Once Upon a Highland Summer (31 page)
Read Once Upon a Highland Summer Online
Authors: Lecia Cornwall
Speed felt something warm and wet spill over his stockings, smelled the acrid scent of urine, but he couldn’t look away. The horrible thing in the tree grinned, if something so horrible could be called a grin. Then it swooped forward.
“Begone,” the ghost said, but by then, Speed, Mandeville, and Brodie had already fled.
“N
ow was that really necessary?” Georgiana asked Angus, floating up to watch the men fleeing over the hills. “It was rather undignified.”
Angus rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Most fun I’ve had in—well, on this side of the grave, anyway. I’ve never liked Brodie’s branch of the family, for all they’re kin. Daft to a man, they are.”
“And now he’ll be running about the countryside telling tales of rotting ghosts in trees.” Georgiana sniffed.
“Well, it did the job, didn’t it? I daresay a ghostly piper standing on a hill would have been lovely, but I haven’t got any pipes!”
Georgiana smiled. “Oh well, perhaps it was worth it to see Lord Mandeville barreling over the hills that way. I remember his grandmother. She choked on a candied plum at a dinner party. I daresay he won’t stop until he crosses the border. He’ll not trouble us further.”
“Or Alec,” Angus added.
“What of Devorguilla?” Georgiana asked.
Angus smiled at her. “I think we can leave her to Muira.”
W
illiam wandered the confines of Glenlorne Castle the next day. Alec MacNabb had been found and brought back alive, bandaged with Caroline’s petticoats. The sight of him, bloody and pale, had caused Countess Charlotte to swoon, or perhaps it was the sight of Caroline in her blood-smirched gown with no proper undergarments. William had nearly swooned himself. Caroline had grown up since the last time he’d seen her in London, or fulfilled her bloom, or whatever young ladies did to go from coltish girls to lovely and desirable women.
He’d made the mistake of trying to do the chivalrous thing and catch Lady Charlotte as she fainted, and served only to provide a soft place for her to land. He’d been pinned beneath her for some minutes before the smelling salts could be found and brought to revive her, since no one could lift her. He had a bruise on his elbow, which the kind and lovely Lady Sophie had insisted upon bandaging. Lottie, who would be his wedded wife in just a few days, had been more concerned with Caroline and Glenlorne, and far too intent on hearing the gory details of their unfortunate accident to pay him any attention at all. He had noticed an unbecoming streak of willfulness in Lottie of late, which he didn’t like in the least.
He’d been quivering after ten long minutes trapped under Countess Charlotte, and green-sick from the pain in his elbow and the sight of so much blood, while Lottie’s eyes had been absolutely glowing. He’d have to curb that wild streak in his wife early, he decided—if he could, of course. It was obvious Somerson had not managed to do much with Lottie’s mother. That’s why he was prowling about the castle now, trying to decide what to say to Lottie, how to take the bull firmly by the horns, or the cow, since he was the bull in this case, and tell her exactly how he expected her to behave from this moment on. And if she refused to obey—well, that was the problem. What if she did? He had the horrible feeling that he would be the one agreeing to obey her, and that, of course, would never do. He was mild-mannered, refined, and not given to extremes of temper, adventure, or even definite decision. He expected his wife to be the same. His mother was content to sit in a corner and stitch samplers with improving messages on them. He had been raised to believe every woman should be like her, if a man’s home was to be a happy one.
He wandered into the study.
There was a rustle of silk as someone rose from a chair by the window. Lady Sophie dropped her embroidery hoop on the floor.
William bowed. “My apologies, my lady. I did not know the room was occupied. Am I intruding?”
“Oh no, not at all,” she murmured.
He crossed the room and bent to retrieve her needlework at the same moment she did. Their heads knocked together, and he caught her elbow as she staggered back, one delicate hand on her forehead. He caught the scent of lavender and roses. His mother wore lavender and roses. He helped her to a chair, and picked up the embroidery. “Haste Makes Waste,” the embroidered homily read.
William took the chair across from Sophie, and noticed how lovely she looked today, in a demure yet stylish gown in a more subtle shade of pink than Lottie would have chosen.
“May I offer my sincere relief that Glenlorne was not seriously harmed?” he asked.
She smiled wanly. “I was just upstairs to see him. Muira has confined him to bed, insisting he must drink some ghastly smelling herbal potion to build up his strength.”
She looked anxious, and her chin quivered. He’d taken to carrying smelling salts in his pocket after his recent ordeal, and he reached for them now, just in case. “Is he very ill then, or in a great deal of pain?” William asked in alarm.
She blinked away tears, and he gallantly took out his handkerchief instead of the smelling salts and pressed it into her hand. She studied it, running her dainty fingertips over his monogram. “He seemed perfectly fine to me. He was not as—enthusiastic about seeing me as he should have been.”
“Perhaps the shock—” William began, but she shook her head, and a delicate blond curl unfurled and fell across her brow. He clenched his fingers against the urge to push it back where it belonged. He couldn’t bear untidiness.
“It wasn’t the shock! He was studying some papers, and it seemed nothing I said could distract him from them.”
“What kind of papers? The
Times
, perhaps?” He hadn’t seen a London newspaper in weeks, and if Glenlorne had one, then William would go up and pay the man a visit himself and ask to borrow it.
“No, they were documents. He said he was making plans. It’s all he wished to talk about—wool prices and sheep.” She made a face, and swept her hand over her gown. “I wore this dress to impress him, and he did not even notice it. He did not offer even
one
compliment in the whole five minutes I spent with him.” She leaned toward him, tears dewy on her lashes, her mouth pursed to a single pink rosebud. “I ask you, am I pretty, Lord Mears?”
William blinked. Pretty? She was loveliness itself. “Very pretty, indeed, Lady Sophie.”
She smiled at him, a sweet, tender smile of utter gratitude that made William Mears feel quite the hero of the tale. “I came here to measure this room—I plan to make it a library, you see, like Papa’s grand library at Ellison Park—but Alec shows no interest at all in my plans. I haven’t heart to measure anything. I sent the servants and the measuring tapes away.”
“Do you like to read?” William asked. Reading was not good for women. It gave them ideas, desires, thoughts of things other than duty. Lottie read. So did Caroline, which more than proved his point.
Sophie tilted her head. “Read? Oh no. It hurts my eyes. But all truly elegant homes have libraries—for serving tea, and playing cards.”
William brightened. “My thoughts exactly! He looked around the dowdy room, at the cold stone walls, the sparse furnishings. “I would love to hear what you plan to do in this room. I am in the process of renovating my home at Ryecroft. I have gotten as far as the wall coverings for the dining room—I have decided it must be Chinese silk, like the Prince of Wales has at Brighton.”
Sophie’s eyes widened like two sunlit blue pools. “Really?” she asked, clasping his handkerchief to her bosom.
“I have quite the same problem as you do. I am most anxious to return home and continue the work, but Lottie isn’t the slightest bit interested in looking at samples of chintz or considering what color the morning room should be. Yellow, she says, but what precise
shade
of yellow?”
Sophie gaped. “Lottie? Truly? I thought she doted on fashion.”
“As did I. I find this trip to the Highlands has affected her strangely. She tried to encourage me to go walking in the hills this morning, to consider climbing one of the higher peaks for the view—the view, Lady Sophie! And after all the exercise she had yesterday, tramping through the fields.”
Sophie sighed, a sound like a refreshing breeze across a rose garden on a summer morning. “It was quite tiring, indeed. And there is a perfectly good view from the window, while one is safely indoors. I see no need to tempt the vagaries of the wind and the rain.”
“Or the sun,” William added, glancing out at the sunny morning.
“Precisely,” Sophie said, and leaned forward. “May I confide in you, my lord?”
William leaned in as well, and lowered his voice. “Of course, dear lady. You may tell me anything, and I will keep it strictly confidential. I am the soul of discretion, I assure you.” He laid his own palm on his own breast and tipped his head toward her in a hero’s pose.
She bit her lip, catching the rosy petals between her teeth. “I have begun to fear that I will not be entirely happy here.”
He drew back slightly. “Really?”
She closed her eyes, and golden lashes swept her cheeks. “Glenlorne has never noticed that I am beautiful. Nor has he tried to kiss me. Not even once.”
William’s eyes fell to her lips. “Not even once?” he murmured.
“Shocking, isn’t it? Why, I can scarcely count the number of suitors I had in London, and each and every one of them wished to steal a kiss. Oh, have I shocked you?” she asked, laying her hand on his sleeve, giving it a squeeze.
William swallowed. “Not—” He cleared the frog from his throat and tried again. “Not at all. If I were one of your suitors, I most certainly would have kissed you—after requesting permission, of course.”
Sophie beamed with happiness, her eyes aglow. “Would you?”
“Yes,” he said, and ran his tongue over his lips, plucking up his courage. “I’d kiss you now, if you would allow it.”
She giggled and leaned nearer, puckering. “We shouldn’t, of course, but what harm can a kiss do?”
He leaned closer still. “What harm indeed?”
A
side from being the Crown’s spymaster and one of the leading peers of the realm, the Earl of Westlake also owned a fleet of merchant ships, which traveled the globe to trade in everything from spices to exotic textiles and plants. He allowed investors to buy into his shipping ventures on occasion, and had offered such a rare opportunity to Alec. After he looked at the plans for the next several voyages, it was clear to Alec that Westlake had an eye for quality goods, and the risks had been carefully considered. By investing a few thousand pounds of Sophie’s vast dowry, Alec would be able to earn a sizable return. With that money, he could invest in improvements at Glenlorne, including some of the ideas the villages had suggested to Caroline, which would generate a good income. He estimated being able to replace Sophie’s money within three years.
Alec gazed out the window at the old tower, feeling hopeful that he would be able to turn over a profitable estate to his heirs when the time came for that, and he would be able to save Sophie’s dowry in trust, untouched.
D
evorguilla cried out as Muira stepped out of the shadows in front of her. The countess held a cup in her hand, and the liquid sloshed over her skirt.
“What’s that?” Muira demanded.
“ ’Tis only a cup of wine for Alec. I wanted to see how he was feeling.”
“Is this one poisoned too?”
Devorguilla’s skin prickled. “Whatever do you mean? It’s got willow bark in it, for pain.” She tried to pass the old servant. Muira stood in her way.
“I’ll not let you poison him the way you poisoned his father.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Devorguilla said, drawing herself up to her full height. “Get back to the kitchen where you belong.
“I always wondered, but I didn’t have any proof until last night,” Muira said. “The wine you and young Brodie tried to give to Alec was poisoned with nightshade. I found more hidden in yer room, enough to kill a dozen lairds.”
“How dare you touch my belongings!”
“Brodie told me,” Muira said. “About your plan to kill Alec. He was hiding in the barn this morning, blubbering about ghosts and sin.”
Devorguilla swallowed. “What do you want?”
Muira smiled slowly. “I want ye to drink that cup.”
Devorguilla blanched.
Muira took a step toward her. “Or you can leave Glenlorne and never come back. If you stay—well, I know more potions than you, poisons that bring on agony that lasts hours before ye die screaming, trying to claw your own entrails out. D’you ken what I’m saying?”
Devorguilla swallowed. “But the girls, they need me. I’m their mother.”
“They have Alec.”
“Where will I go?” She heard the whining tone in her own voice, knew she’d lost.
Muira shrugged. “Brodie’s mother is your cousin. Ye could go there. It doesn’t matter, as long as you don’t come back here. Ever. Or you can drink that foul brew, but I’ll have your decision here and now.”
Devorguilla stared into the cup. She’d watched her husband die. It had been slow and painful. While she wished that upon Alec, she had no desire to experience it herself. She looked into Muira’s eyes again, saw ice-cold determination that rivaled her own. This was a fight she would not even survive, let alone win. She had no choice. “I’ll go.”
A
ngus wiped a tear from his eye as Devorguilla climbed onto the pony cart with Brodie and left. “Aren’t you happy to see her go?” Georgiana asked.
“Of course I am! It’s just that it didn’t end the way we’d hoped, and the wedding is tomorrow. It’s a matter of honor, of course—and fortune. Alec promised to marry Sophie, and he canna go back on his word. A MacNabb never goes back on his word.”