Once Upon a Highland Christmas (25 page)

 

Chapter Fifty-One

W
ILFRED
E
SM
OND,
M
ARQUESS
of Merridew, sniffed as his coach finally pulled up at the door of Craigleith Castle. He stared up at the cold gray stones and they stared back at him, suspicious and unwelcoming. It was an unimpressive place, a forbidding stone tower with a pointed turret, half buried in snow.

Wilfred longed for the comforts of his father's estates, the grand ducal palace set in the hospitable English countryside. He tightened his fist on the head of his walking stick, angry, and threw back the mountain of furs that protected him from the wolfish teeth of the Highland winter. He would have been at Lyall this very moment, sitting in the elegant salon drinking hot rum punch, if it wasn't for the silly chit who had delayed him, ruined his plans.

Now he would be forced to spend a miserable Christmas here, in the middle of nowhere, among ­people who were little better than barbarians, if the exterior of their home was any indication. Castle indeed. They did not know the meaning of the word. He'd make his bride pay for her sins against him.

“I hope they have claret in the cellar,” he muttered as he waited for the coachman to open the door and let down the steps. Or brandy.

­People began to crowd around the coach as if they'd never seen a modern vehicle before. Rosy-­cheeked urchins, broad-­backed women, and squint-­eyed men regarded the crest on the door as if it was a declaration of nefarious intent—­or superiority.

Wilfred waited until the footman let down the steps and opened the door before he descended among the peasants, his nose in the air, his stick at the ready, demonstrating he was better than they were in every possible way, offering them a brief glimpse of his impressive dignity and power as he swept past them, toward the steps.

They didn't say a word—­until he set his foot on a patch of ice. He felt his boot slip out from beneath him, betraying him. His arms flailed, and he toppled backward, landed hard on his broad backside. He watched his beaver hat shoot up into the air above him and come down again to land on his chest.

For a long moment, no one moved. Wilfred lay in the snow and stared up at the leaden sky. One by one, faces appeared above him, peered down at him, their eyes filled more with curiosity than concern.

Worse was to come. His footman offered a hand, and Wilfred clasped it, only to pull the servant down on top of him. His hat was crushed. Then the peasants themselves set upon him, men, women, and children, laying hands upon him, tugging at him, pushing, prodding, and pulling until he was finally back on his feet. Hands brushed at the clinging snow on his coat, and someone held out his broken hat and his walking stick. They had not dared to laugh outright, but merriment had replaced simple curiosity. Wilfred felt his face flush despite the cold.

“I wish to go inside,” he said to no one in particular. As if by magic the door opened. He climbed the steps, moving carefully.

“Welcome to Craigleith,” said a crone wrapped in a ragged plaid.

“Lady Alanna McNabb?” he said, not bothering with a greeting.

“Lord Wilfred!” The crone was pushed aside. “I saw your arrival from the window. Welcome to Craigleith Castle.”

“Lady Marjorie,” he said, nodding. Her gaze took in the snow crusted on his coat, and his damaged hat, and her welcoming smile wavered. He smoothed a hand over his rumpled hair and walked in.

The Scottish crone appraised him boldly as he passed, her eyes lighting with a sharp flare. “You're the English lord, Lady Alanna's marquess.” She jerked her head. “You'd best come away into the library.”

She led the way along an ancient hall, barbarically decked with swords and shields, the floor made of thick, unadorned flagstones. It appeared the place was as gray inside as out. Marjorie took his arm. “I see you received my letter,” she said. “How is your dear mother?” The crone opened a set of double doors, and he stepped into the library.

This room was at least reminiscent of a fine English room, well-­appointed with books and comfortable furniture. A fire blazed merrily in the fireplace. “Whisky or tea?” the crone asked, her tone suggesting a distinct lack of deference or enthusiasm.

“Lady Alanna?” Wilfred demanded instead, keeping his tone bland and insistent.

The crone looked bemused as she shook her head. “She isn't here.”

He turned to Marjorie. “She is . . . out,” she said.

“Out? It is freezing, and snowing, and there is a high wind,” Wilfred said, making his tone as chilly as the weather.

The door burst open, and a pretty young woman hurried in. Her gown rustled, shimmered, and she came to a stop in a deep curtsy at his feet. He looked down on golden lashes over blue eyes, as well as an ample bosom, displayed to advantage in the low-­cut gown. Was this his bride? He regarded her hopefully.

“May I present my daughter, Lady Penelope Curry?” Lady Marjorie said, and Wilfred felt a frisson of disappointment.

He took Lady Penelope's hand and kissed it. She smiled with pleasure, a natural flirt. “Good afternoon, my lord,” she purred.

“Oh no—­you're Alanna's marquess,” another girl said behind her. Surely this one was too young to be his bride, and too plain, Wilfred thought.

“My younger daughter, Elizabeth,” Lady Marjorie said, her tone flat. Merridew inclined his head—­slightly—­instead of bowing. The child appraised him boldly.

The door opened again, and the ladies of Dumdrummie flew into the room. Devorguilla's eyes darted into the corners, searching for her daughter. “She isn't here,” Wilfred said disdainfully, not bothering to greet her. Lady Eleanor's brows rose. Young Sorcha stood behind her, gaping like a fish.

“Then where is she?” Devorguilla asked, looking at the other women in the room. No one replied.

“Out, apparently,” Wilfred said.

The door opened again. He cringed as Sorcha shrieked like a banshee and flew across the room and threw herself into the arms of a red-­haired beauty.

Wilfred swallowed. Perhaps this, then, was his bride at last? But when Sorcha stepped back, he took note of the woman's rounded belly. Not his bride then—­he hoped.

“Alanna's not here,” the child told the tall, broad, angry-­looking Scotsman who appeared next.

The man fixed his eyes on Wilfred, a glare sharp enough to pierce skin. “Where's my sister, MacGillivray?” he demanded, advancing on him.

Wilfred raised his chin. “I'm not—­” he began, but the Scot merely took advantage of the target and let his fist connect with Wilfred's jaw. Wilfred reeled backward and landed in a chair, white-­hot pain filling the room.

“Lord Wilfred!” Marjorie and her daughter fluttered above him. Lacy handkerchiefs were deployed, pressed to his bleeding lip.

“This isn't Iain MacGillivray. This is the Marquess of Merridew,” Lady Marjorie said.

“
The
marquess?” the man demanded. “
Alanna's marquess
?” He raised his fist again. Devorguilla got between them. “Alec, please!”

“Who the devil are you?” Wilfred asked the man, cringing.

“Glenlorne,” the Scot said, regarding Wilfred coldly. Wilfred looked away first.

“Good day, Alec,” Lady Eleanor said, and embraced the redheaded woman. “Caroline—­you're absolutely blooming! It appears we have a family reunion, and at Christmas, too. How wonderful—­”

“Where is Alanna?” Glenlorne demanded again.

Devorguilla raised her chin. “I don't know,” she said coolly. “We were told she was out.”

“In the snow,” Wilfred added, still not believing it.

“All night,” Elizabeth murmured, and everyone turned to look at her in surprise.

“What on earth does that mean?” Glenlorne's countess demanded, but the door opened again. Everyone turned to look. The crone was back with tea. Behind her, another young woman entered the room, limping. Merridew felt his heart sink as he stared at her leg, hoping this crippled creature wasn't Lady Alanna.

She stopped and regarded them all. “Good day, I'm Fiona MacGillivray,” she said, scanning the faces. “Welcome to Craigleith.”

Merridew surprised a sigh of relief.

“Where's my daughter?” Devorguilla demanded, advancing on the girl.

“Where's Iain MacGillivray?” Glenlorne demanded.

The girl blinked, paling. “Iain isn't here. Nor is Alanna.”

“They'll be back,” the old woman murmured, setting the tray down. “It's going to snow, but they'll be back before it thickens.”

Everyone began to talk at once, demanding answers, asking questions. Wilfred's jaw ached. He stared at the door, tempted to bolt, to climb back into his coach and order the coachman south as fast as possible. He would never set foot in Scotland again . . .

Another woman appeared in the doorway. Wilfred's mouth dried. She had dark hair, wide, hazel eyes. Her cheeks were flushed. She was tall and slim, a beauty. She was wearing a length of plaid over her head and shoulders. She reached up to unwind it, let it fall around her shoulders in graceful folds. No one had noticed her arrival but himself. She stood gazing around the room at the assembly, her cheeks flushing further, her lush lips falling open in surprise. If this was his bride, he was pleased indeed. He barely looked at the person behind her, until the man spoke.

“Good afternoon.” His firm voice cut through the din, and everyone spun. He was as tall and wide as Glenlorne.

“Alanna!” Half the folk in the room raced toward her and swept her up.

“Iain!” Fiona MacGillivray cried.

Glenlorne turned. “Iain? Iain MacGillivray?” he demanded. Wilfred winced as the man's fist flew once more.

To his credit, MacGillivray didn't topple; he simply took a step back as Glenlorne's fist connected with his mouth. MacGillivray blinked, put a hand to the injury—­a split lip—­and looked flatly at his assailant.

 

Chapter Fifty-Two

“A
L
E
C
,
S
T
O
P
I
T
!
”
Alanna stepped between her brother and Iain. Iain's lip was bleeding. He ignored it.

“It's all right, Alanna.” Iain put his hands on her shoulders and moved her gently aside. “Welcome to Craigleith. I assume you're Alanna's brother.”

Alanna moved back where she'd been and stood up to Alec. “It's not all right. You can't come here and punch ­people,” she said fiercely, glaring at her brother.

“I heartily agree.” Alanna looked up as another man spoke, and she felt her stomach sink as she recognized Lord Merridew. He was moving toward her. She felt her cheeks heat, and she looked at the floor and dipped a curtsy.

Alec grabbed her arm. “Come, Alanna.”

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“I'm rescuing you,” Alec said. “We're leaving.”

Lord Merridew got to his feet. He was sporting a fresh bruise on his jaw, and she glanced balefully at her brother. “If the lady is going anywhere, it will be with me. She's my wife—­or she soon will be.”

Alanna watched Alec's fist bunch again, and she reached out to grab his arm before he could take a step.

“No!” She shoved him back toward Iain. “This is my fight, Alec. You will not do this, do you understand?”

He paused, and regarded her with surprise. He had never seen her this way, fierce and bold.

She turned back to Merridew. He was shorter than she remembered, broader. He gave her a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Shall we go?” he asked, crossing the room toward her. “I see no reason to linger here.”

“It's Christmas Eve,” Fiona began, but Merridew ignored her.

“I wish to be over the border as soon as possible, home before the New Year.” He held out his hand, and Alanna stared at it for a moment. She didn't look at her mother, or her sister, or at Iain. She shook her head.

“I cannot marry you, my lord.”

His face became hard and sharp. There was no sorrow, or disappointment. Just proud anger. “Why not?” he demanded.

“You don't have my permission, for one thing,” Alec began. “I'm Alanna's guardian, and—­”

Alanna looked at him. “I can do this, Alec,” she said. She could feel Iain standing beside her brother, felt his eyes on her like a touch, a caress, felt her skin heat.

“Alanna,” her mother began, her tone pleading, but Alanna raised her chin.

“I must insist that you honor your word, my lady,” Merridew said, but she shook her head again, clasped her hands together.

“I am honored that you asked me to be your wife, but I—­I love someone else, you see. It would not be fair to you to expect you to—­”

With an impatient grunt, Merridew closed his hand on her wrist. “I'll risk it,” he said tartly.

Iain's hand closed on the marquess's. “No,” he said.

Alec pushed both of them away. “Alanna is not going anywhere but home to Glenlorne.”

She looked at her brother and smiled. “I
am
home, Alec,” she said. “I'm in love with—­”

“My fiancé?” Penelope demanded.

Alanna looked at the smug young woman. Penelope came forward and put her arm through Iain's, pressed herself close to his side, looked down her nose at Alanna. “You can't have Iain, Alanna. He's going to marry me.”

Alanna felt her chest cave in. Iain was staring at his cousin in surprise. “Penelope,” he began.

“Two women?” Alec demanded, glaring at Iain. “Is this some kind of Highland harem?” he unknowingly parroted Alanna. “Alanna, exactly which gentleman are you betrothed to?”

She bit her lip, looked around the room. “At the moment—­well, I was betrothed to Lord Merridew, but I can't—­”

“And have you also agreed to marry MacGillivray?” Alec demanded.

Her throat closed. She lowered her gaze and shook her head.

“That will be impossible,” Penelope said, fixing Alanna with a sharp blue glare. “He must marry me.”

“Penelope, we discussed this. I am not going to marry you,” Iain began, but Penelope's eyes remained on Alanna.

“You know why he must marry me, don't you, my lady? You saw.” She turned to Iain with a smirk. “We can announce our betrothal tonight, at the party. In fact, I insist we do.”

Iain's face fell, and he closed his eyes.

Alanna remembered Penelope in bed, Iain staring at the English beauty, her hair tumbled over her shoulders, her eyes alight. Alanna felt her knees turn to water. She couldn't breathe. She looked around her, heard the small sound of sympathy that Caroline made, saw Sorcha blink at her, not understanding what was happening. Fiona had tears in her eyes, and Elizabeth was frowning. Lady Marjorie's expression was unreadable. Eleanor's lips were pursed. And her mother stood where she was, uncertain. There was no anger in her eyes, no insistence that she marry Lord Merridew. Alanna turned away from all of them. She could not bear their pity.

Alec put his arm around her. “I think we should be going,” he said quietly. She stood in the shelter of his arms. He unwound Iain's plaid from her shoulders, tossed it aside, put his own greatcoat over her, a heavy weight that nearly swallowed her. Good. She wanted to be swallowed. She clutched the edges, pulled it closer to her chin. The scent of her brother's skin replaced Iain's.

“Alanna—­” Iain began, but Penelope held him fast, clung to his sleeve, triumph clear on her face. Alanna couldn't look at him now. She turned away.

“I'll help you gather your things,” Caroline said.

Alanna considered for a moment. “I have nothing to gather. All my belongings are at Dundrummie, or at Glenlorne.” It didn't matter. All the fine clothes and luxuries in the world could never be enough now. She had lost what she most wanted.

Merridew turned to Devorguilla. “Have you nothing to say to this, my lady? Despite your daughter's foolishness, I am still willing to marry her.”

Devorguilla met her daughter's eyes. “It's Alanna's choice to make, my lord, and I believe she has made it. I was wrong to make it for her, to insist. Will you forgive me, Alanna?”

Alanna went to hug her. “Of course, Mama.”

“You are rejecting a
marquess
?” Penelope gasped.

“I am choosing not to marry him,” Alanna said. She didn't look at Iain, didn't want to. There was nothing left to say. “Can I come home to Glenlorne for a little while, Alec?”

“Of course,” he said. He looked coldly at Iain. “We'll take our leave now, I believe, let you get on with your Christmas celebrations..”

Annie returned. “I'm afraid no one will be going anywhere tonight,” she said. “The snow has started again, and it's so thick you can't see a hand before your face.”

Everyone rushed to the windows, crowded together to look out at the snow. The entire world was white.

“You're all welcome to stay, though quarters will be tight, to say the least. But it's Christmas Eve, and there will be plenty of cheer to go around,” Iain said, his tone flat.

Fiona forced a smile. “It won't be so bad. Our folk are decorating the hall—­please join us.”

The group regarded each other soberly, without a shred of merriment.

Marjorie linked her arm through Merridew's. “Come, Wilfred. It won't be quite like Christmas at Lyall Castle, but I have insisted upon some English touches. Would you like some ice for your poor jaw?”

“There's plenty in the loch,” Elizabeth quipped. Sorcha snickered, and Fiona hid a smile. Lady Marjorie sent her youngest daughter a quelling glare.

“We're all but too old now, of course, but the children are going to ride the
Cailleach Nollaigh
around the hall, since it's too stormy to go outside. Shall we join them?” Fiona said. Sorcha nodded eagerly, and the three girls went out, chattering.

Caroline put her arm around Alanna's shoulders. “Come. It's my first Christmas in Scotland, and next year we'll have a babe to share it with. Muira is already predicting it will be a boy . . .” She babbled happily. Alec followed them out, flanking Alanna's other side, protecting her. It was too late for that. Alanna cast a glance over her shoulder at Iain. He looked stricken, his eyes on hers, and she felt her heart freeze in her breast, and stop beating. She turned away and clung to Caroline as she silently wished him happy and tried not to cry.