Read Once Upon a Highland Summer Online
Authors: Lecia Cornwall
But Angus was staring out the window at the road once again. “Dear God! I’m seeing a ghost!”
Georgiana looked down. A cart was trundling by, but the only ghost was the spinning veil of dust chasing the vehicle. The young woman seated beside the driver was staring up at the tower, squinting in the sun, one hand clutching tight to her bonnet. A long red curl fluttered loose in the breeze. “ ’Tis you,
gràdhach
! What kind of sorcery—”
Georgiana laughed, and he turned to her in surprise. She ignored him for a moment, kept her eyes fixed on the girl in the cart, felt pride and relief swell in her hollow breast. “It’s my granddaughter Caroline, here at last,” she said. She gave Angus a dazzling smile as the cart rounded a curve of the road and disappeared over the lip of the valley, heading for the new castle.
Angus looked at her, stunned. “How did you manage—” he began, but she gave him a coquettish smile.
“You think she looks like me, do you?”
Angus shook himself and nodded, feeling foolish. “Aye. Same hair, same white skin. Is that the lass you intend for Alec?”
She grinned. “Yes. What do you think?”
He groaned. “Heaven help him. One look into those eyes and he’ll be a lost man. That’s a feeling I remember all too well!”
“If he ever gets here,” Georgiana said, her toes curling at Angus’s unwitting compliment.
“Aye,” he murmured, staring after the cart. “And he’d better get here soon.”
C
aroline sat on the hillside in the shadow of the old tower of Glenlorne with her new charges and watched the clouds hurry across a perfect blue sky like debutantes on a dance floor. The countess had been glad to accept Miss Forrester in Miss Best’s place, once she had been assured that Caroline had the same skills and even more talents to teach the girls, and was of good breeding and sound moral character.
“There’ll be rain tonight,” twelve-year-old Sorcha said gloomily, following Caroline’s gaze.
“Then it will make the flowers grow!” Megan said. At eighteen, she was pretty and sophisticated.
“Most especially lavender and wild rose, and mistletoe, Megan,” seventeen-year-old Alanna said in a teasing tone.
“And plenty of meadowsweet and damiana,” Sorcha added. “Muira said you had to find damiana.” She and Alanna nudged each other and grinned like conspirators.
Megan’s chin rose, and Caroline watched a blush kiss her cheeks. “And what are the flowers for?” she asked gently.
“ ’Tis Midsummer’s Eve tomorrow night,” Sorcha said.
“You celebrate St. John’s Eve? Midsummer?” Caroline asked in surprise, more that Devina would allow it than in any disapproval of the old custom on her part.
Alanna giggled. “I suppose they aren’t so superstitious in England. We’re not supposed to, I know, but lots of Highlanders still honor the old ways. Midsummer’s Eve is really just an excuse for a party. There’ll be a bonfire and dancing. Nothing to harm our souls.”
“I know.” Caroline smiled. “We did the same in England where I grew up.” They were supposed to be reading a treatise on the housewifely duties of an English lady, but the glorious weather and the excitement of the celebration made it hard to concentrate, even for Caroline. The wind was warm, the wildflowers fragrant, and Glenlorne was undoubtedly the most beautiful place she’d ever been. “How do you celebrate here?”
Alanna shrugged her shoulders. “Cakes and ale by a bonfire, that’s all it is.”
“No it isn’t. Not if you believe in the old ways—then there’s magic, and fairies, and love spells to be cast,” Sorcha said, grinning at Caroline. “Old Muira’s promised to make a love charm for Megan this year, to see if she’ll find a true love this coming year.”
Caroline watched a blush rise over Megan’s cheeks.
“Oh, she’s already found her true love!” Alanna said. “She likes Brodie. He’s our cousin, and he’ll be the next laird if Alec doesn’t come home. Mother insists we must marry English lords, but she’ll make an exception if Megan marries Brodie. She’ll be a countess, won’t she, miss?”
“Hush!” Megan got up and stamped her foot to stop the teasing.
“Och, she’ll need more than a love charm if she’s to win Brodie,” Alanna went on, despite her sister’s glare. “Every lass for a hundred miles around loves Brodie. He’s a braw laddie, even if he isn’t very smart, and he’s going to be the next laird.”
Megan blushed scarlet. “Mother says it will keep Glenlorne in the family, ’tis all.”
“If she’s lucky, she can jump the fire tomorrow night with Brodie,” Sorcha teased. “He’s to be the Midsummer king, and he’ll have to choose a queen. Megan’s sure he’ll choose her.” She pulled Alanna to her feet and they linked hands and danced in a circle around their sister.
“Maybe he’ll dance with you, give you flowers for your hair,” Sorcha teased. “And kiss you in the shadows where Mam can’t see.”
Megan’s face flamed, but she raised her chin, clamped her lips shut, and stared up at the old tower as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
Caroline followed her gaze. The brittle yellow stone glowed in the sunlight. Trailing streams of ivy seemed to be all that held the old place together now. Caroline wondered how many Midsummers it had seen. The wind sang through the empty windows.
“Do you believe in ghosts, miss?” Megan asked her, ignoring her sisters’ teasing. “They say the tower is haunted.”
“Only by badgers and rooks!” Sorcha said, but the ivy reached, beckoned, in the wind and a cloud passed over the sun, making the tower’s shadow stretch toward them. Sorcha’s smile faded. Caroline shivered too. Was it her imagination, or was there a face in the top window? Gooseflesh rose on her arms, and she had the oddest feeling that someone was watching her, waiting for her. The cloud passed and the sensation faded.
“Of course I don’t,” she said. “Believe in ghosts, I mean.”
“It’s probably not a ghost at all. They say if you pick fern seed on Midsummer’s Eve, you’ll gain the power of invisibility,” Alanna told her. “Perhaps there’s an invisible someone nearby, a lad or lass who picked the seed, and now regrets it, since they must go about unseen by the living, completely unnoticed.” She sighed at the romantic notion and the old tower seemed to sigh with her. Caroline thought of William, by now married to her niece Lottie, and remembered how she’d hoped he’d notice her. But he hadn’t. She saw the same wistful, bereft expression on Megan’s face.
“What goes into old Muira’s love charm?” Caroline asked.
“Naught but roses and lavender!” Megan said quickly.
“And St. John’s wort, and ivy, and mistletoe,” Sorcha added. “We have a list from Muira of what must be gathered.”
“We need heather for luck, as well—it protects the cattle from illness,” Alanna said. “Or so they say.”
“So Brodie says,” Megan said. She sat down next to Caroline. “How do English girls learn who will be their true love, Miss Forrester?” she asked.
Sorcha snorted. Her eldest sister sent her a scathing look. “Ladies do not make that noise, Sorcha Maire MacNabb.”
Sorcha set her hands on her hips. “I’m not a lady yet! I hope I never grow up if it means mooning over a lad who doesn’t love you. Everyone knows he’s sweet on Annie from the village, and Kat, and Nan. It’s fine for you, but if Mam has her way, it won’t matter how many spells Muira casts. Alanna and me will have to marry proper English lords and leave Scotland forever.”
All three girls looked stricken at the possibility, Caroline realized. The wind moaned through the tower in soulful sympathy. “I’m sure that won’t be for some time yet. You aren’t officially out yet, any of you, and I doubt there’s an English lord for miles.” She hoped not, anyway. She studied her fingers for a moment. “In England girls look into the fire at Midsummer and hope to see the face of their true love. Perhaps you will see an earl or a duke in the fire tonight, and someday you’ll meet him, and you’ll fall in love, even if he is English.”
Sorcha wrinkled her freckled nose skeptically.
Megan sighed at the romantic notion.
Alanna leaped to her feet. “Look!” she said, pointing down the glen. People were walking up the hill, merry with laughter, bearing baskets. “Everyone has come out to gather flowers for Midsummer. Look, there’s Brodie.”
Megan sat up, her green eyes widening at the sight of her love.
Sorcha clasped Caroline’s hand. “Can we go with them, miss?”
How could Caroline say no? It was summer, and the air was like wine, and there was merriment to be had.
“Your mother expects you back for tea,” Caroline said. It was to be yet another lesson on proper English tea, and proper English tea behavior and conversation under the sharply critical gaze of Countess Devina.
“But that’s not for hours yet!” Alanna pleaded, looking hopeful. Caroline’s heart went out to her.
“Yes, all right. Stay together though.” So long as they were part of such a big group, what could happen?
Megan scooped up the hem of her muslin gown and tucked it into the ribbon at her waist, out of her way, like one of the village lasses, exposing her ankles. She took off her shoes and stockings and wiggled her bare toes. Caroline barely had time to be shocked, or to protest, before the other girls did the same. Megan looked like a happy Highland lass, not like a young woman preparing for the rules and strictures of the London marriage mart. She bit her lip as she gazed across the hillside at lovely Brodie, who was surrounded by adoring females, then raced down the hill to meet him.
Caroline gathered the discarded stockings and shoes into a neat pile and watched them race down the hillside, girls again, not ladies. She noted they did not ask her to join them. She was a servant, and they probably imagined she was too old and too English to enjoy activities like flower picking and flirting. Happy laughter floated to her on the breeze, and Caroline shut the book in her lap and lay back in the cool grass.
She looked up at the tower again, yellow as crumbly cheese against the blue sky. The view from the top must have been spectacular once. In fact, it probably still was.
A trill of laughter carried across the hillside, and Caroline leaned on her elbow to watch the girls making their way down the hillside, having forgotten her entirely. She squelched her disappointment. She was a woman grown, and a governess, not a girl seeking posies for a love charm. She doubted if she’d ever find true love now. The tower groaned in the wind.
Caroline looked up at the empty windows. Surely it was just her imagination. No ghost would haunt such a ramshackle place. “Hello?” she called, just to be sure, but the only reply was the chuckle of the wind.
She rose to her feet and shaded her eyes with her hand, scanning the tower. There was a faint sound inside—a soft cry, perhaps. Or a moan. She circled the old stones and found the door open. She hesitated, staring into the shadowy opening, a black mouth against the summer day. The cry came again, louder this time. An animal perhaps—or a child—there were dozens of little ones in the village. What if someone was lost, alone and frightened, or even hurt? She pushed the door wider. “Hello?” The ancient hinges creaked a warning, even as the cry came again. Caroline tucked her skirts up the way the girls had done, and took a deep breath. “I’m coming in,” she called, and heard her own voice echo back.
G
lenlorne Castle looked just as it had when he’d left home eight years ago, as if time did indeed stand still in the Highlands. The new castle waited for him at the head of a long valley that overlooked the loch, surrounded by hills and sky, and as the cart he’d hired at the coaching inn carried him nearer, Alec felt a swell of pride, of longing for things to indeed be the way they were once. He remembered standing on the craggy slope above the loch with his grandfather, breathing in the scent of heather and peat fires, and listening to the tales of what it had been like, before Culloden and the English, before the Clan MacNabb had lost everything good, the pride and hope of the clan gone with Angus’s seven brothers, all killed at Culloden, or in the brutal reprisals that had followed Prince Charlie’s final battle until Angus MacNabb was the only son left. He’d been away at sea, and had come back to find a handful of ragged, broken MacNabbs who expected him to be their laird, to fix everything, to turn back the clock and give them back what they’d lost, as if one man could perform such a feat. Alec remembered the pain in Angus’s eyes when he spoke of those days. He’d made Alec promise that someday, when he was earl, Glenlorne would rise again, be a home again, filled with pride and prosperity. Alec clenched his fists and stared at the castle. If his grandfather could see him now, the old man would surely hang his head in disappointment. Alec felt the ache of guilt at the memory of that promise. He wasn’t a leader, or a miracle worker. He was a thief, and he’d even failed at that. He wouldn’t be surprised if his clansmen ran him out of Glenlorne for good.
He looked at the little burial ground on the edge of the village, the markers sticking up through the grass like rotting teeth. The little kirk stood beside it. His grandfather was buried there, and now his father as well. Would he lie there in his turn? A cloud passed by, leaving the kirk in shadow while letting the sun gleam off the yellow and gray stones of the castle, riming it with light, making it appear to glow.
The cart pulled up at the door. “There you are, Laird,” the carter said, jumping down to fetch Alec’s boxes from the back. “And may I say it’s grand to have ye home again.” He grinned as if Alec was indeed the savior, come again. Alec nodded and gave him a coin. He’d sold his meager furnishings and his books and borrowed from Westlake to get enough money to make this trip, to buy a few trinkets for his sisters, so they wouldn’t know what he really was when he arrived home.
Home. Was he home? At least for the time being. He wouldn’t stay. He couldn’t. He renewed his vow to sell, tried looking at the place as a buyer might. He ran his fingertips over the carving by the front door, a wolf’s face. Part of the jaw was missing, shot away during the reprisals after Culloden, and the proud creature looked more like a mongrel dog.