Once Upon a Highland Christmas (16 page)

“Are you hurt?” he asked as he set her into the snow. She shook her head, but bent double, coughing, and the terrible moaning continued..

“My pipes—­you've got my pipes,” Donal said, reaching for the bagpipes in Alanna's hands. He took them from her and cradled them in his arms, then crouched beside the pig and regarded his home. “Now it can burn. What's most precious is safe.” He looked at Alanna, and Iain saw tears in Donal's eyes. “I owe you my thanks, lass.”

Alanna straightened, gave the piper a smile. Still, Iain noticed her hand shaking as she brushed back a lock of hair, rubbed her hand over her soot-­stained face. The flames lit her skin to gold under the black and flamed in her eyes. Iain felt his breath catch in his chest. She glanced up as it began to snow, blinking at the icy flakes

Folks paused to look up at the snow. The barn and the cottages still burned, but the flames hissed as the snow thickened. The wind worked for them now, snuffing out wayward sparks.

Iain looked around at the destruction. His clansmen, some only half dressed, everyone filthy, stood blinking at the ruins of their homes. He felt his chest clench, felt fury and helplessness. It was gone, all of it, a village that had stood here for hundreds of years. He would not be here to rebuild—­he had responsibilities that would tear him away. Who would manage it for him?

He spun on Alanna, determined to take out his anger on someone. “Are you completely daft? I told you to stay put. Do you ever do as you're told?”

For a moment she stared up at him in surprise. “Yes, Laird, I do as I'm told. Always in fact. At least until now.” She folded her arms over her thin gown, raised her chin. “I like it better this way.”

Now what did that mean? Iain stared at her as she stepped around him and went to Donal's side.

“Donal, can you play your pipes now?”

Donal's bantam chest puffed like the bag of his pipes. “Of course I can.”

“Then pipe the clan up to the castle,” she said. “They need shelter, something to warm them.”

Iain gaped at her. She was filthy, her hair covered with soot and snow, sleep-­tousled. Yet she stood tall, wrapped in Donal's old plaid, threadbare and singed. She turned to him. “I mean, with the laird's permission, of course.”

Iain swallowed a lump in his throat. He'd thought her lovely before. Now, calm despite the terror of the situation, with her eyes shining through soot and dirt, she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He could see the same thought in Donal's eyes, and even in the eyes of the damned pig. The sow leaned into Alanna with a sigh, and Iain caught her arm, mindful of her injured leg, and drew her against him protectively. He nodded to Donal. “Tell Annie to feed everyone, keep them warm.”

“Aye, Laird. But what about Nessa, and the cows and sheep?” Donal asked.

“Put the children on them, let them ride,” Alanna suggested.

Iain looked at her. She didn't need him to rescue her. She was doing the rescuing now. “Good idea,” he said. She bent to scratch Nessa's head, as if the sow was a faithful hound, and helped Donal tie the pig's lead rope to his waist so she would follow him as he played his pipes.

“Come then, Nessa,” Donal said, and set the chanter in his mouth. The pipes called the first bright notes, cutting through the wind and the snow. Folks turned, looked at him as he began to march up the lane between the smoldering cottages, the pig at his heels.

They began to follow him, and Iain swung the children up and placed them on Nessa's back. Lads herded the sheep into line, and the cows behind them, and the whole village set off across the moor toward the castle.

Iain stood amid the ruins with a handful of men and looked around. There was nothing left to save. The snow fell harder, faster, melting on still-­hot timbers, ending the fire's brief reign.

“What will we do now, Laird?” Logan asked him. The other men stood behind him, their gazes hollow, full of worry, as if Iain had all the answers, could somehow
fix
this, make it right, give them everything. He clenched his fists at his side. But that was his responsibility, as Laird of Craigleith and Earl of Purbrick. It was his duty to make everything right, no matter the cost to himself. He'd be gone from here in the spring, spread between Shropshire and London and Craigleith, stretched too thin. He felt the full weight of all that responsibility crush the air out of his lungs. All the doubts he'd faced over the past months, since inheriting the English title, crept up, and he had no answer to give the anxious men around him. What
would
they do? It was the dead of winter. They could not rebuild in the snow, and the stores of grain and hay that had been lost would have to be replaced somehow. They'd need seed for spring planting.

Alanna stood in the shadows, watching him, waiting, having set the last child on the back of a cow and sent her off.

He felt her eyes on him like a touch. He met her gaze across the little distance. She stood with her shoulders straight. There wasn't any worry in her gaze. There was confidence, encouragement, and hope, as if she knew he was capable of this, believed he could do anything.

Iain squared his shoulders and looked each man in the eyes. “There's nothing more to do now. We'll go up to the castle and get warm, then see what's to be done in the morning.”

“It
is
morning, Laird,” Logan said grimly. “We won't be able to do anything until spring, if you ask me.”

Dawn was indeed creeping over the horizon, gray and somber, like an old woman with a heavy pack.

“What we need is a miracle,” Niall MacGillivray said, shaking his head, looking at the remains of his cottage.

“Then it's a good thing it's the time of year for miracles, isn't it?” Alanna said, loud enough for all to hear.

For a moment, they stared at her as if she'd spoken a foreign language. She gave them a beguiling smile, her eyes bright with hope.

Logan MacGillivray smiled back.

Niall looked relieved.

Will Fraser squared his shoulders. “Aye,” he muttered.

Iain felt his own chest swell. “Let's go,” he said, and they began to walk toward the castle.

He crossed to Alanna and took her arm. “Your knee?” he asked.

“I'm fine,” she said, though her jaw was clenched to keep her teeth from chattering. He noted dark rings under her eyes that had nothing to do with soot.

“Take this, my lady,” Logan said, and handed her his plaid. Iain wrapped her in it, over top of Donal's, then scooped her into his arms.

“You'll rest when we get back to the castle,” he commanded.

She looked mutinous. “There'll be a lot to do. Food, and beds—­”

“Baths,” he said, looking down at the smudges on her cheeks. She blushed under the dirt.

“Don't worry, lass. You look just fine,” he said, and she met his gaze, let her eyes fall to his mouth. He watched her swallow, wondered if she would kiss him again. He wanted her to, very much. He began to lower his lips toward hers.

She turned her head away. “We shouldn't,” she said. “Penelope—­”

He let out a sigh. Penelope. “She isn't here,” he said. Not in his head, or his heart. That place was already occupied.

 

Chapter Twenty-Nine

S
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by the kitchen door as folk began arriving from the village. Tears left tracks in ash-­stained faces. Everyone was cold and exhausted and too stunned to do more than shuffle into the room and collapse, wordlessly holding loved ones and the few possessions they'd managed to save.

He felt guilt in his chest, a pain in his heart, and he counted everyone as they arrived, praying that no one had died because of his foolish mistake.

The laird was the last to arrive, following his ­people, as soot-­stained and dirty as everyone else. In his arms, wrapped in a MacGillivray plaid yet again, was Alanna McNabb, likewise stained and rumpled. Sandy caught Iain's sleeve. “Is everyone safe?” he asked.

Iain gave him a curt nod, and Sandy met the scorn in the laird's eyes, felt shame. Tears stung his own eyes as he stepped back.

He watched as Iain set the lass carefully on her feet. She didn't collapse, though she was tired and dirty. She began to move among the bewildered folk who crowded the kitchen, helping Annie and Fiona and Wee Janet, handing out warmed ale and broth, as if she belonged here. Folk looked up at her with gratitude in their eyes. Sandy marveled. She was a stranger, yet she was taking care of the MacGillivrays when it was their duty to take care of her, their guest.

Shame and despair filled Sandy's breast, and he slipped farther back into the shadows. It was his fault, all of it. Cottages lost, food stores and supplies, gone. How would they make it through the winter? And in the spring, with Iain gone to England, how would they survive at all?

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and she pressed a warm mug into his shaking hands. “Drink this,” Alanna said. “Everyone's safe, Sandy—­even Donal's Nessa.”

He could see the piper's pig stretched on her side by the fire. He felt a tear crawl down his cheek. “ 'Twill be a sad Christmas now,” he said. “And a hard winter, and I'm to blame for all of it. I didn't mean any harm.”

“Of course not,” she said. “Everyone will have to make the best of it.”

“How?” he asked, looking up at her. “Seonag makes wine for Christmas, preserves berries, makes Christmas cakes. It's all gone, burned up. I daresay the Christmas cheer of all the other folk is gone too. Even their livelihoods are lost—­tools and supplies and belongings—­and their homes. There won't be enough hay to feed the beasts, or enough grain to last through the winter, let alone for spring planting.”

Alanna's expression was grim as she looked around the room. She put her hand on his arm. “Sandy, I have an idea, but I need your help. I cannot ride with my knee injured, or I'd go myself. My brother Alec will help, I know it, and gladly. Can you ride to Glenlorne, ask him to send what might be needed for a few months? He's kind, like Iain, a good man. He won't say no.” She swallowed. “Tell him I'd consider it a wedding present.”

He looked at her, hope swelling in his breast. “ 'Twill take me two or three days to get there, but I can go. I can be back by Christmas too.” He put his thumbs into his belt. “I might stop and hunt on the way back, bring home a stag for a feast—­” She bent forward and kissed his wrinkled cheek.

“Thank you, Sandy,” she said. “You're very brave. We'll keep it as a surprise, shall we?”

Suddenly he felt brave. He nodded, strode out of the corner without a word to anyone, and went to the stable. He mounted a garron and rode out into the snow, just as the daylight straggled over the horizon. He huddled into the warmth of his plaid, thankful the wind-­driven snow was at his back, following him, pushing him onward. He paused to frown at the yellow pall of smoke that rose over the village.

The lass had given him a task, a way to redeem himself for his mistake, and he would not fail her, or his clan, again.

He thanked the heavens for the day Lady Alanna McNabb had arrived at Craigleith. It was a lucky moment indeed.

He set his heels to the garron's flanks and rode on.

“S
EONAG'S FAMILY
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the baby can have my room,” Fiona said, organizing things. “I'll share with Elizabeth.”

Annie nodded. “And we'll put Lottie and her daughter in Iain's room.”

Fiona made a face. “But that means Alanna will have to share with Penelope.”

“Or one of them will have to share with Iain,” Annie muttered under her breath, and glanced at the fire again. The sight had never let her down before. Why now, tonight? She looked around. But no one was watching or blaming her—­they were staring in wonder at Alanna McNabb. The lass looked as if she belonged here, as soot-­stained and busy as everyone else. Perhaps she did.

There was no sign of the Sassenach who wished to be Lady of Craigleith. Annie's lips pursed tight for Iain's sake. She looked up as the Sassenach's maid came into the room, no doubt here to fetch hot water and make up the breakfast trays for the idle ladies above stairs. The maid stopped short and looked around her in shock. “What on earth?”

Annie's grip tightened on the ladle in her hand. “Breakfast in bed will have to wait. Try tomorrow morning,” she said tartly. The maid colored and fled. No doubt she'd march up and tell Lady Marjorie, and she would sweep downstairs to scold Annie personally. Annie made a sign to ward off evil and served another bowl of soup.

“The beasts, Iain—­where shall we put them? Is there space in the stable?” Logan asked. “The wind is picking up, and they'll need shelter.”

“The old armory will do. There's a door that leads straight out to the yard, but that's Annie's storeroom,” Iain said. “Annie?”

“ 'Twill be as you decide, Laird,” Annie said. “It can't be helped, though it is an inconvenience.” She looked pointedly at Donal, who put his hand on Nessa's flank protectively.

“Not Nessa,” Donal said anxiously.

“She can't stay here,” Annie said, setting her hands on her hips. “Unless she wants to join us for Christmas dinner.”

Donal glared at her. “Nessa's not for eating! Would you eat a fine hunting dog, an old friend?”

“It may come to that,” Annie grumbled.

Iain and the men went out, and Annie and Donal glared at each other over Nessa's pink belly.

Alanna stepped between them. “The children are so sleepy now the worst is over. Perhaps we could take them to the library, let them rest there. Wee Janet was wiping noses and mopping sooty cheeks as fast as she could.”

“That's a fine idea. They're just underfoot here in the kitchen,” Annie replied.

Alanna smiled at Donal. “Perhaps Nessa can come too,” she said. Annie smiled. It wasn't the solution she would have chosen, but it would do.

The piper rose gratefully. “Of course, lass.”

“Once the bairns are tucked up in the library, the rest of you can go into the hall,” Annie announced. There were so many ­people, so much to see to. It was like the old days, when the castle was full of Iain's grandfather's clansmen and their families. Iain's father had preferred a less chaotic home. It felt good to have ­people in the old place again, especially so close to Christmas.

She turned toward the fire once again and poked it, looking for a sign, but she saw only more snow and a future yet uncertain.

A
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dozen children on the settees and chairs and on the rug before the fire. Nessa took her place among them on the hearth like a beloved dog, and went to sleep with the little ones curled around her. They looked up at Alanna expectantly.

“Why don't you tell them a tale, lass?” Donal said. “They've heard all of mine.”

“I shall tell you a story that I heard when I was a child. It's one of my favorite tales for Christmas,” she began.

“Is it true?” one child asked.

“Of course it is. All the very best stories are true ones,” she promised. “As long as you believe in magic, that is. Do you?”

The youngest ones nodded, though the older ones looked skeptical. “Close your eyes and try your hardest to believe.”

She told them a tale of magic, and Christmas. Before long, the fearful excitement of the fire, the warmth of the room, and the sound of her voice lulled everyone to sleep, including Donal.

Alanna looked up to find Iain standing by the door, listening. He'd washed his face, but his clothes were still stained with soot and mud. He needed shaving and sleep, and probably a meal. Alanna was tired enough to sleep for a week, and needed a bath herself. Still, his eyes were roaming over her face, appreciation clear in the gray depths. She felt blood rise to her cheeks.

She looked away, down to the child who had fallen asleep in her lap, a wee girl with red curls. “I didn't hear you come in. Is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine—­well, as fine as it can be, given the situation. There are beds ready for the little ones upstairs, though I suspect they'll all wake up and want their breakfast soon. We might as well leave them to sleep here for the time being.”

He came across the room, leaned against the fireplace mantel, and looked around at the sleeping children. “Seonag's grateful to you for seeing to the children. She has her hands full with the new bairn, and Wee Janet and Fiona are helping Annie. Lottie is telling everyone how brave you are. I daresay the story of Lady Alanna and the piper's pig will become a favorite Christmas tale in years to come.”

“I'm not so very brave,” she said. “I hope you didn't come in here to tell me that. Have you slept?”

“When everyone else does,” he said. “I'm looking for Sandy, actually. Have you seen him?”

She bit her lip. “Do you intend to punish him? It was an accident.” Iain was a proud man. Would he welcome help from Alec? She hadn't thought about it. She had plunged in, done what seemed right at the moment. It was an unfortunate habit she had, trying to fix what was wrong between ­people she loved.

The firelight caught in the creases of Iain's frown as she deflected his question. ­“People could have died.”

“But they didn't. Everyone is safe. Cottages can be rebuilt. If Sandy hadn't sounded the alarm, then it would have been worse.”

“He's the villain here, not the hero,” Iain said.

“Oh, but it might have been anyone—­”

“Do you see the good in everyone so easily? If you do, you're a remarkable woman indeed, Alanna McNabb,” he said softly.

She felt her heart climb into her throat. “I was brought up to be the one—­well, Megan was the family beauty, the one who told stories, but her temper was fiery indeed. Sorcha was the adorable one, always into trouble, but easy to forgive.”

“And you?” he asked.

“I was the one in the middle. I made peace when Sorcha stole Megan's ribbons, made things right again when Megan—­” She closed her mouth. She was the useful, dutiful McNabb sister, the one who did as she was told, did her best to please everyone, even at the expense of her own happiness. What would Megan have done last night, or Devorguilla? She looked at the frown on Iain's face. He was wondering too, no doubt—­not about her kin but about his own.

“Poor Penelope. She's a stranger here, not used to Highland ways. I daresay she needs—­wants—­a chance to help, a task, and she'll surprise you . . .”

He folded his arms over his chest. “
You
surprise me. These aren't your ­people either. And yet, even injured—­”

She looked at him fiercely. “But they are my ­people. Lottie MacGillivray might have been Morag McNabb, from Glenlorne village. Sandy might be Leith Rennie, our gamekeeper, his cottage lost in the fire. How could I not help? I miss them all, love them, see them in the faces and words and deeds of the MacGillivrays.” She felt tears fill her eyes, the horror of what might have happened filling her chest.

He knelt beside her, wiped her tears away with the pad of his thumb. “So brave, and yet you ran away.” He held up a hand when she opened her mouth to deny it again.

“Whether you're willing to admit it or not, you don't want to go to England, do you, and marry Lord Wilbur?”

She closed her eyes. “It's Wilfred, and I gave my word, promised.” How often had she recited those words in her mind? They sounded less noble spoken aloud, a weak reason to marry any man.

“Promises can be hard to keep when regrets crowd in,” he said.

“I am told that you can grow used to anything if you wish to do so. It won't be so bad.” She met his eyes, saw the doubt there, but not for her—­why would he worry about her? She recalled what Fiona had said, that she feared Iain didn't want to go to England, dreaded it. She put her hand over his, squeezed. “It won't be the same for you, Iain. You'll be an earl, and Penelope is beautiful. She'll make a good countess—­” Perhaps by reassuring him, she might reassure herself, make it bearable. Touching him, even his hand, just made her regret worse.

“Don't pity me,” he said, mistaking her intent.

“But I—­”

He withdrew his hand and went back to the fire, stared into the flames, his expression harsh, his fist clenched on the mantel. “I never expected to be an English earl. I hadn't heard from my English kin for years, not since my father died, never thought I would. I thought my life was here at Craigleith, doing my best to be a good laird, a good husband and father when—­if—­the time came for it, and I told myself that I'd be content with that.” He swallowed, his throat bobbing, gilded golden by the firelight. “And yet—­” He paused.