Read Once Upon a Highland Summer Online
Authors: Lecia Cornwall
Caroline felt the prickle of tears behind her eyes, as sharp as the thorn. “Will you excuse me? I must get back to the castle,” she murmured.
“Do you love him?” he demanded as she reached the gate.
“Who?” Her voice shook as his face filled her mind’s eye.
“Och, ye know who I mean. Alec, of course.”
Her response hovered on the tip of her tongue. Of course not. But she did. She found she could not speak the lie without crying. Instead she shook her head, and watched his face crumple into sorrow. The breeze shook the petals from the rose, and they fell at his feet, pink and white against the black stone, and it began to rain.
Caroline pulled her hood close and hurried up the path between the trees. When she turned to look back, the garden was empty.
A
lec looked at the records in frustration. Glenlorne hadn’t had a good harvest in twenty years. The books showed the people who’d died and been born, and the expenditures during his father’s time as earl. Dougal had sold nearly a third of the land the MacNabbs had once owned, using the funds to benefit the folk in the castle. Devorguilla’s expenditures on clothes were astronomical.
There were notices and letters from his father’s man of affairs in Inverness, years old, warning his father of mounting debts. There were also petitions from the clan chiefs to their laird, and from ordinary clansmen, asking for an extension on their rents, or a bit of food to help them through a harsh winter. Conditions had grown steadily worse after his grandfather’s death, nearly twenty years ago. And still Devorguilla’s spending had gone on. Six casks of wine, smuggled from France at exorbitant cost, a piano, a down mattress made in England, four dozen yards of costly silk. How could she, with so many mouths to feed, so much to take care of? He had a lot to put right. He ran his hand through his hair and wondered where to begin. His father’s gambling debts alone ran to thousands of pounds. It wouldn’t be long until creditors began beating a path to his door, demanding payment that was long overdue. Sophie’s dowry would be sucked up in no time, he realized. Even that astronomical amount would not be enough.
Muira rushed in. “There’s an army of coaches comin’ up the glen. Are we being invaded again? Surely they’re English. Local folk come on foot, or by pony or cart. Should we bar the doors?”
Alec crossed to the window, and looked at the dark stream of vehicles pouring over the lip of the valley, parting the heavy veil of rain, heading for the castle, and felt a moment’s surprise. “What now?” he muttered, and turned back to Muira.
“Best prepare tea for now, I think, boiling oil later. It’s probably nothing more sinister than a parade of English modistes and mantua makers summoned by Lady Sophie to outfit her for the wedding.” The word “wedding” stuck in his throat.
Muira sniffed. “Wedding! Did ye know she wants to plaster the walls in the great hall, paint it
yellow
, put up Chinese curtains? There’s to be no more swords or shields on the walls, and positively no tartan, especially at the wedding.”
Alec winced inside, but he forced himself to smile. “It will be her home, Muira. She’ll want to put her stamp on it, like any bride. A lick of paint won’t be so terrible, will it? Go on now and boil the kettle for tea.”
Muira tossed her head. “It’s my home too, and yours, and every MacNabb’s.”
Alec watched her go and wondered how much refurbishing Glenlorne to Sophie’s tastes was going to cost.
He hurried upstairs and put on English clothes, since Sophie had let him know she didn’t like kilts. He’d not dared to tell Muira that. He straightened his cravat, checked his watch, and pulled on a dark blue coat, resisting the urge to add a sword and pistol under his coat just in case.
He heard them coming before he’d even reached the castle steps. Someone was yelling, a high-pitched female outpouring of rage.
“This weather will not do! We shall end our days in this dreadful place with lung fever and the pox from all this rain! Gout too—mark my words. What the devil was she thinking, coming here, of all places? Could she not have fled to Brighton or Bath? My only comfort is that she is probably as bruised as I am by the dreadful rough roads. And the mud—I shall need new gowns, I say, and new shoes, and I am not happy at the necessity of waiting until I return to London to get them! Every single garment I own is ruined! Even so, I shall not stoop to wearing anything plaid!”
Not a flock of modistes then. Alec pursed his lips and waited for the footman to descend from his perch and open the door. His livery was indeed muddy, and the rain poured over him.
“There had better be something decent to eat, or I shall order this coach back to civilization at once. At once, d’you hear? They probably don’t even drink tea, and if they do, it’s likely made of boiled nettles!”
The door of the coach opened, and a gentleman got out with a frown. He looked at the façade of the castle for a moment, then stalked up the steps. He did nothing to assist the virago inside the coach, who continued unabated with her litany of complaints and threats.
“Good afternoon,” Alec said, stepping forward.
“Somerson,” the man introduced himself gruffly, not bothering to extend his hand. “You have my half sister here I believe?”
Alec let his glance flick over the powerful English earl. He was red-faced and sweating, with the stance of a bully. He stood before Alec with his chin high, his fists clenched, his stance challenging. Alec couldn’t detect the slightest family resemblance between the earl and Caroline.
The footman assisted the lady out of the coach. She slipped on the slick step down, and whooped as she fell on the footman. He valiantly struggled to hold up her great weight. Another footman rushed to assist as the lady bellowed at them. They finally succeeded at setting the lady safely on her feet with her bonnet askew.
She pinned Alec with one sharp eye, like a bird of prey spotting a hare, and marched up the steps toward him. “Where is she? I swear she’ll be horsewhipped for this foolishness!”
“My wife, the Countess of Somerson,” the earl said, without a hint of apology, and without even glancing at her. The lady weighed at least twenty-five stone, and was clad in a vivid pink velvet traveling gown, trimmed with frills, with a matching bonnet. Alec bowed, resisting the urge to blink. She reminded him of a prize sow at a country fair, he thought unkindly, and forced himself to smile at her as he bowed over her hand.
Another gentleman got out of the coach, looking pale. He straightened his cravat, and blinked like a sheep lost in the woods. “My future son-in-law, Viscount Mears,” Somerson said.
The last one to alight was a young woman who was pretty, despite her family resemblance to Somerson. Her nose and eyes were swollen from crying, and began streaming anew as she set her red-rimmed eyes on Alec. “Please, where is my aunt, sir? Do not say she isn’t here, or I shall faint here on the very steps!”
“My daughter, Lady Charlotte,” Somerson said.
“Don’t be so dramatic, Lottie!” the countess commanded. “We’ll tear this place apart stone by stone if we have to find her, and then—” She raised thick talons, as if she already had Caroline’s delicate neck in her claws.
“Lottie!” Alec stepped aside just in time as Sophie barreled past him and hurled herself into Lottie’s arms.
“Have you heard the news? Is that why you’re here?” Sophie babbled. She reminded Alec of an overenthusiastic puppy. “I’m to be married! Oh, how pleasant to see you, and what a lovely bonnet!”
“Lady Sophie?” the Countess of Somerson cried, her eyes bulging in alarm. “Whatever are you here for?” She glared at Alec. “I’m beginning to suspect foul play, when two—now three—of England’s premier heiresses have ended up all together in one damnably remote castle. Where is this Glenlorne fellow? I shall give him a piece of my mind!”
“I believe this is he, standing before you, Charlotte,” Somerson said dryly. “Have I the right of that, sir?”
Alec bowed. “Indeed you do. Welcome to Glenlorne Castle. Please come inside before the rain starts in earnest.”
“In earnest? It began raining the moment we crossed the border, and it hasn’t ceased for a minute since,” the countess grumbled. Alec offered her his arm, since Sophie was linked with Lottie, patting her back, offering her a fresh handkerchief to stem the deluge of tears. Somerson strode up the steps on his own, his expression suggesting he held no real hope of comfort within.
“Have your grooms see to the horses. Our servants and luggage should be arriving within the hour. These three coaches contain just the essentials, my valet, the countess’s chef, Lottie’s maids.”
Three coaches, and still more to follow? Alec clenched his teeth and nodded. Where the devil would they put everyone? And just how long were his unexpected guests intending to stay?
“We shall trouble you only long enough to collect Caroline,” Viscount Mears said as he climbed the steps. “The ladies are eager to return to London.”
“Good afternoon, Glenlorne. There’s quite a crush here.” He turned to find Lords Speed and Mandeville picking their way through the mud. “Is there a party?” Speed asked, eyeing the army of servants bearing boxes and bags and trunks up the steps.
“We’ve come to invite you to go hunting,” Mandeville said with a broad grin.
The rain began again, a sudden downpour that threatened to drench everything within seconds, and Alec stepped aside. “I think we’d best discuss it inside, my lords. I assume you know the Earl and Countess of Somerson?” But the keen hunters had already scampered up the steps, whimpering about cold water falling down their backs, leaving Alec talking to the rain.
“ ’Tis an invasion after all,” Muira said, watching the mayhem.
Alec gritted his teeth. “Get Lady Caroline at once.”
T
he sky was as dark and grim as if it had been twilight by the time Caroline returned to the castle, though it was barely teatime. The mist had turned into a strident downpour, needle-sharp and chilling.
She entered through the kitchen, and Muira was stirring a pot over the fire, which smelled delicious. A joint of venison was cooking in the vast fireplace, along with three plump hens. A pair of fat salmon lay on the table, staring up at Caroline in dull surprise, waiting for their turn.
“It smells like Christmas in here!” Caroline said, taking off her sodden bonnet and cloak.
Muira turned on her, a wooden ladle at the ready. “Out!” she shrieked. “Ye’ll not invade this patch o’ Scotland, you Sassenach dogs!” She lowered her weapon when she saw it was Caroline. “Och, I didn’t mean you—I thought it was the other one, back again—that English cook the company brought with them. She insists she must prepare a proper meal. I insisted she leave before I got out the cleaver.” Her face softened as she looked at Caroline. Caroline assumed she meant Sophie’s cook, who was terrified to set foot in Muira’s domain.
“Ye looked like a drowned kitten, lass! Where’ve ye been? ’Tis no day to be outdoors—though it’s just as stormy within. The laird’s been looking for you all afternoon.”
Caroline’s chest tightened. “Oh? Well, he’ll have to wait for a while longer. I need a bath and a dry gown at the very least.” One of the very reasons she’d gone out was to avoid Alec.
Muira took her cloak and hung it by the fire. “And ye’ll need a dram of warmed whisky along with it to ward off the chill. It won’t take a moment to fix. Sit ye down, lass.”
“I’m quite all right, Muira. I walked over to Lullach Grange and got caught in the rain. There’s no harm done.” Caroline sat on the bench by the fire to remove her sodden half boots. Even her stockings were wet, but removing them would have to wait until she was in the privacy of her own room, the same as her gown and petticoats.
“The Grange?” Muira said. “Now why would a body want to go there, even in fine weather?”
“I had company. The old gentleman from the ceilidh was there.”
“What old gentleman would that be?” Muira asked, giving the soup a stir, and pushing a poker into the heart of the fire to heat.
“I didn’t even think to ask his name.”
“Well, we’d best tell Alec there’s someone in the old place that shouldn’t be there. The Grange has been locked tight since Laird Angus died, some twenty years past, and even before that. There was an English major who lived there once. He was killed at Culloden, and the place was left to itself. Some folk think it’s haunted.” Her eyes widened. “Och, did ye see a shade?”
Caroline smiled. “No, of course not. This was no English major—he was a Scot.”
“Oh? And how could ye tell?” Muira poured a tankard half full of whisky, golden in the firelight. She pulled out the poker and thrust it into the cup, and it sizzled as it heated the whisky. Muira’s lined face was radiant in the fire’s glow, her eyes sharp as a bird’s.
“He was wearing MacNabb plaid from top to toe, for one thing. He said he knew my—”
The kitchen door burst open. Muira’s ladle came up yet again. Jock MacNabb reached for his dirk, then dropped his hand. “For pity’s sweet sake, Muira, ye scared the life half out of me!”
“We’ve just been talking about ghosts,” Muira said, dropping the ladle and crossing to baste the chickens.
“Och, there ye are, Lady Caroline. Alec’s fair anxious to see you. He told me to go out and look for ye. I’m glad that won’t be necessary now.” He rubbed at his elbow.
“The ache again?” Muira said, noticing the gesture. “Ye’ll need liniment for it. I’ll make some up once the bread comes out of the oven. “You’d best go and tell Alec that Lady Caroline needs a hot bath before she sees him. She’s soaked to the skin.”
Jock stole a sweet roll off the cooling rack when Muira turned away. “Aye, I will—but he won’t like it.”