Chapter Ten #2
“Don’t you have work to do in the kitchen?
” Alec turned to find Devorguilla standing at the foot of the stairs.
She hadn’t changed. She was still beautiful, and dressed in an elegant English gown.
Her dark eyes traveled over Alec, the cup, and Muira, as she glided into the room.
The temperature seemed to drop as she swept in.
“Go,” she commanded Muira, and reddened when the old woman looked to Alec for confirmation. He nodded, and Muira left the room.
“Hello, Devorguilla,” Alec said.
“You didn’t tell us you were coming,” she said, her eyes offering no welcome.
“I’m not a ghost if that’s what you fear,” he said, and she tilted her head and smiled.
“No, I can see you’re hale and healthy and quite alive, though I expected you’d be as tanned as a peddler from all those years in the sun of the southern climes, and yet you’re as pasty as an Englishman.
How was your voyage home? How long does it take to sail all that way?
” she asked, her tone mocking. Something in her eyes told him she knew he’d been in London all along.
He gave her the most charming smile he could muster. “And you look well. Not a day older than last I was here. Muira knows her potions.” He climbed the steps to the laird’s chair and sat down, the chalice of whisky still in his hand.
She watched him silently, her eyes in shadow.
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Tell me, did you bring gifts? Money, perhaps? We do need money, as you can see.” She indicated the room with slim fingers.
Alec’s throat tightened. “I have gifts for the girls. As for money, I’ll need to see the accounts.”
Her eyes sharpened. “There’s not much to see. We live simply, as we must.”
“Still,” he insisted. He was at a loss for words, as unsure as he had been when he was a boy.
“I can assure you everything is in order here.”
“I’m home again, alive and well, and I will manage my estates myself. Thank you for doing so for the past months.”
Her eyes flared. “Months? I have been managing things for years. Your father wasn’t capable—”
“It isn’t kind to speak ill of the dead, Devorguilla,” he interrupted.
“Devina,” she said.
“Yes,” Alec said. “I heard that you’d changed your name. I doubt my father would have liked that.”
She ignored that, her eyes flashing. “When the girls make their debuts in London, I will change their names as well. Margaret, Alice, and Claire. Have you seen them yet? They’re quite pretty, but that isn’t nearly enough.
I intend to see they find English husbands, titled men with fortunes and land.
Of course, a name change isn’t enough. They’ll need dowries to overcome the taint of the Highlands. ”
“Oh, and have you a fortune put by for such an eventuality?” Alec asked.
“You’re the laird now. It’s you who must provide for them. Would you see them wed to crofters and peddlers to live in misery the rest of their days?”
“I’d see them happy. Titles and money don’t guarantee that,” Alec said. Of course he wanted to see his half sisters marry well, for love as well as fortune. He thought of Lady Sophie Ellison. What happiness could he offer her, here, when she was used to the luxuries of English estates and wealth?
“I see you’re as much a fool as you’ve always been. You used to prattle on about clan glory, how the MacNabbs were proud and fine. But love? Are you a poet now? I’d heard you made your way in London gambling. I would have thought eight years of that would cure you of ridiculous sentiments.”
“Everything is a gamble, Devorguilla. You wagered I was dead. You lost.”
“Devina!” she insisted. “And I never lose.”
He rose from the chair. The whisky buzzed in his veins. He didn’t want to have this argument now. No, it would be a fight. He needed time to think, to decide, to find the words. “I think I’ll go and find the girls, say hello.”
“They’re taking a short stroll in the garden with their governess,” she said. “They’ll be coming in for tea shortly. You can see them then. They aren’t children anymore. They’re young ladies.”
All these years, and she still had the power to make him feel like a clumsy, inept boy, half barbarian, half fool.
“Why wait? It’s a lovely day. I’ll walk out and meet them,” he said. He set the chalice on the table and strode out before the inevitable insults and angry words began to fly. It had always been that way between them, but to his surprise, she simply stood and watched him go.
Stepping out of the castle and into the warm summer air was like coming out of a tomb.
Muira said the girls had gone into the hills.
He needed time to walk and think. What would he say to them?
Surely they’d changed in eight years. He followed the worn tracks in the heather that had been there for centuries, carved by cattle and people, the path he’d taken thousands of times as a boy, heading to the loch to fish, or to the top of the crags to search for eagles, or hunt.
He took off his coat, and slung it over his shoulder, and loosened his cravat. He looked around, watched the sun glint on the loch, and remembered the pleasures of swimming in the icy water at the height of summer.
He felt a hard stab of regret at the idea of selling Glenlorne away, losing it forever.
If he sold the land, he might not even need to marry Sophie Ellison.
He could give his sisters dowries and go to Ceylon at last. The earldom of Glenlorne was a responsibility he didn’t want.
He wasn’t a laird, or an earl, or a leader. Nor did he wish to be.
He met no one on the path, and before he knew it, he was standing by the old tower, and could hardly say how he’d come to be here, since he’d been deep in thought and not paying attention to where he was walking.
The tower had lost yet another chunk of wall since he’d last been here.
The massive block lay in the heather at the base of the tower.
The roof was gone almost entirely now. He supposed it should be pulled down for safety’s sake.
It was like the clan itself—once proud and strong and high, and now a crumbling husk.
A movement in one of the windows caught his eye.
A red flag—no, a long lock of red hair—fluttered on the breeze.
He saw her face, white against the blue shadows.
The wind hummed an eerie tune. A ghost? His throat tightened, and he stared up at her, transfixed.
Then she reached up to brush her hair away from her face, her fingers slim and solid, her eyes fixed on the horizon.
Anger flared at her trespass, both on his imagination and his tower.
How the devil did she get in? The old oak door was solid and permanently barred—at least it had been the last time he saw it—to keep out anyone foolish enough to try to venture inside.
She was some foolish local girl, no doubt, here on a Midsummer revel, or she’d climbed the rotting tower on a dare.
It had once been a favorite trysting place, especially at this time of year.
Did she not understand the danger she was in?
Panic gripped him. What if his sisters were also in the tower?
He called out a command in Gaelic to come out before the bloody tower fell on her.
She turned to look down at him, her eyes meeting his, her hair a russet tangle around her face, and he felt a shock pass through him.
She was beautiful.