Chapter Thirteen #2
“What a dreadful thing to say at Midsummer!” Muira said, hovering behind Alec’s chair. “ ’Tis the time when a young lass should be thinking of love, reading the omens, watching for a sign of the man she’ll marry!”
The three girls looked at her with bright eyes.
“I believe we are quite finished with the soup. You may remove the plates,” Devorguilla said.
“I want to marry for love.” Alanna sighed, ignoring the brewing argument.
“Then you had better plan to fall in love with a rich English lord, for that is who you will wed,” Devorguilla said tartly.
An ancient shield that hadn’t been there that afternoon threw itself from the wall and clattered onto the floor. The girls jumped, and Alec instinctively reached for a pistol that wasn’t there. This was Glenlorne, not the dark alleys of London.
Jock picked up the shield. “Sorry, Alec. I put this up myself this afternoon. ’Tis the targe of Malcolm, if you recall. It’s been hidden away for years. Muira insisted we bring it out now ye’re home. I thought I’d done it right.”
“Yet more hidden treasures,” Devorguilla said sharply, her gaze clashing with Muira’s.
“I canna understand how it fell. That nail has been waiting for that shield to return for nigh on sixty years,” Muira said. “ ’Tis the spirits of the auld ones, come to welcome ye home, Laird.”
“Or perhaps the nail has rusted at last,” Devorguilla said. “Like the fortunes of the MacNabbs.”
Muira ignored her. “There’s more, Alec—all the old dirks and claymores and banners. We’ll put them up and make this auld place look like a home again.”
“How wonderful,” Sorcha said, her eyes shining. “Do they have blood on the blades?”
Megan sniffed. “I hear in England children are not allowed to dine with real people until they are at least seventeen,” she said in English, and Sorcha stuck her tongue out at her sister, which earned her a sharp glare from Devorguilla.
Jock pointed to the nail, still fixed firmly in the wall, and swallowed. Muira cackled. “See? The spirits return at Midsummer, look in on things, express their displeasure when things aren’t right. Perhaps I’ve mistaken it, and the targe goes over on that wall. Jock, try it there, will you?”
“You will not. We are in the middle of dinner,” Devorguilla snapped. “I will not have superstitious nonsense spoiling the meal.”
“ ’Tis Midsummer,” Muira rejoined. “The spirits will have their way, will ye or no.”
Alanna took a deep breath. “Mother, may we attend the bonfire tomorrow evening?”
Devorguilla’s lips pursed so tightly Alec wondered if she’d ever get them parted again. “No.” She pinched out the single word.
“But Miss Forrester says that in England young ladies are allowed to attend. In fact, earls and countesses make a point of joining their people at the celebrations,” Megan said.
“We could surely attend with Alec, couldn’t we?
I mean, it would be a good thing for everyone to see that he’s home, and all is well again—”
It was indeed possible for Devorguilla’s face to twist itself even tighter.
She glared at Alec as if her daughter’s request was his fault, and he had made the pronouncement, not the phantom Miss Forrester.
He imagined the governess as a lemon-faced spinster, full of advice on subjects she knew nothing about, her yearning for romance thwarted by her lack of looks and fortune.
“I would be pleased to take the girls tomorrow night,” Alec told Devorguilla. “Unless you’ve planned a ball or a soiree?”
Sorcha giggled. “No, but there will be dancing of course.”
“All the lasses will all want to stand up with you, Alec.” Muira said. “Ye’ll be the Midsummer king, as is fitting now ye’re home.”
“I hope you brought dancing slippers!” Megan added.
“For a reel in the meadow?” Alec feigned a shudder. “Isn’t it the custom to go barefoot?”
Megan gasped. “But you’re the Earl of Glenlorne. You can’t do that!”
“The earls of Glenlorne once painted themselves blue, as I recall,” Alec teased. “Muira, have we any blue paint?” The old lady cackled at the jest.
“Alec!” Megan cried. “You can’t!”
“Never fear, lass. I shall see if the lads can play a waltz, and dance you round the bonfire for luck—properly shod, or course.”
“I have not given my permission,” Devorguilla said, sipping her wine. “It is a barbaric custom. I shall certainly have a word with Miss Forrester for encouraging such nonsense. We shall stay in tomorrow evening and read together—in English.”
“But Mother—” Alanna began, her eyes filling with tears, but Devorguilla waved her hand for silence.
“No more arguments.” Her eyes met Alec’s, hard black and shiny, daring him to contradict her.
He kept his mouth shut. He looked around the table.
He was not part of the old ways, nor did he wish to be part of the new ways Devorguilla was suggesting.
His hand tightened on the stem of the crystal glass.
He shouldn’t have come back at all. Then he remembered Sophie in the tower, her red hair loose, her face bright with sun, her body warm and soft and feminine in his arms, and sighed.
Perhaps there was a way to make this work after all, with her as his wife.
It wouldn’t matter about the old ways, and together they might find a way to make their own future.
He was surprised at how much he wanted that, suddenly.
Was that Sophie, or Midsummer?
“We’ll see,” Muira whispered over Alec’s shoulder, and waved her hand in a magic sign of her own.