MacGillivray would have to do without him, for he had bigger responsibilities elsewhere as the new Earl of Purbrick. He hadnât said so, but Fiona knew he was worried how the folk here would manage when heâd gone south to Shropshire, in England.
She glanced over at her cousin. Elizabeth was dozing by the fire, bored and sleepy, a book open but unread in her lap, not worried about a thing. She had no idea how afraid Fiona wasâÂfor Iain out in the storm, for an unknowable future in England, and for the storm he faced here, inside the walls of Craigleith.
She glanced out the window again, looking for her brother riding homeward, but the moor was empty. Truly, there was nothing to worry about. Anyone would be pleased and honored to offer her brother a hot meal, a dram of whisky, and a bed for the night out of the storm. It was Highland tradition to do so, be the man a stranger or the familiar figure of Laird Iain MacGillivray. Still, this storm felt different. The snowflakes glittered like crystals, and the wind seemed to be muttering something she couldnât quite hear, sighing a spell, wrapping it tight around the castle.
The door of the library opened, and Fiona leaped to her feet, hoping it was Iain. She felt her heart drop into her stomach at the sight of Elizabethâs sister, Penelope. Fiona watched her twenty-Âyear-Âold cousin saunter across to the fireplace to warm her hands, sparing Fiona a single dismissive glance before glaring at Elizabeth.
âWhat are you two doing?â Penelope demanded, her blue eyes narrowing with suspicion.
âNothing now. We were casting love spells, but they didnât work,â Elizabeth said. She sat up and reached into her pocket, and held out another bundle of herbs, her palm flat under her sisterâs chin, the way one fed an apple to a horse that might bite. âWhy donât you try, Pen? I saved a bundle for you. You wrap the herbs with a lock of your hair and say the words.â
âWhat words?â Penelope demanded, taking the bundle from her sister and turning it between her fingers suspiciously. She held it to her nose and made a face.
âYou must say, âShow me my true love, and send him to me by Christmastide,â â Elizabeth said eagerly.
Penelope turned her hand sideways and let the herbs fall to the rug. âWhat nonsense!â She ran a hand over her lush blond curls. âWhy would I ruin my hair for that? I already know who my true love is, and heâs here right now. I donât have to wait for Christmas.â
Fiona crossed her fingers behind her back. âHas my brother proposed to you, then?â
Penelope flushed and stuck her nose in the air. âNo, but it wonât be longâÂand it will happen well before Christmas. Iain and I will be married in England next spring, and I will be the new Countess of Purbrick.â
Fiona swallowed more dread. Marrying Iain would also make Penelope the lady of Craigleith. Poor Iain, and poor Craigleith. Elizabeth bent to retrieve the little parcel of herbs as Penelope turned back toward the fire, shoving it into her pocket with a mutinous look.
Fiona wondered if the spell could send someone away by Christmastide too. She wished her English kin had never come to Scotland at allâÂthough she liked Elizabeth, who was far more fun and far less sharp-Âtongued than her mother and older sister.
To hear Aunt Marjorie tell it, marrying Penelope was the smartest thing Iain could do. He was a Scottish lairdâÂa mere Scottish laird, and therefore far inferior to an Englishman in Marjorieâs opinionâÂbut Iain had recently inherited the English earldom of Purbrick from his great-Âuncle, and hard on the heels of that surprising news had come Aunt Marjorie and her daughters. Theyâd arrived at Craigleith Castle in a fancy coach bearing the Purbrick crest, and tumbled out onto the doorstep, complaining of the smell of the