Once Upon a Highland Summer by Lecia Cornwall

so potential buyers weren’t frightened off before they even got inside.
    He took a deep breath as he opened the door, wondering what he’d find. He stood on the broad step that led down to the castle’s great hall. It was cool inside after the heat of the June day. He took note of the familiar room. It was the hall of a laird—a powerful man, in favor with Scotland’s king, his confidant and friend. He looked at the dais at the end, which his grandfather said had once held a massive chair for the laird’s use. Alec had never seen it. It had been broken apart, used by the English soldiers to fuel the two massive fireplaces designed to heat the vast space on frigid Highland nights. A plain chair sat there now, a placeholder, waiting for glory of the MacNabbs to return.
    The walls were barren of decor, save the smashed stone carving of the clan crest above the laird’s chair. His grandfather told tales of the days when the hall was hung with tapestries, weapons, and shields, but those were gone, and with the passing of the old folk like Muira, they would soon even be lost to memory. Alec could imagine his grandfather pointing out the place on the wall where each weapon had once hung . . . The targe of Malcolm; a banner blessed by St. Margaret;the dirk and claymore of Alec MacNabb, the first of that name, and the laird who’d built this tower for his bride, a delicate creature who could not abide the icy drafts that whistled through the old tower on the crag. He crossed to the window, and opened the shutters and stared across the valley to the old tower. It was still standing sentinel.
    “Here y’are.” he heard Muira’s voice and turned. She carried in a brimming chalice on a tray covered with a scrap of plaid. “ ’Tis the laird’s cup,” Muira said proudly. “Carved from the horn of the great mountain goat that tried to kill the first Alec MacNabb, and trimmed with silver given him by the poorer, weaker clans who came on bended knee to take our name and join the great MacNabbs.”
    Alec stared into the depths of the whisky that filled the cup to the brim. Whisky, at least, appeared to be in plentiful supply at Glenlorne.
    “Drink!” Muira encouraged him. “It comes from the cask that was hidden deep in a cave by yer great-great-grandsire, for an occasion just such as this.”
    Alec wondered if it that was true. “Is there a spell on it?” he teased, raising the cup to his lips.
    Muira waited until he drank before answering. “Just a wee one, perhaps, and just for good fortune, a bright new future, and strong and healthy heirs, o’ course. We hardly need a spell for any of that now ye’re here. You’ll set things right at last. The Clan MacNabb just needs a leader again, and all will be well.”
    Sixty thousand pounds would also go a long way toward setting things right, he thought. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her about Sophie, his bride and the potential mother of those strong and healthy heirs, but he stayed silent. What if he didn’t marry Sophie, what if he sold Glenlorne? His sons, if he had any, would never see Glenlorne. He sipped the whisky, savoring the rich, smoky taste of it. Muira was yet another soul he was about to disappoint. He already felt as if his grandfather was frowning at him from the chieftain’s chair. He glanced behind him to make sure it was empty.
    “Where are the girls?” Alec asked.
    Muira grinned. “It’s Midsummer! They’re out in the hills, o’ course, gathering what’s needed for the celebration.” She pursed her lips, and her skin folded into deep lines and creases. “At least, I hope they are. I’m not their nurse any longer. She’s hired a new governess, and—”
    “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