Once Upon a Highland Autumn (34 page)

“Sell it, I suppose. But look there, where the village used to be—” Kit pointed. “I thought I’d make more. Build a proper distillery, there by the stream.”

Glenlorne sat down on the bench and stretched his long legs out before him and looked across the glen. “Aye,” he said, as if he could see it.

“And there’s space for cattle. I understand there used to be cattle here—fine fat herds that made the MacIntoshes of Glen Dorian rich.”

“So the story goes,” Glenlorne said. “Can you do all that from England?”

Kit sent him a sharp look. “I’ll need a good steward, of course, a man who knows whisky making.”

“And someone who knows cows,” Glenlorne added.

“Does—Eachann Rennie—have any skills in those directions?”

Alec rubbed his jaw. “I doubt it. Last I heard, the lad wanted to be a shipbuilder, in Glasgow. His father’s pleased.”

Kit looked around the glen and wondered if Megan would like living in Glasgow, being married to a shipbuilder.

“Beautiful place, this glen. The castle isn’t ever going to be habitable again, though,” Alec said.

“No, but the cottage could be enlarged—or I’d build a house here, on the hill.”

“It would have an excellent view,” Glenlorne said. “Would you take the castle down?”

Kit laughed. “Duncan MacIntosh was here yesterday to ask me the same thing. He wanted to see the sword Megan and I found in the crypt. He declared it to be the legendary sword of Alasdair MacIntosh, who fought in France with the Maid of Orleans before he came home to build this castle. Duncan swore Glen Dorian would fall down of its own accord if the sword wasn’t returned to the knight’s tomb at once. Duncan has hopes, you see, that the glen will be restored to its former glory—especially since he tasted the whisky.” He took a flask from his pocket, and passed it to Glenlorne. “It’s a fine thing indeed after seventy years.”

Alec sipped, then sipped again, and rolled his eyes with pleasure. “It is indeed. What’s that?” he said, pointing to Nathaniel’s journal, which sat on the bench beside Kit.

“My great-uncle’s journal. He was here, fought at the battle of Culloden. He knew Mairi MacIntosh, saw the castle burned. Duncan says Nathaniel was quite in love with the lady.”

“Love?” Glenlorne said. “What happened?”

Kit shrugged. “He returned to England eventually. He asked her to go with him. Her clan had left the glen, scattered, but Mairi was determined to wait for Connor to return. Nathaniel built this cottage for her, but he could not stay, not if she didn’t want him.”

“And how did the story end?” Glenlorne asked.

“I don’t know,” Kit murmured, thinking of Megan, his fist clenched against his knee as he tried to stem the tide of longing.

“Megan knows a good many stories. Perhaps she knows the end of this one,” Glenlorne said, rising to his feet. “I think you should ask her.”

Glen Dorian, May 1747

M
airi stood with her eyes shaded against the sun, watching Nathaniel climb up the side of the waterfall, her slim figure wrapped in a threadbare cloak.

“Where’s Ruairidh?” he asked when he reached her.

“He left,” she said, her tone flat. He watched her scan the hills, as if looking for the boy, the way she looked for Connor. “He said there was no life here, no chance of happiness, no hope. He believes Connor must be dead, you see, and he—” She dashed away tears with the back of a work reddened hand. “He thinks I’m foolish for staying.”

There was almost no one left now, a handful of folk—fewer than a dozen—all weak and nervous from more than a year in hiding. He clasped her hand, ran his thumb over her fingers, felt her grip him back for an instant. “It’s safe enough to come down now, Mairi,” he said.

“Connor?” she whispered, her eyes widening. For an instant she was the pretty woman he’d met over a year ago when she welcomed him to her hearth.

His mouth tightened, this time with jealousy as much as regret. “No,” he said. “Mairi, there’s no trace of him. He’s disappeared. He isn’t coming back.”

“Is he dead?” she asked, her voice a thread of sound. “Do you know for certain that he’s dead?” He wondered if she hoped for that as much as for his return, an ending, a certainty, permission to move forward with her own life.

Nathaniel shifted. “No. I don’t think there is a way to know that. But I’m sure of one thing—you can’t stay here.” He squeezed her hand tighter. “Come with me. Marry me,” he said.

She looked at him in surprise, her eyes wide and blue as the sky, and for a moment he thought she might say yes, but then she closed her eyes, and shook her head. “You’re a kind man, a good man. If not for you—” She swallowed tears. “If not for you, we would not have survived, but it wasn’t for me, not ever for me. I did this for Connor. He told me to keep the clan safe, and I must do that. I will wait for him until he returns, or until I know for certain he’s dead.”

Nathaniel felt his heart cave in. “You can’t live up here. Come down, back to Glen Dorian.”

“To the castle?” she asked.

He shook his head quickly. “To the village, perhaps—Dundrummie village.”

She sighed. “I belong in the glen, Nathaniel.”

He studied her face, beautiful and stubborn, and considered tossing her over his shoulder, carrying her away, but knew she’d hate him for it.

“Then I will build you a cottage in the glen.”

She searched his face, and put a hand to his cheek, a brief, gentle touch. “Thank you. And then, you must go, and not come back again.”

“Promise you’ll send for me if you need me,” he said, and she smiled again.

“Of course.”

But he knew she would not.

E
ven sitting quietly in a shaft of sunlight by the window, dressed in a plain blue gown, her hair in one long silken plait over her shoulder, Megan McNabb took his breath away. He steeled himself for the devastating moment when she would look up and see him here, in the doorway, and he would feel electricity course through him.

“Good morning,” Kit said, stuck where he was, as if he was glued to the floor. Her head rose, and she bloomed like a rose—her eyes widened, her cheeks flushed pink, and her lips parted in surprise.

“Oh!” she popped to her feet, and he rushed forward.

“Your foot—don’t get up!”

“It’s much better,” she said, still standing to show him, wobbling a little, her eyes were on his, whisky warm. He was drawn to her as if he were on a string. He stopped just short of touching her.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” she replied.

He was staring at her, and she was staring back. “I—” He stopped. The declaration of love hovered on his lips, his proposal, but surely it was too soon. He remembered the box under his arm, and he held it out. “I brought this.”

She glanced at it. “The box from the crypt,” she said. Her voice dropped an octave as her smile faded. “The treasure.”

She made no move to take it, or touch it. “Have you come to tell me what’s in it?”

He shifted his stance. “I don’t actually know. I haven’t opened it yet. I thought you—we—might do it together.”

He followed her gaze to the inlaid box. The colored bits of wood had faded, but the gems, the mother-of-pearl flowers, their delicate stems and leaves made of gold, were s still exotic.

“All right.” She sat down on the settee, and he took the chair beside her. He set the box on the table. She bit her lip as he reached for the delicate latch, and opened it. The lid popped up with a click, and they glanced at one another, holding their breath.

He began to draw out the contents. “A stone bottle,” he said, and set it down. The next item was folded in a scrap of plaid, tied with ribbon. He unwrapped it as she leaned forward to see. He could smell the heather-sweet scent of her hair.

“It’s a baby’s gown,” she said, picking up the fine linen, yellowed now. “But it’s not finished.”

A small item fell out, and he picked it up from the floor. It was a small gold ring with a heart-shaped ruby.

“Is this treasure?” he asked.

She looked at him solemnly. “To Mairi it was.”

He picked up the bottle and opened the stopper. A sheaf of furled paper hid inside, and he drew it out. There were two pages, rolled together, tied with faded blue ribbon.

She took them from his hand and unrolled the outermost page. They were in Gaelic. “What is it?’ he asked, leaning forward, his shoulder brushing hers.

“It’s a letter. It’s in the same hand as the one you found in your great-uncle’s journal.” Her eyes scanned the words.

He felt his heart beat faster. “Then it was written by Mairi.”

Glen Dorian, 1778

My Dearest Beloved,

It has been more than thirty years since my eyes beheld you, though it feels like only yesterday. I still wake in the night and reach for you, and feel sorrow that you are not there beside me, where you belong. At better moments, I smile at the memories we had time to make, and feel bitter at the hours, months, long years that were stolen from us. We would have grown old together, you and I, here in this glen, watched our children grow, and their children.

I have waited for you, hoped, lived a life of longing. I am the last one left in the glen now—everyone you knew has died or gone, and I cannot find fault with that.

Even now I am waiting for you to come walking over the edge of the glen, your smile broad, your arms wide. I long for that so much it hurts. The pain is unbearable, made worse by not knowing what happened to you, if you are alive, and unable to return to me, or dead. I would know if you were dead, would I not? Or is it just that you are alive forever in my heart, and my mind, and part of my soul, and I cannot let you go?

I am leaving this last letter in the place we used to meet before we were wed, our trysting place you called it. If I am not here, I trust you will go there first, to see our treasure is safe—it is, after all these years, and I hope you will find this letter. I leave it with my wedding ring, in case you have no coin for bread and meat. I also leave you word of my greatest sorrow. I was with child when you left, Connor—our son, but he was born too early, high in the hills, and could not live. If you are in heaven, I hope our bairn is with you, as I will someday be. Until then, I remain

Your own loving Mairi

Kit wiped away Megan’s tears with the pad of his thumb, moved over to sit beside her and hold her close as she sobbed. She lifted her head at last and looked at him.

“Please tell me the other letter is his reply, that he came back to her.”

Kit unrolled the second bit of paper, crinkled and yellowed and begrimed and scanned it. “It’s a recipe, by the looks of it,” he said. “It’s in Gaelic, though.”

She took it from him and scanned it, and he watched her cheeks flush. “It’s whisky,” she said in amazement. “The MacIntosh recipe for making whisky.”

Kit laughed out loud. “That’s the treasure! Not the sword, or the box, or the casks of whisky—the recipe,” Kit said. “Nathaniel’s journal said Connor was an educated man. He probably wrote out the recipe that had been passed down through generations of MacIntoshes, knowing it would be lost or changed if he didn’t. He must have known that no matter what the future, as long as his clan had this recipe, all would be well.”

Megan blinked at him, her color rising. “All will be well? I suppose you’ll sell the whisky we—you—found in the castle?” she said sharply.

“It’s worth a fortune,” he confirmed. “Nineteen fortunes, in fact, one for each barrel.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “I thought you counted twenty barrels,” she said. “Will you keep one for yourself?”

He sobered, remembering why he had come. He looked at her, studied her sweet face, read the question in her eyes, felt longing wash over him.

“It’s meant to be a gift,” he said carefully.

“For whom?” she demanded.

“For a bride,” he said.

“What bride?” she shot back.

“Mine, hopefully,” he said.

“You’re getting
married
?” She looked horrified.

“I—I hope to.” He wasn’t doing this very well, he decided. He stared at her mutely, trying to form the feelings in his heart into sensible words.

She got to her feet, began to pace. “I see. Shall I come to the wedding, wish you well?”

He rose as well, followed her, not daring to touch her, but ready to catch her if she stumbled. She turned to face him so suddenly she almost did. He gripped her arms, and they stood almost nose-to-nose. “I do hope you will be there,” he said. “That is, if you aren’t marrying Ea—anyone else.”

Her eyes fell to his mouth. “Eachann has Grace,” she whispered, and his mouth watered to kiss her.

“I know,” he said. “But I wanted to ask you anyway.” He met her lips with a gentle brush. “I don’t want to wait a year and a day, or another minute. I want to marry you, if you’ll have me.” He kissed her again, more firmly this time. She softened in his arms, kissed him back. “Of course, if you’re in love with Eachann and his bloody state of grace, I will go at once, and wish you well.” He stepped back to prove he could, and would. “You may keep the whiskey, of course, and Glen Dorian—as a wedding present.”

“A wedding present? Don’t you want it?” she asked, taking a step toward him. He stepped backward.

“Not without you.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes? You’ll take the castle?”

She came closer still. He backed up until he hit the settee. “Yes, but there are conditions,” she said, putting her arms around her neck, pressing her lips to his, a proper kiss, her body against his, her lips parting on a sigh, her tongue meeting his. He kissed her back, wanted more when she pulled away.

“What are the conditions?” he asked. “That I stay away forever, leave you in peace?”

She smiled. “Quite the opposite. I insist that you
stay
forever, never leave me. I love you, Christopher Linwood. Not for convenience, or for a year and a day. Not because of a castle, or a fortune in whisky. I’d live in a hut with you.”