Once Upon a Highland Christmas Read Free Page A

Highlands, the cold, the rain, and the ramshackle condition of the castle itself, demanding to see the Earl of Purbrick at once. It had taken some time to understand they’d wanted Iain.
    When he’d appeared, Lady Marjorie and her daughters had dipped low curtsies to him. They had come to help, Marjorie said, giving Iain a smile that had reminded Fiona of the fearsome stuffed wildcat that graced the castle’s ancient hall. Marjorie had promised to teach Iain all the English manners and customs he’d need before he went south to take up his new responsibilities. Aunt Marjorie had made the offer as if Iain had no manners at all. She had barely even glanced at Fiona when Iain introduced her. She’d simply declared that a good English governess would soon mold Fiona into a proper young lady, though nothing at all could be done about her unfortunate limp. It hadn’t been unfortunate until Aunt Marjorie arrived.
    Fiona did not wish to be molded into anything other than what she was, and she thought Iain’s manners were just fine. In fact he was the kindest, smartest, bravest man she or anyone else at Craigleith knew.
    Then over dinner on the very first night of their visit, Aunt Marjorie had suggested—­insisted, really—­that Iain marry Penelope. Penelope would be a helpmeet to him, and make the perfect countess, since she’d been raised at Woodford Park, the magnificent principal residence of the Earl of Purbrick. Penelope had batted her lush golden lashes and smiled sweetly at Iain. For a long moment, Iain hadn’t said a word, but he was a man who thought carefully before he spoke or acted. He’d had the good sense and diplomacy to suggest that they must know each other better first, in case Penelope found that he was not to her taste as a husband. He’d said nothing of his taste for Penelope, kept his expression carefully blank, so even Fiona didn’t know what he truly thought of his simpering cousin. Even now, a fortnight after Penelope’s arrival, Fiona still had no idea. Iain was unfailingly polite, of course, but the expected proposal had not been made.
    The delay had simply made things more awkward. At every opportunity, Aunt Marjorie had thrown Penelope at Iain, dressed up like a princess, batting her eyelashes and pushing out her bosom. It was a chilly time of year in Scotland to be exposing that much flesh.
    â€œIain’s had plenty of time to propose, if you ask me. Maybe he won’t,” Elizabeth said now to her sister. Penelope stepped forward, quick as a cat, and pulled her sister’s hair.
    â€œOf course he’ll propose. Why would he not?” She sent a sharp look at Fiona, who had the sense to stay silent. “I’m beautiful and charming. Every man I meet falls in love with me. Iain will too. You’ll see—­he’ll fall at my feet and beg me to marry him.”
    â€œWhen?” Elizabeth asked, moving safely out of reach before baiting her sister further.
    Never, Fiona hoped.
    â€œVery soon,” Penelope insisted, drawing her fashionable cashmere shawl around her shoulders. “Put more wood on the fire. This miserable excuse for a castle is so drafty. There must be holes in the walls the size of my head.”
    And her head was just as dense as any of the stones that made up the castle walls, Fiona thought. She crossed the room and added an extra turf to the fire, because guests were always treated with honor and kindness in a Highland home, even if they weren’t particularly kind in return. In her opinion, Penelope Curry would be the worst choice of wife Iain could possibly make, and he deserved better—­much, much better—­someone as kind and gentle and brave as he was.
    Fiona couldn’t resist a test. “What will you give to Iain as a Christmas present, Penelope?” she asked. “Perhaps that will convince him you’re the right lass—­lady—­for