Once Upon a Highland Autumn (17 page)

She wanted to go home—not just to Dundrummie, but back to Glenlorne. She did not wish to be courted and haggled over, or persuaded into a marriage she did not want. If she were home at this very minute, she would pull the pins from her hair, cast off the frills and bows, and dive into the loch and swim. It would be—

“Are you quite all right?” a voice asked, and she turned to find Rossington standing beside her. For a moment her tongue tangled around her tonsils, making a reply impossible.

“Yes,” she managed at last, aware that he was staring at her in the darkness. He was a silhouette against the night, his face in the shadows, invisible.

“Can I fetch your mother for you?”

“No!” she said quickly. Too quickly. “I’ll be fine in a moment. It’s just rather warm inside.”

“I daresay there will be more than one attack of the vapors this evening,” he said, and Megan bristled.

“I don’t suffer from the vapors!”

“Good, because I haven’t any smelling salts.”

“Aren’t your adoring admirers likely to miss you?”

“No more than yours, I imagine.” He leaned on the railing and looked down into the market square below the inn. “I smell roses. Is there a garden nearby?”

“Oh, it’s—um, my hair,” she said, and pulled a rosebud out of her coiffure. “See? They’re from Eleanor’s garden.”

He took the flower from her hand, his fingertips brushing hers for a moment, sending sparks flying up her arm. He held it to his nose. “It suits you.”

She felt herself blushing, her cheeks hot, despite the cool of the evening.

“Has your finger healed?” she asked, and almost bit her tongue in two. She did not want to think about the last time they’d met, or remind him of it.

“It has, and if I do have a scar, it will be a very small one, thanks to you.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Another couple came out, and moved along the balcony. Kit took her arm and guided her farther from the door. “So has your mother proposed to anyone else? Which will be the lucky gentleman?”

“No one,” she said softly. “I have no intention of marrying any of them. I-I love someone else, you see.” He turned his head toward her, but said nothing. “He is not someone my mother would approve of, since he is a Scot, and not well-born. He has gone away to seek his fortune, and once he returns, we will marry. His name is Eachann.”

“I see,” he said. He was silent again, and she wondered why she had told him that, of all things.

“I am quite the opposite. I have no wish to marry at all,” he said. “I came to escape hopeful females. Of course, I will eventually
have
to marry—”

“You’ll need an heir.”

“Precisely. I have a younger brother, but this is not the life I would wish upon anyone not raised to inherit a title.”

She recalled he’d told her that he had come into his title unexpectedly. She wondered whom he would be if he had not become Rossington, if he’d taken up his army commission after all.

“So you will raise your son to expect to rule,” she said.

“To understand how to do so, rather, and better than I.”

She heard the regret in his voice again. “Love helps. A true passion,” she said. Alec had thought he could not possibly be the laird that Glenlorne needed, but once he realized how much he loved the land and his people, he’d grown content. And with Caroline by his side—well, the Earl of Glenlorne was happy indeed.

“It has been difficult to love being an earl,” he said. “In fact, the first peace I’ve felt since I inherited the title has been here in Scotland. I can certainly understand why you love this place and do not want to leave it, not for a fortune in English gold or a grand title.”

“Yes,” she murmured.

A cart clattered past in the darkness below them. “Something seems to be happening in the square below us.”

She looked. “People are gathering for the Lugnasadh fair. It’s the day after tomorrow.”

“Lugnasadh?” he said, turning.

“It’s a quarter day. Folk come and pay their rents, and it also marks the start of the harvest, and of autumn. There’s bread and games and a fair.”

“We have the same celebration in England. It’s called Lammas there. The first grain is cut, loaves baked and blessed,” he said. “Mostly it’s an excuse to dance and drink ale and celebrate the change from summer to autumn.”

She grinned. “There is always dancing and music.”

“Will you attend that dance?” he asked. “It sounds a great deal more fun than this one.”

She sighed. “It’s for the common folk. There’s no silk or evening clothes. The lasses tuck up their skirts and dance barefoot. The men wear plaids. ’Tis a grand night, and it lasts until dawn.” Not that her mother would allow her to come. She would be stuck at Dundrummie, learning how to discuss the weather, or the fashions, or the price of tea. She would rather attend the fair. There would be bards and old folk sitting around fires, or at small tables, or cross-legged on the ground, telling stories. Megan grasped a fold of her silk gown and made a fist. One could hardly sit on the ground in silk.

“Margaret!” She spun at the sound of her mother’s voice. “What are you doing out here in the dark? There are a dozen gentlemen or more waiting to dance with you. Come in at once.”

Megan cast a glance at Rossington, but he had retreated into the shadow of the roof, all but invisible in his dark coat. Hiding from Devorguilla, was he? A sharp rebuke for his cowardice leaped to her tongue, but she left it unspoken. She could hardly blame him. Without a word she went inside.

K
it twirled the rosebud in his hand. Lady Megan McNabb was a puzzle. He had never met a lady he was so comfortable with. She was beautiful, desirable, and he had no intention of acting on his ridiculous lust for her. He crushed the flower in his hand, and the perfume rose up around him. He could not remain in Scotland much longer, and he tried to imagine Megan McNabb at a
ton
ball. It was easier to imagine her with her skirts tucked up, her feet bare, her head thrown back as she danced in the market square—with roses in her hair, of course. His chest tightened. He’d love to see her that way.

He tucked the remains of the rosebud into his pocket and went inside. Megan was flushed once again with the heat of the room, and the rigors of the dance. He waited until it was over, admired the graceful way she moved, the elegance of her slim figure, the way her smile flashed. When the music ended, he crossed to her and bowed.

“May I have the next dance?” he asked.

He read the wariness in her eyes, the surprise, but she nodded. He led her out.

“Will you be at the fair?” he asked.

She bit her lip, and glanced at him. “Yes,” she said. “Will you?” The steps of the dance carried them away from each other, and Kit waited until their hands joined again, felt the pull of desire once again, and swallowed.

“I will,” he said as he bowed as the set ended. He moved through the crowds to the door, ignoring the pleas of the ladies that he stay longer.

“Y
ou are being foolish and stubborn, not to mention ungrateful, Margaret—and after all I have done for you,” Devorguilla said to her daughter, who stood on the carpet before her, her hands clasped so tightly that her knuckles were white, her face mutinous. “Not that Lord Merridew would want you now if he could see that frown on your face. Still, I see no reason why you should not accept him at once. The marquess is a respectable gentleman, heir to a dukedom. You will be a duchess. Your sons will be marquesses and dukes. You will outrank the Countess of Somerson, even.”

“But I don’t love him!” Megan objected. She had been summoned out of her music lesson to attend Devorguilla in her sitting room, but far from being delighted to hear that the marquess had paid the countess a call that very morning and had formally asked for Megan’s hand in marriage, she had been horrified.

Devorguilla set her teacup down and glared at her daughter. “Don’t be ridiculous. You will be rich, and a healthy allowance is better than love. Think of the homes, the clothes, the jewels, the parties . . .”

Megan felt her lunch shifting in her belly. She was thinking of Merridew himself, of his greedy gaze, his penchant for killing things, his loud, grating voice.

She swallowed revulsion. She could not marry him, but she knew if she refused outright, then her mother would dig in her heels and insist. There would be no escape. She drew in a deep breath and forced a wan smile. “I will consider the match if you wish, but until Alec is consulted I cannot accept,” she said. Surely Alec would refuse the match once he met Merridew. At the very least, he would allow her the opportunity to say no.

Devorguilla’s chin came up, and her eyes glittered dangerously at the mention of her despised stepson’s name. “I have informed Merridew of that. Once he has your answer—and he will have it tomorrow morning when he calls—he will ride directly to Glenlorne to see your brother. The wedding can take place within the month.”

“Tomorrow morning? A
month
?” Megan squeaked. “But I don’t want to marry him.”

“Then name the man you prefer, and I will invite him to tea this afternoon. Is it Salisbury, or Lord Findlay, perhaps?”

No and no!

She shut her eyes, whispered Eachann’s name in her mind, but it was Kit Rossington’s face that appeared there. She felt a moment of panic. She couldn’t remember exactly what Eachann looked like. She felt tears sting her eyes. “I can’t decide so quickly. Perhaps if I had more time—a few weeks or months . . .”

“Months?” her mother said. “Lord Merridew will be gone by then, and the opportunity will be missed. Why delay? A marquess is just what we’d hoped for.”

“I thought an earl was wanted,” Megan murmured.

Devorguilla sent her a quelling look. “A marquess is even better. If his father is old or infirm, then you will be a duchess all the sooner. Being a marchioness for a short time will give you time to practice for the higher title.”

Megan felt as if her chest would burst. She had done nothing but practice. She was sick of primping, sewing, dancing, walking with books on her head, learning the perfect simper, and having the accent corrected out of her speech lest she give her origins away. “Please, Mother, I cannot do this!”

Her mother rose to her feet, her eyes hard. “You can, and you will. Go upstairs at once and prepare yourself. Have Miss Carruthers choose a suitable morning gown, practice your curtsy, and learn to say “I will” without the brogue, is that clear?”

Megan fled. Surely there was something she could do, a way to get out of this. She could write to Alec, but Merridew would surely arrive before her letter. There had to be another way . . .

She looked out the window at the maids, picking flowers for tomorrow’s Lugnasadh fair, laughing as they pushed roses and daisies and heather into their braids and curls.

Megan dared to smile. Perhaps there
was
a way.

K
it was building a table for the cottage in the morning sun, enjoying the sharp scent of new wood as he planed the surface smooth. His muscles were pleasantly tired, his mouth tasted like iron nails, and he had a fine sense of accomplishment. He’d finished fixing the shutters, and he’d laid in all the supplies and tools he’d require. Tomorrow he would be ready to begin working in earnest in the castle itself, seeking Mairi’s treasure.

He heard a distant shout and looked up in alarm as a pair of coaches burst over the lip of the glen, airborne for a moment before they touched down, swaying and hurtling onward toward him, the horses running at a white-eyed gallop. They were racing dangerously, each coachman jockeying over the rough ground to be first. The vehicles swerved, changed direction, coming across the uneven ground toward him. Kit’s heart lodged in his throat. There was surely going to be a disaster. The turf flew under the hooves of the matched pairs—one set of grays, one of chestnuts, and the horses’ nostrils flared in panic, even as the drivers whipped them on.

The grays won the race, and pulled up almost at Kit’s feet. The chestnuts were moments behind, but by then, the occupants of the first coach had dismounted and were whooping at the force of the wind even as they attempted to make their curtsies to him, their skirts and petticoats billowing around them.

Which ladies were these? Had he met them? He heard the chatter of English voices, a sound very much like geese being herded to market—and like hungry geese, they pressed in upon him, all gabbling for his attention at once.

The road exploded once more as three horsemen came down the steep slope—no, not horsemen—
women
, riding sidesaddle. One had her riding crop gripped in her teeth, another lost her stylish bonnet, and did not even bother to look behind her in her haste. Kit felt sheer terror grip him. What lady lost her bonnet without looking for it?

No one he knew—unless she had far more important matters on her mind. Like marriage.

He imagined this is how a fox felt, run to ground by baying hounds with nowhere to hide.

In horror he retreated, racing down the slope toward the causeway, with the pack on his heels. He didn’t stop until he’d reached the inner door. This time, he prayed that it would indeed lock behind him, the way it had when he was here with Megan.

He slammed it shut and leaned up on it, and waited until they all went away.

He was besieged. These visits—invasions—would become a daily trial now they knew where to find him. He had faced the same at his London townhouse, almost as soon as he’d inherited the title. They’d been put off—eventually—by the unassailable Swift, but Swift was far away at Bellemont Park, and there seemed to be something in the Highland air, something that made these women all the more rapacious in their quest for his flesh—well, his hand, at least. In marriage.

He was trapped. Kit crept to the window and looked to see if they’d gone. To his dismay, they were taking refreshments on the grass in front of the cottage, and waiting for him.

He stared around at the destruction of the castle hall, looked up at the open sky above him, and wished he could fly.