Once Upon a Highland Autumn (32 page)

“To wait for—” She stopped him with a look, her eyes flying to his, the pain there acute.

“Don’t say it, Kit. Not now.”

“Will he mind, Megan?”

She plucked at the edge of the plaid. “It doesn’t matter,” she said on a whisper of sound.

What did that mean? He didn’t get a chance to ask.

A mighty crash shook the room as the final timber shifted. Kit wrapped Megan in his arms as the debris fell with a crash. Light streamed into the chapel, and Kit looked up at the opening. Glenlorne stood in the swirling dust, scowling at the sight before him, his sister in Kit’s naked arms. Graves remained stoically dignified, and bowed, despite the muck staining his shirtfront, face and trousers. Kit had no doubt that Graves, if asked even now, could manage to rustle up a proper tea from somewhere, just like his own butler, Swift Josiah Leslie sobbed while Jeannie patted his back, and Eleanor leaned on her stick and grinned.

Megan peered out at her brother from the safety of Kit’s arms. She knew by the look in Alec’s eyes, there was going to be hell to pay.

Glen Dorian, late April 1746

“T
hey won’t release him.”

Mairi stared at Nathaniel in horror.

“At least not yet. I’ll do what I can, tell them what I know, but for now, the gaol is full, and they’re still hunting down rebels.”

“Connor didn’t fight,” Mairi said softly. “No one saw him fight. He only went to fetch my brother, just a child. No one can fault him for that.” She’d said the same thing over and over in her mind, at night as she paced the floor, longing for Connor, hoping that everything might still turn out for the best. She paced the hall now, her hands clasping and unclasping, afraid now her worst fear had been spoken aloud. None of the men who had fought for the prince had returned. Their women watched the road into the glen too, waited, as she did, but hope faded as the hours and days passed.

Nathaniel didn’t reply, and she stopped pacing to look at him. He looked tired and grim, and her heart clenched again. She wanted to see hope in his eyes, certainty, but there wasn’t any. “Will you take me to him?” she asked. “I want to see him, to tell him—” She swallowed.

He shook his head. “It’s too dangerous, Mairi. They are taking revenge on everyone—women as well, especially women.” She felt her cheeks flush with indignation, understanding what he meant. “Stay here in the glen for now.” He came forward and put his hand on her arm. “I swear I will do my best to get him freed.”

“Can I write to him?” she asked. “Just so he knows—” She swallowed as tears stung the back of her eyes. She would not cry, or mourn him yet.

Nathaniel nodded, and waited while she wrote the letter, her hand shaking, her tears falling on the paper. She wrote quickly, knowing there wasn’t much time. She sealed it, and brought the parchment to her lips, kissed it, and sent up a prayer for her beloved.

Nathaniel tucked it into his pocket and picked up his hat. “I’ll get it to him, Mairi, and I’ll tell him—”

Mairi wrapped her arms around her body, and suppressed a shiver. Tell him what? There was so much to say. That she loved him, that she was carrying his child, that she was afraid without him? “Tell him that I am waiting for him to come home.”

M
egan sat in the salon of Dundrummie Castle, staring out the window. The first frost had come early, hard on the heels of the storm, which had washed away the last vestiges of summer in one night. The frost lay on the faded roses and empty stalks of the garden in sharp lacy spikes. The sun was tentative, shivering behind the branches of the apple trees. Their fruit harvested, their job done for another season, the leaves had turned to gold and brown, like aged brass.

She shifted gingerly on the window seat and sighed. Her leg was elevated on a pile of cushions, her ankle wrapped in better bandages than Kit’s shirt. It still throbbed after two days of rest, but it was healing.

A hasty note had been sent to Devorguilla, who had taken Alanna away to Edinburgh for some finer, fancier gowns. Eleanor said the dowager countess wished to keep Alanna away from Megan, lest Alanna too should pick up the taint of disobedience. As if it were catching. Megan missed her sister, and longed to talk to her, to tell her everything. Would Alanna understand?

Alanna had a new confidante now. Jane Parkhill, still indignant over the loss of Rossington, with the hunting season quite ruined for her, had accompanied the McNabb ladies to Edinburgh. Megan wondered if her mother would hurry back when she heard of Megan’s injuries, but there hadn’t been any word.

Miss Carruthers was keeping Sorcha busy with lessons. Her youngest sister’s eyes had glowed when Megan told her of the adventure she’d had at Glen Dorian—in secret, of course, since Miss Carruthers did not approve. Megan hadn’t said a word about the treasure. That was Kit’s tale to tell.

She glanced out the window again. Beyond the orchard stood the lodge, invisible from here, and beyond that lay the wood, and the path that led upward to Glen Dorian. Was he there? He hadn’t come to see her. She scanned the orchard for signs of him, watched the door, waited for Graves to announce him. No one even mentioned his name, as if he no longer existed, was part of the past. She twisted her handkerchief in her hands, fought tears.

At Glen Dorian, Kit had carried her out to the cart, cradled against his chest, and set her gently aboard. He’d stepped back, letting Eleanor and Jeannie fuss over her. He’d stood in the courtyard of the castle as they departed, his eyes on hers, until they’d lost sight of one another. She had not seen him since. She glanced again at the path between the trees, hoping, but there was no one there.

“How are you feeling?” Caroline said, coming into the salon, followed by Graves, who was bringing yet another pot of tea.

“I’m well, thank you, Caro.” Her sister-in-law sat down on the settee. They waited for Graves to pour the tea and depart.

“How is—Alec?” Megan asked, too much of a coward to ask after Kit, afraid to hear he had left for England, and was lost to her forever. “He hasn’t said a word to me since—” She bit her lip. She wanted to cry, and not because of her brother’s neglect.

“I asked Alec to wait a day or two before he spoke to you,” Caroline said.

“Oh, but I’m well enough for visitors,” Megan said quickly.

Caroline picked up her teacup. “I know you are. I didn’t ask him to wait because of your injuries. He’s rather angry at the moment. He needed a day or two to think everything through. He was rather surprised to find you in Lord Rossington’s arms, wrapped in a MacIntosh plaid—or so he described the scene to me.”

“Would it have been better if it was a McNabb plaid?” Megan asked, raising her chin. “How did he find out? Did Mother write to him, or Eleanor, perhaps? I mean, how did you know about the—”

“Handfasting?” Caroline supplied calmly when Megan faltered. “We didn’t know about that until we arrived, and we came because there was other news we didn’t want to put into a letter. Something rather sensitive.”

Megan burst into a smile, her heart lifting for the first time in two days. “You’re expecting!” she cried, delighted.

Caroline blushed to the roots of her red hair. “Why yes, but that’s not—”

But Megan hobbled across to hug her sister-in-law. “How wonderful. I suppose Alanna knows, and Mother, and Eleanor. Am I the last one?”

“Actually no one else knows yet, save Alec of course.”

Megan frowned. “Then what brought you here?”

Caroline met her eyes. “Eachann Rennie.”

Megan felt her throat dry to dust. “Eachann?” His name sounded strange, felt strange on her lips. She hadn’t even thought of him since—she felt her skin heat.

“He came home last week, to see his father, and paid a call on Alec while he was there.”

Megan kept her expression flat. They’d told no one about their plans, their hopes for the future. Now Eachann had come back, formally asked for her hand, and she—what would she do?

“He’s married, Megan.”

She met Caroline’s gaze. “Married? Eachann? To someone else? A woman?” she babbled daftly.

“Her name is Grace.”

“Grace?”

“She seems very nice. Her father owns an inn in Glasgow, and a half-interest in a shipping venture. Eachann met her while he was waiting for passage on an outbound ship.”

“How—nice,” Megan managed, still stunned.

“He explained to Alec that you and he had made an agreement before he left. He wanted to release you from your promise to marry him.”

“Alec didn’t hurt him, did he?” Megan asked.

Caroline pursed her lips. “He had to be convinced not to beat him to a bloody pulp. That’s why we came. Alec feared your heart would be broken by the news. Is it?”

Megan looked at her fingertips. “No. I realized some time ago that Eachann and I wouldn’t suit.”

“About the time Lord Rossington arrived?”

Megan met her sister-in-law’s eyes. “Has
he
said anything?”

“Not to me.”

Megan’s heart sank. “Has he—” She swallowed. “Has he gone back to England?”

“I don’t think so. He looked like he needed a long rest and a bath when last I saw him. That was the night he appeared in the storm. He looked more like a wild Highlander than any English gentleman I know.”

“But he
is
English, Caro. He’s got estates, and responsibilities, and the harvest to see to.”

“What will you do?” Caroline asked. “Will you go to England with him?”

Megan felt her face fill with hot blood. “He has not asked me to. Our handfasting was never meant to last for a year and a day. It was simply a match of convenience, until—well, don’t they have such arrangements in England?”

Caroline reached out and squeezed Megan’s hand. “Of course. It’s just that whatever side of the border one is on, these things never turn out to be convenient at all.”

“I can see that,” Megan murmured.

“Megan, Alec
can
insist that Rossington marry you properly. He’s been pacing the floor muttering something about a stocking.”

Megan’s blush renewed itself, all the way to her toes. Her ankle throbbed. “No! Oh, Caroline, Alec mustn’t say anything. Kit—Lord Rossington—has no desire to be married at all. I won’t force him.”

Caroline sighed. “Then how will this end?”

Megan looked out the window again, across the orchard, but the path was still empty. “I suppose like all stories, we shall have to wait and see.”

Glen Dorian, May 1746

N
athaniel carried sorry news for the Lady of Glen Dorian. He had tried to deliver her letter and see Connor MacIntosh, but every trick he tried, from bribery to asserting his rank and family connections, had failed. No one had any news, just strict orders not to let anyone in to see the prisoners. He heard a rumor that Connor MacIntosh had been among a consignment of prisoners sent south for trial in England. He’d sent a letter to his brother Robert, the Earl of Rossington, pleading for his intervention, but had received no reply. Now, he would have to tell Connor’s wife all of this, the woman who sat in the window every day and watched for her husband’s return, the innocent wife of an innocent man.

The army wanted to make an example of the rebels, intent on crushing them utterly and forever. They were calling it the pacification of the Highlands, but it was a fey name for a dark and brutal deed. It had already begun—homes burned, cattle driven off, women raped, men murdered in cold blood. They hadn’t reached Glen Dorian yet, but it would be only a matter of days. Connor MacIntosh’s name was on a list of traitors, and there would be no mercy for Mairi, or the boy, or for any of the folk of the glen. Nathaniel felt sick.

“What news?” Ruairidh asked, catching the reins of Nathaniel’s horse as he rode into the courtyard of the castle.

Nathaniel didn’t have the heart to smile and lie. “Is your sister here?” he asked, dismounting, but she appeared in the doorway, her face tight with hope, which faded to dread at the sight of him. Her cheeks paled, and she put a hand to her mouth. He didn’t soften the news.

“You have to go, Mairi, leave Glen Dorian. Is there a place you can hide?”

“Go? Hide?” she asked, swaying. He wondered when she had last eaten or slept. “But Connor must see to it, give the order. Is he coming?”

He climbed the steps to her, put his hand under her elbow to steady her. “Lad, go get her a drink of water,” he told Ruairidh, and waited until the boy ran off to do so.

She met his eyes. “I’m all right,” she insisted, her eyes dry. “Connor—”

Nathaniel shook his head, his mouth filling with bitterness. He couldn’t tell her, couldn’t say the words. “They are still holding the prisoners, questioning them,” he said instead, and she sagged with relief.

“But he’s well?” she asked, searching his face. “He got my letter?”

“He’s well,” Nathaniel said, repeating her words.

Ruairidh raced back toward them, the cup in his hands bouncing on the stone paving of the courtyard. “Soldiers! Mairi, there’s soldiers coming!” he screamed, his eyes wide, filled with terror. Nathaniel had almost forgotten that the boy had seen the battle, knew what would happen next, even if his sister did not. She blinked at the boy, uncomprehending.

“Are they bringing Connor home?” she asked, and the boy stared at Nathaniel, suddenly looking younger than his thirteen years. Much younger. He looked from the boy to Mairi.

“No,” Nathaniel said. “They aren’t here to talk. They’re here for revenge, to destroy. You have to go. They’ll take everything, rape the women, burn and murder and pillage. Is there a safe place you can go?”

Mairi turned white. “There’s a corrie—a cave—up in the hills near the waterfall.”

“Is it far?” Nathaniel asked.

“Four or five miles,” Ruairidh said.

Too far. The troops would be here before the hour was out, lusting for blood and plunder and Mairi, lovely, gentle Mairi—he couldn’t let that happen, wouldn’t.