Once Upon a Highland Autumn (26 page)

“What happened to Connor?” Megan asked.

Duncan sighed and gnawed on his pipe. “He was taken away to Inverness Gaol with all the other prisoners in their hundreds. Nathaniel couldn’t stop it, though he tried. They wanted the boy, too, and Nathaniel had to choose, or lose both. He took Ruairidh home to Mairi, promised her he’d bring Connor back as well.”

He stopped talking, and Megan stared at him. “Then what?” she asked.

He squinted at her. “He didn’t come back—Connor, I mean. When Linwood came back to the glen, it was to warn Mairi that the redcoats were marching on her, looking to steal and destroy and burn. She had to flee. My mother went with Mairi, up into the hills, with me just wee a child in her arms. Mairi gathered as many clanspeople as she could, led them to safety. The rest were lost, killed, or arrested, like Connor himself. We found a cave in the hills—a corrie that Mairi knew—and hid ourselves there, in fear for our lives, and for the lives of our men.” He stared down the hill at the castle. “We looked down the glen and watched as the soldiers took what they wanted, then set fire to our cottages and the castle, and drove off our cattle. They left nothing.”

Megan watched his eyes grow misty as he relived that day, seeing it. “Mairi hoped, dreamed. She was sure that Connor would return to her. My mother was just as certain that my father wasn’t coming home again. It was she who told me all the tales she could remember, the ones she’d heard my father tell over and over again. The rest of Clan MacIntosh’s stories are lost, lass, gone with Connor, my father, and Mairi. I had to start again. I am the
seannachaidh
, responsible for keeping the clan history, you see, and telling it, like I am now. I never thought I’d learn the end of Mairi’s story, but you’re here, and you’re Linwood. How it will end, I haven’t a clue.”

“Do you know where the treasure is?” Megan asked.

Duncan shook his head. “No. Mairi never spoke of it that I know of. In fact, I’ve not heard of it until today. She only told the clan that all would be well again when Connor came home. Over and over she said that, every day, never giving up hope.”

Megan felt sorrow sink into her bones. “Then it is lost forever.”

He looked at her. “Is it? It seems that man of yours—another Linwood—intends to find it.”

“Steal it, you mean,” Megan replied. “And he’s not my man.”

Duncan chuckled. “Not your man? I handfasted the pair of you, lass, remember? I know what I saw—I thought you were in love. I’ve seen that look before in a pair of Linwood eyes.”

Megan felt her skin flush. “You’re mistaken. It was a matter of expedience, and convenience, and—” She couldn’t find the word she wanted.

“Kindness?” Duncan asked, chewing his pipe. “Honor? The Linwoods all seem to be kind, honorable men, despite the fact they’re English. Brave, too. The captain certainly was all those things, even when he might have been hanged by his own side for his kindness, or had his throat cut by ours. He took a terrible risk. I was just a child, but I remember him coming to that cave—” He pointed off into the highest hills at the end of the glen. “He brought us food, blankets, medicine, news . . .”

“What happened?”

“Hmm?” Duncan focused on her. “He kept us alive through the winter, but he stopped coming after a time. I think he fell in love with her, but she could not love him back while her heart belonged to Connor. But now he’s returned.”

Megan frowned, wondering if the old
seannachaidh
was addled, or confused. “No, Duncan, it’s not Nathaniel. He’s dead. It’s Kit who’s here now—
Christopher
Linwood—and he’s not here for kindness’ sake.”

He smiled at her gently as if he thought she was the daft one. “Is he not? I thought you fancied yourself a
seannachaidh
, lass. D’you not understand how tales work? They need an ending—a happy one is best, if that’s possible, or at least a hopeful one. Things in this world come full circle, back to where they began. Wrongs can be righted, secrets revealed, if you can wait long enough.”

He rose to his feet and tucked his pipe away into his coat. “Well, I must be off. Come and tell me when you find it.”

“The treasure?” Megan asked.

“Och, no—the ending to the tale, lass, the ending. That’s what’s important. You’d best go too, find shelter before the storm hits.”

Megan looked up again at the clear blue sky. When she turned back to argue about the weather, Duncan MacIntosh was gone.

S
he blew into the castle like an ill wind.

Kit looked up from where he was shifting the last beam that blocked the staircase. Megan came across the room, her eyes blazing, her determined steps ringing on the stone floor. He felt his heart leap at the sight of her, then fall flat at the anger in her expression.

He descended the steps toward her.

“I came to tell you that I’m leaving—tomorrow, in fact.”

So soon? His chest clenched, and he swallowed. Had the kiss upset her so much? “I see,” he said carefully. She was staring at the floor between his feet.

“I want to end our—agreement. I intend to go home to Glenlorne and wait for Eachann.”

“And you’ll want to marry right away,” he said, keeping his tone flat, though jealousy churned in his belly.

“Yes.”

The wind caught the shutter behind him and blew it against the wall with a boom that filled the whole castle. Megan cried out, and he stepped toward her, but stopped short of taking her into his arms. “Just the wind,” he murmured, but she cried out again—and so did he—as the rain followed, a sudden unexpected downpour. Water descended as if it had been poured from a bucket, coming in a torrent through the broken roof. The heavy drops bounced and sizzled on the floor like musket balls. He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the steps, sheltered from the deluge by the overhanging floor above. “Come on—we’ll be soaked if we stay here. The roof appears to be intact upstairs.”

She looked up the long stone staircase and hesitated. “Is it safe?”

“I don’t know—I haven’t been up there yet, but the floor looks sound enough from here. I don’t think the fire made it beyond the stairs—there’s another wing, I think, or at least a few rooms that might have been spared when the roof of the hall fell in.”

A crash of thunder echoed off the stones, and she flattened herself against the wall and looked up at the lead gray sky. The rain fell on her upturned face, and Kit grabbed his pack and pulled her upwards. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll shelter here until the rain stops—it’s too far to go all the way back to the cottage. Do these showers last long?”

She followed him. “I don’t know. It was a fair day when I left the lodge, but the autumn weather in the Highlands can be unpredictable.”

He paused on the top step, and they looked down a narrow passageway, dark as pitch. Part way along, a door stood open, the room beyond illuminated with thin gray storm light. “Wait here until I’m sure it’s safe,” he said, but she refused to let go of his hand.

“Who’ll keep you safe?” she asked. Kit saw fear in her eyes, though she was doing her best to hide it. Her chin was high, her back stiff with determination. Her hair was wet, and water shone on her pale face, and he resisted the urge to brush away the lock of sodden hair. It would only lead to a desire to kiss her, and then—he turned away.

“We’ll go slowly,” he said, meaning walking on the ancient wooden planks of the floor, of course.

The boards felt solid enough. They moved forward until they came to the open door, and stood on the threshold. “It’s a bedroom,” he said.

“I can see that,” she murmured.

A carved bed stood against one wall, once vast and regal, though worm-eaten and cracked by age and weather now. The mattress had long since been picked apart by birds and other nesting creatures, who had stolen the straw and the feathers and left only the torn canvas shell. The blankets and the linens were gone. The window shutter hung wide open, but the roof was intact. Kit drew a breath and crossed the room to pull the shutter closed. The wind fought for control, and he was instantly soaked, but finally closed the latch.

“It’s dark,” she murmured, and bent to look at the fireplace, then at him. “There’s plenty of wood downstairs. We might as well light a fire and be warm.”

While he went down to gather what wood he could, Megan gathered scraps of old cloth and dry moss. Together they watched the smoke curl as the flame opened one bright eye, fed it small pieces of wood until it grew strong, demanded bigger fuel.

Megan rose and prowled the room, her hands wrapped around her wet gown.

“Look at this,” she crouched to open the lid of a carved wooden chest, and Kit held his breath.

The box contained a few moldering garments, and a length of age-darkened plaid that was stiff and dirty. Kit gingerly lifted the plaid and peered beneath it.

“No treasure, I take it,” she said tartly and he turned to look at her.

“I found the letter Mairi wrote, in the cottage,” she said. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it, in Scotland?”

Was there any point in denying it? “Yes. I found the letter in England, among my great-uncle’s things,” he murmured, his stomach tensing at the disdain in her eyes. “It was in his journal.” He stopped, not sure what else to say.

“And have you found it yet?” she demanded. “Or did
he
steal it all those years ago?”

She was beautiful, even angry, filled with indignation, but he felt his own anger flare. “Nathaniel didn’t even know what was in that letter. It was still sealed when I found it. I was the one who opened it.”

She made a sound of disbelief, and got up and went to the window. She stared out at the rain through a long narrow crack in the shutter with her arms folded across her chest. “He loved her, you know,” she said with her back to him. “Nathaniel loved Mairi, I mean.” The silver light lit her cheeks, the long white length of her swan’s neck, the slim curves of her figure. The wet muslin of her gown was sticking to her legs, and he could see the long, lean shape of them. He tried not to look, but he couldn’t help it. His eyes refused to budge. He felt hot blood fill his face as she turned suddenly, her eyes sharp, but she didn’t seem to have noticed he’d been staring. “Duncan MacIntosh told me,” she said. “He was here then, just a wee bairn, but he remembers Nathaniel Linwood. He said he was a good man, kind and brave.”

“I hope so,” Kit said. He heard the wood crackle behind him, looked to see the flames licking the edge of the timbers, wondered if Nathaniel had ever stood here, in this room, staring at Mairi just this way. “I never met my great-uncle myself. He died just as I was being born. I can imagine he must have loved her, though, especially if she was like—” He clamped his lips shut on the thought he hadn’t meant to speak aloud, but Megan turned to look at him, her brows raised, waiting.

“Like what?”

He was trapped now. He met her eyes, foundered in the hazel depths. “Like you,” he said softly. “If she was like you.”

“Me?” she asked. The colors in her eyes changed from russet to gold, before her lashes swept down, and a blush bloomed over her face.

He took a step toward her. “I suppose Nathaniel knew Mairi somewhat longer than you and I have known one another, but it seems to me that she must have been fierce, loyal, stubborn, and brave like you—especially given the situation she faced. She was willing to protect what she loved, and she never gave up.” He stopped when he reached her side. She had to look up to meet his eyes because he was taller than she, stronger, broader. He felt acutely the differences between his male body and her female one. He read uncertainty in her eyes before she looked away again, back out the window, but she didn’t move from his side, or flinch at his nearness.

“I—she—would have been lost without Nathaniel—or so Duncan says. But she couldn’t love him back,” she murmured, flustered.

“Perhaps that’s why he never married. He couldn’t forget her.” He was close enough to feel the heat of her body, smell the soft sweet scent of her soap. “But her heart was already given to someone else. Like yours.”

She turned her head, and her face was inches from his. “Mine?”

“Eachann,” he said, and the word came out rough and cold.

She looked away. “Oh, yes,” she said it as if she’d forgotten Eachann Rennie existed. But he did exist. Kit put his hand on her arm, and even that simple touch was erotic, stirring.

“I will let you go, Megan.”

“Like Nathaniel did with Mairi?”

Kit swallowed. Would his great-uncle have left if Mairi had given him a choice, or would he have stayed, knowing there would always be a ghost between them? “I suppose so,” he said. “Why did you come today? You could have just gone, left a note for me in the cottage.”

Her chin rose. “I wanted to thank you. No, I wanted to ask you—beg you—not to tear this castle down.”

He frowned. “Tear it down? I have no intention of tearing it down.”

“Then what will you do now? Will you go home to England?” she asked. “You can’t stay here forever. You said so yourself. You have responsibilities.”

He gazed out at the glen, let his eyes move over the rain-wet hills, shrouded in mist and the yellow light of the storm. Even in bad weather, he loved it here, felt at home here, but she was quite right. He couldn’t stay. Without Megan it would be . . . He pushed the feeling of loss away. “Yes, I suppose I will go back to England.”

“Then I wish you well.” She stood on her toes, put her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him on the cheek.

He should have left it there, or offered his hand for her to shake, or bowed and walked away, but it was still raining, and there was nowhere to walk away to, not without getting soaked. He didn’t want to say good-bye to her in the rain—or in the sun for that matter. So he did the only thing he could think of.

He turned his head and kissed her properly.

Her lips melted under his, fitting perfectly to his. He tasted the sweetness of the rain, smelled heather. When he remembered Scotland, he would think of the scent of Megan’s hair, the softness of her skin, the colors of her eyes, the quirk of her smile, and the unbearable delight of kissing her. He didn’t want to stop kissing her, couldn’t. He trailed soft butterfly kisses over her mouth, her chin, her cheeks, and she tilted her head to grant him better access, and he took it, though he knew he should not. She sighed, and he returned to her mouth, and this time her lips parted for him, and his tongue tentatively touched hers, brushing over the delicacy of the inside of her lower lip, before finding her tongue. Her arms crept around his neck, tangled in his hair, and she pressed nearer still, her body joined to his from knee to breast. He looked down at her.