ­people burned or killed, animals lost, the harvest stores gone.

Alanna was reaching for a cloak, her eyes wide, her expression determined. She stuffed her bare feet into a pair of heavy boots that sat by the door. “I'll go and help,” she said and hurried out, limping. Annie didn't stop her. For a moment she couldn't move.

Sandy stumbled into the room, his face white and drawn. There were smudges of soot on his hands and clothes, a burn on his wrist. Annie took his hand, looked at the injury. “What happened?” she asked.

Sandy shook his head, and she watched his face crumple. It was bad, then. Very bad indeed. Her heart crumpled in her breast. “I didn't mean any harm,” Sandy said, his voice thin with age and shock. “It's the bairn—­he cries at night, keeps me awake. I only wanted some peace and quiet. I went to sleep in the barn, and I fell asleep with the lantern burning—­” He grimaced, but squared his shoulders. “I got the beasts out, at least, and sounded the alarm. Then I came to get Iain.”

“You old fool,” Annie muttered. “You old fool.”

 

Chapter Twenty-Eight

T
HE ORANGE GLOW
climbed into the starless sky, pushing back the night. Iain urged the garron toward the village, his heart in his throat. Sandy had shaken him awake where he'd finally fallen asleep, sitting in a chair in the library, a book in his hands. He'd paced the floor of the tower for hours, unable to rest, then prowled the castle. He'd been thinking of Alanna, her kiss, her body, her face, until he was half mad with longing. He'd stood in the hall outside her door, considering what might happen if he opened it, went inside.

If he'd been in the tower, or the solar, or his own bloody bed, he would have seen the flames. It had taken Sandy precious minutes to find him. Now, he could see by the height of the flames that there was no way to stave off disaster.

The villagers—­MacGillivrays, MacIntoshes, and Frasers, men, women, and children—­were watching for him to arrive. They came running toward him through the smoke, half dressed, panicked, with soot on their faces. The garron skittered, fearful of the rush of bodies and the roar of the flames, so Iain slid off the creature's back and looked around.

His heart sank as he took in the situation. It wasn't just the barn—­the wind had driven the hungry sparks toward the cottages too, where they burrowed into the thatch, took root, and flared to life, until the fire was devouring all in its path. Four cotts were already aflame, and the rest were in danger of catching as well.

The barn was a birdcage of blazing timber, lost. He looked around for anything that might have been saved, sacks of grain or barrels of salted meat, but there was nothing. At least the cattle were out, and the sheep. They stood in the shadows, bawling at the smoke and heat, their eyes rolling white in their heads. Dogs circled the flock, barking, adding to the mayhem.

Women stood in the snow, bewildered and numb with shock. Children were crying, babies wailing. Iain counted the faces, identified who was here, and who was not. Logan was here, and Seonag and the children. Her newborn babe was bound against her breast, and the others clung to her skirts. Old Lottie had her hand to her mouth, and the fire lit the tracks of tears on her cheeks as she watched the home she'd lived in all her life burn.

“What do we do first, Laird?” Logan asked. “The barn—­”

Iain shook his head. “It's too late. Soak the cottages,” he said to the men struggling to draw water out of the well, directing them toward the houses, away from the barn. The heat was all but unbearable. He looked at the frozen loch, cursed the cold. “Chop a hole in the ice,” he ordered. “Find more buckets.” Folk rushed to obey, less fearful now they had something to do, a purpose, a leader.

Screams rose as the barn caved in, and Iain spun to watch as great timbers that had stood for centuries were now defeated by the flames. He heard sobs, prayers, and curses in Gaelic. It could not be helped. He slithered down the icy bank to the loch, grabbed a bucket, filled it, handed it off, took another and filled that too, and carried it to the nearest cottage, soaking the thatch, returning for more. His clansmen followed, copied him.

He caught sight of a red cloak, a frail figure standing in the shadows, watching as the flames devoured Lottie's cottage.
Alanna
? He felt a moment of fear and then fury as he strode toward her. She shouldn't be here. Did she think he'd rescue her again, save her from fire the way he'd saved her from ice? With her injured leg, she could easily trip, fall, suffer burns, or worse. He muttered a curse. He hadn't time to see to her. He had a score of others to see safe and warm. He gripped her shoulder.

“Alanna, what are you doing here? Go back to the castle, and—­” He turned her to face him and looked down into Lottie MacGillivray's white face, and at the faces of her grandchildren, all wrapped in Alanna's red cloak.

“The lass gave us her cloak, Laird, and went to help Seonag,” Lottie said, pointing toward one of the burning cottages.

Iain swallowed. “Take the garron, Lottie, put as many bairns as he'll carry on his back, and go up to the castle,” Iain ordered, and moved toward the cottage. He found Seonag crouched in the lee of a stone wall, her wailing babe cradled tight against her breast, her other children clustered beside her. They looked up at him with wide eyes, shivering. He took off his coat and wrapped it around them. “Where's Alanna?” he asked. “Lottie said she was here.”

“She was,” Seonag said. “She helped me carry the children here.” Seonag turned and counted her brood once more, touching each dark head, drawing them closer to her body and the scant protection of the wall.

She wasn't here now. Fear gripped him. “Go up to the castle with Lottie, Seonag, get the bairns indoors,” he ordered. “Which way did Alanna go?”

Seonag shook her head, tears in her eyes. “I don't know. She made sure we were safe, and went to help.”

How could a wee slip of a lass like Alanna, an injured one at that, help? What the devil was she thinking? Iain looked around him, searching for her.

But Alanna McNabb was nowhere to be seen.

A
L
A
N
N
A
'
S
H
E
A
R
T
C
L
I
M
B
E
D
into her throat as she looked around at the devastating fire. Smoke rolled across the snow like long claws, creating macabre shadows.

Folk screamed and prayed. Alanna had given her cloak to an old woman, but there were so many more who needed help. She could see Iain moving among his ­people. He'd taken charge, was everywhere at once, helping put the fires out, and doing his best to prevent any more cottages from catching fire. But the wind fanned the flames, pushed them onward, and above her, the sky thickened with more snow.

There were ­people in the cotts still, despite the danger, unsure and afraid to leave their homes. They had to. She knew that, had seen the devastation of fire before.

She helped Seonag with her bairns, led them to a place of shelter, out of the wind and safe from the flames. A mother only had two hands, and one was wrapped around the newborn child. Alanna gave her hands to the others, and they clung to her, let her lead them, see them safe. “Thank you, my lady,” Seonag said. “Your poor leg—­”

Alanna gritted her teeth and ignored the ache in her knee. It wasn't so bad. The cold numbed it, and she needed two good legs now, and wits, and courage. She remembered a fire at Glenlorne, a single cottage only, but no one inside had woken until it was too late. She looked around. Four—­no, five now—­cottages were burning, while a sixth smoldered, on the brink of falling prey to the flames. The folks passing buckets from hand to hand had not yet noticed. She grabbed a bucket, filled it, and hobbled toward the cott. She threw the water at the flames with a growl, heard the fire hiss as she slowed it, injured it.

She heard a warbling cry, a thick grunt. Someone was still inside. Alanna's heart climbed into her throat. She went to the door, threw it open.

“Hello?” The room was filling with smoke, even if the flames had not yet appeared. It was a matter of minutes.

“Here!”

Alanna scanned the room, saw an old man on his knees, his arms around a prone figure wrapped in a blanket. He looked up at her, his eyes streaming in the smoke.

“It's my Nessa—­she won't budge,” he said with tears in his eyes. “She doesn't like the cold and won't go outside.”

Alanna pictured the ancient man's ancient wife, stubborn and fearful, refusing to leave her home, unwilling to admit that tragedy was about to strike. “We've got to convince her,” Alanna said.

“Och, she's as stubborn as any woman. Help me put a rope around her flanks,” the old man said.

Alanna gaped. A rope? She blinked, trying to see the woman through the smoke. The figure under the blanket grunted rudely.

“Nessa?” Alanna knelt, laid a hand on her broad back. “We must go. Your cott is on fire.”

Nessa squealed a wordless objection. “Now, Nessa, don't be difficult. 'Tis time to go,”the old man said.

He handed Alanna the end of a rope and drew back the blanket.

Alanna stared. A very large pig lay on the floor, panting unhappily. The creature regarded Alanna with a baleful glare and refused to budge.

“She won't do a thing if she doesn't know ye, lass,” the man said. “You'd best introduce yourself.”

Alanna cast a quick glance at the back corner of the room, where the smoke was thickest, and growing thicker still. Even now, hot sparks were eating their way through the thatch, looking for a way in. There was little time. She looked at the old man and saw tears in his eyes. “We have to go,” she said urgently.

He shook his head. “I can't leave without Nessa.”

Alanna swallowed. He'd die if he stayed, and so would the pig. She turned to the creature. “Nessa, I'm Alanna McNabb,” she said, and wondered if she should shake the beast's trotter or curtsy. The pig showed no sign of being glad to know her, but the old man's brows shot up to join the thin white thatch of his hair.

“The laird's lass!” he said. “Lost in the snow, you were.”

“Yes,” Alanna said, though she was hardly the laird's lass. Nessa grunted and sat up, fixing Alanna with a look of interest. The old man quickly slipped the rope over the pig's head and around her vast neck.

“I'm Donal MacGillivray, the piper, and this is Nessa,” the man said.

“Pleased to meet you both, but we must go right now.” Alanna said. The smoke in the corner was thickening, blacker now. “

Donal rushed to open the door, and tugged on Nessa's lead rope.

The pig lifted her nose to the cold air for a moment. Or perhaps it was the scent of fire, but she refused to budge any further

Donal hauled on the rope, but he was a mere fraction of his pet's size. Alanna got behind and pushed on Nessa's wide backside, trying to get her through the door. The pig sat down and shut her eyes, blocking the doorway.

There were tears in Donal's eyes as he let the rope go slack, and he shook his head. “I can't leave without Nessa and my pipes,” he insisted, shaking his head. “You'd best go, save yourself, for there's no life for me without them.”

Alanna coughed. “Where are your pipes?” she managed. Her eyes stung and her knee ached.

“In the chest, by the far wall. I can't get past Nessa to get to them, and if she won't go out, and I can't go in, we won't be going anywhere at all,” he said stubbornly.

Alanna looked over her shoulder and felt fear creep into her breast. The chest stood where the fire was gnawing at the thatch. There was already a hole, and sparks nibbled the ragged edge of the furze, like red lace. Any moment, with the next puff of wind, the flames would roar to life.

She looked around the cramped cottage and realized that she was trapped. Nessa blocked the doorway.

Panic rose in Alanna's chest. Unless the pig shifted, or she could climb over her with her injured leg, she was in great danger. Fire this time, instead of ice. Which was worse? Desperately, she shoved at Nessa's bottom, but the sow refused to move. Alanna could hear the crackle of the flames as they took hold of the roof above her head.

“L
O
O
K
—
­
D
O
N
A
L
'
S
COTTAGE
is about to go up,” Seonag said to Iain, pointing. “I didn't see him or Nessa, and you know he won't leave without Nessa, Laird.”

Iain looked up the narrow lane that led to the piper's cottage. The roof was smoldering, sparks glittering wickedly in the thatch. In a moment, the fire would gather itself, rise, and catch. He had minutes to find Donal before that happened. It would not take long for the roof to cave in. Iain's heart climbed into his throat. If the old piper was inside—­

He began to run. Donal appeared in the doorway, waving frantically. “Laird, thank the Lord you've come. The lass is trapped inside, and Nessa, too.”

The lass? Alanna was inside? Iain shoved past Donal.

“Alanna?” he called into the smoke. “Where are you?”

“Behind the pig, pushing,” she said, her voice husky with smoke.

He looked over the back of the huge beast and saw her. Her eyes were wide in her soot dark face. She was shoving with all her might, determined to save the damned pig.

“Pull on the rope,” Iain ordered Donal. He put his arms under the pig's shoulders and forcibly hauled the great stubborn beast out of the cottage. She squealed at the snow, but Donal threw a blanket around her, then knelt in the snow beside her, using his skinny body to protect his pet from the wind. To Iain's surprise, Alanna didn't come out. “The lass—­” Donal began, but Iain was already plunging back into the smoke, just as the flames came to life with a hungry whoosh.

“Alanna!” The fire lit the interior of the cottage like an image of hell. Iain took a breath and dove in. The smoke was so thick he could barely see her. “What the devil are you doing?” he demanded, following her. Flames were crawling along the walls, reaching for her as she walked—­limped—­boldly through the middle of it, going the wrong way.

She grabbed a moth-­eaten plaid from the bed and wrapped it over her head.

“Alanna!” He grabbed for her shoulder, but she eluded him, rushed toward the flames, not away.

She dropped to the floor in front of a chest, the fire mere inches above her head, deadly sparks falling around her. She threw back the lid and rummaged inside, coughing. She cried out and Iain lunged forward, scooped a hand around her waist, and hauled her back against his chest just in time. The flames roared down the wall, reaching for her. Alanna let out a god-­awful squall, and then a long moan, but Iain ignored the noises and carried her outside.