Hannah and the Highlander (7 page)

“Shall we continue on?” Andrew asked.

Alexander nodded and headed back to Wallace, who stood patiently on the rise nipping tufts of grass. He waved to the men in his company to collect the purloined cattle and return them to the farmer from whom they had been stolen, and he and his brother resumed their rounds.

They stopped at several crofts, checking in on the crofters, and made a side trip to visit Agnes, an aged widow who lived on the border. Technically she was Olrig's vassal, but Alexander always made it a point to stop by when he was in the area and slip her a mutton chop or a chicken. The poor woman was nearly bedridden and but for her son, who stopped by to work her fields each day, she lived alone. It was likely only a matter of time before Olrig remembered her. And when he did, he would evict her. Alexander wanted her to know, when that happened, she would be welcome in Dunnet.

With their rounds completed, the brothers headed back to the castle. As they clattered over the moat bridge and into the bailey, Fergus, Alexander's factor, hailed him, scuttling over the cobbles. His brow rose. Fergus never scuttled.

“My lord,” he huffed as he ran up.

Alexander leaped from the saddle and fixed his attention on Fergus' face, steeling himself not to wince. Though his factor's visage was familiar and dear, it was difficult not to wince whenever he saw that scar. It brought back memories he longed to forget and incited far too much guilt. Determinedly he thrust all that from his mind. “Aye, Fergus?”

The factor's lips curled into something that might have been a smile. With the puckered skin tugging at his features, it could be difficult to distinguish a smile from a frown. “It has come, my lord.”

He stilled. His muscles clenched, nerves hummed. “What has come?”

“The letter, my lord. The letter from Dounreay. It has come.”

*   *   *

Holy God.

As Alexander stared at the letter lying on his gleaming desk he idly scratched Brùid behind the ears. The beast, his fierce protector and ever-loyal friend, nipped him when he stopped. Alexander chuckled and riffled Brùid's fur again.

There was something soothing about petting a dog when one's mind was in a welter. He was torn between the desire to rip the missive open and devour its contents … and the fear to do so. Why his pulse skittered so he didn't know.

Or maybe he did.

As he contemplated the scrap of parchment, his fate, he washed down an oatcake with a liberal gulp of coffee. He tossed a bite of it to Brùid, who caught it mid-air … and then spat it out.

Alexander could sympathize. He didn't care much for oatcakes, either, but Morag took such pride in her recipe—
handed doun from cook tae cook through time immemorial
—he felt, as laird of the manor, he was obligated to eat at least one each morning. He would much rather be tucking away kippers or a great slab of salt pork or a pudding of some sort, but such were the sacrifices of a laird. It was a damn shame his dog refused to help him out.

With a harsh movement he shoved Dounreay's letter back and focused on the rest of his mail. Surely that wasn't a cowardly thing to do. He had many responsibilities, many matters weighing on his shoulders. Still, it took all his concentration to focus.

He worked his way through the tasks with diligence. At long last, he reached the letter on the bottom of the pile. It was a report from his factor in Lyth detailing a conflict that would require the Justice of the Peace.

Alexander sighed. As he was the laird, resolving such conflicts was his responsibility. This meant he would need to carve out time in his schedule for a trip to the village to hear the complaints. He could send Andrew, but Alexander preferred to be a visible presence with his people, so they knew they had his support and, more important, so
he
knew he had their loyalty. Loyalty was all that held them together anymore, and even that was a tenuous thread.

The last such trip had taken a week, but it had been well worth the time. Judging from the facts laid out by his bonnet laird, this was a simple issue of land rights tangled by interwoven marriages and ancient feuds. Passions were riding high, so Alexander would need to attend to this immediately.

With his docket thusly cleared, he had but one letter left.

The letter from Dounreay.

With trembling fingers, he picked it up. While he dreaded what the letter could hold, he knew it was best with such things to make it a quick death. If things didn't go his way, it might not be entirely painless, but at least it wouldn't linger.

God, he hoped things went his way.

He ripped open the seal and scanned his friend's familiar script.

Alexander's heart stalled. His breath caught.

All dread, all worry, all fear, flew. An indescribable waft of joy, like the first green breath of spring, blew through his soul. Little ripples danced over his skin as his nerves shivered, a maniacal dance.

He set the letter down and rubbed his eyes. Then he picked it up and read it anew. Just to be sure. Just to be sure it said what he'd thought. What he'd hoped. What he'd dreamed.

She has accepted your suit.

He read each word. One at a time. Then blew out a breath. A laugh. A whoop.

She has accepted your suit.

Excitement flooded him, sang in his veins.

She would be his. And she was coming soon.

He grimaced as he realized how little time there was to prepare. And on top of that, he had this trip to Lyth to contend with. There was no time to waste and there was much to do. Hurriedly he pulled out a pile of parchment and began scratching out orders to his staff. First and foremost, the baroness' chambers, which connected to his, would need to be completely redone. He barely knew his bride, but he was fairly certain the jonquil color scheme would not do.

Hannah didn't seem like a
yellow
sort of woman.

He briefly considered moving into his late uncle's much grander suite of rooms, but it was a brief flicker of a thought. He had no desire to sleep in Dermid's bed. Though the man was long dead, Alexander still carried the weight of his detestable memory. Aside from that, Alexander preferred the view from the west wing and he felt certain Hannah would as well.

But what color should he select? With much thought, he decided on an amber brown. Something warm and welcoming, like the color of her eyes. That decided, he moved on to the details of the wedding. Hannah would probably want to have a say in the arrangements, but Alexander had no intention of giving her an opportunity to change her mind or delay the ceremony. He intended to have everything in place the instant she walked through the door.

He quickly wrote out a note to the parish priest and added it to the pile. It would be helpful to have a clergyman on hand. With any luck, Father Pieter would eschew the whisky and attend sober.

The letter to Hannah took more time. How did one greet a bride? Alexander had little experience with this. He knew it was, of all of them, the most important message, for it would set the tone for his and Hannah's dealings.

While the written word rarely failed him, with this he did struggle. He tried one letter filled with flowery prose and then, upon reading it back, balled it up and tossed it in the wastebin. The second attempt read like a business agreement and met the same fate.

After five more attempts, he settled on something brief and curt.

I am pleased to welcome you to Dunnet. Our wedding shall take place forthwith.

Not overly flowery, but not unnecessarily indifferent. And it got right to the point.

Alexander liked things that got to the point.

With great satisfaction, he scrawled his name and affixed his seal, setting the letter on the pile with the others. That done, he wrote out another missive for her, to be delivered when she arrived, welcoming her once more and advising her to ask Fergus to see to her needs. As Alexander didn't know how long his business in Lyth would take, it seemed prudent. He wouldn't want her to arrive in his home with no welcome from her groom.

It was essential that they started out on the right foot.

He was just scratching her name on the front and affixing his seal when Brùid growled. It was a lazy growl, the grumble of an interrupted drowse more than a warning.

Alexander's hand stilled as he sensed a presence at his side. Slowly, he turned.

Large, dark eyes, set in a small, solemn face, peered up at him.

Alexander's heart swelled. Fiona McGill was a wee thing, one of the orphans who had come to Dunnet for shelter last winter, having been tossed out of their homes into the snow by a cold-blooded laird to the west. Her poor mam had been wracked with fever and died at the gates.

Very few people ventured up the three hundred steps to his sanctuary in the turret tower, and Alexander liked it that way—he preferred quiet when he worked—but he was always happy to see Fiona. He had an affinity for the girl, and not only because they shared the same affliction. Her presence was calming to him, a balm. A reminder that he could, in fact, protect someone.

Her lips worked, and his gut clenched. He knew the feeling of dread, the ache of attempting to force out words that would not come. He waited, patiently, as she struggled.

“What-what are ye d-doing?” she managed at length.

“Working.”

Her small smile faltered.
Shite
. He had not meant his tone to be so clipped. Not with her. He winked at her in recompense and reached down to lift her onto his lap, issuing a great groan, as though she weighed as much as a boulder, though, in truth, she was like a feather.

She giggled and nestled against him.

Something squeezed his chest. How he ached for a child of his own. Until today it had been a hazy dream, but now he would be married and all that would change.

Soon he could have
sons
.

Fiona picked up his quill and made marks on the parchment. She shot a proud look up at him. There was a hint of uncertainty in that glance, so Alexander patted her on the shoulder. “Fine. That's fine work.”

“You-you-you write a lot.”

“Aye. ‘Tis easier than speaking.” Truer words he'd never uttered.

Her chin firmed. “I … sh-should … like to l-learn to write.”

“So you shall. When … you're older.” He pressed a quick buss to her dark curls and lifted her down. While he enjoyed her presence, he had much left to do today. “Here.” He handed her his quill. She stared at the feather as though he'd handed her the royal jewels. “Practice.”

She nibbled at her lip and, though she tried to hide it, a radiant grin broke free. She nodded once and, clutching her treasure, scampered from his office.

Alexander stared after her, unable to hold back his smile.

A great, glorious thrill washed through him. Now that Hannah had agreed to be his wife, he would soon have children of his own. He would do everything in his power to give them a wonderful life, secure and filled with love and laughter. He would sacrifice anything to make sure his sons did not suffer a hellish childhood like his.

 

CHAPTER
FIVE

“Oh dear.” Hannah tried to hold Lana's cat on her lap, but when the coach lurched to the side the creature squirmed and hissed and scratched until she let him go. “Whyever did you insist on bringing him?”

Lana tossed back her head and laughed, a sweet and merry lilt.

Then again, why not? Nerid never scratched her.

Nerid
liked
her.

In fact, the little monster leaped across the carriage and settled in her lap. Lana stroked him gently. “He fancied a journey. And I dinna want to be lonely in Dunnet.”

Hannah gaped at her. “
I
will be there.”

“I know. But you will be spending most of your time with your new husband.” Hannah couldn't repress her shudder at the thought. “Besides, Lady Braal thought he should come.”

Hannah nodded and fixed her gaze on the passing heather, trying not to blow out a breath. Lana had frequent long-winded conversations with Lady Braal. She didn't seem to mind that Lady Braal had died centuries before.

It mattered not to Lana that no one else could see or hear the Grey Lady, and she absolutely didn't care that some people thought she was mad. There was a certain courage in that, being who you were, despite what the world thought. In that Lana was the bravest soul Hannah had ever met. And the dearest.

Poor thing.

She'd never been the same since the fever that had almost killed her.

And while Hannah didn't understand her sister's eccentricities, she accepted them. Still, when the oddness surfaced it took her by surprise. Each and every time.

Long ago, Hannah had learned to placate Lana and play along, but today she didn't have the energy to do so. The journey to Dunnet had taken several days and it had been tiring; their outriders had set up a grueling pace, and the cat had been … difficult. On top of all that, Hannah's nerves were on edge.

For one thing, it had been so difficult, leaving home, especially with Papa too ill to travel along. He'd promised to come and visit soon, but Hannah knew it would not be soon at all.

It had broken her heart to say good-bye to everyone she loved, especially Isobel and Susana, the latter of whom had actually produced tears. Susana was hardly a weepy sort, and though she'd agreed that Hannah marrying Dunnet was the best course for all of them, her anguish at losing her sister had been clear.

Hannah had shared the feeling. She'd spent nearly every day of her life in Reay, nearly every day with her sisters at her side. Leaving had been harder than she'd expected. Thank heaven Lana had insisted on coming with her. With Lana's calm, familiar presence, Hannah didn't feel so very alone.

She reached across the carriage and squeezed Lana's hand, ignoring the swat from Nerid. “I am so pleased you came with me,” she said … speaking to her sister.
Not
the cat.