The Laird Takes a Bride

by Lisa Berne

  Fiona had a sudden image of Niall, stinking of blood and onions, saying casually to Rossalyn at some future gathering: Fiona couldn’t come, for the poor lass is in bed— fell down the stairs and she’s all black and blue.

  She took a step back, abruptly reminded of something that happened during last year’s sheep-shearing festival, when she had allowed Niall to kiss her behind a shed (she’d had a dowry then). Pressing his mouth on hers, he’d bent her neck back too far, while at the same time he squeezed her breast so roughly she’d thought for a bad, a very bad moment she would pass out.

  She answered coolly: “No. I’m not dancing.”

  “Your loss.”

  “I’ll try to bear it.”

  His arm shot out and he took a hard grip on her upper arm. “I don’t care for your tone. You’re to be a good girl and choose a husband from among the three of us. It’s your father’s decree.”

  “A fine way to woo, Niall Birk, grabbing at a woman and scowling at her. Let go of me.”

  His fingers tightened painfully for a moment before he released her. “You’re thinking I’m a bad bargain, no doubt, but at least I’m not a great lump like Walraig Tevis, who’d crush you under him like a bug, or Ross Stratton, who’d as soon garrote you as kiss you.”

  A cold chill shivered up Fiona’s spine, but she only said, lightly, “You may be right. Would you excuse me, please? My mother needs me.” And she flitted off to where Mother did, in fact, require help untangling herself from the enormous plaid shawl she had wound about herself in so convoluted a fashion she was in danger of—curiously enough—falling down the church steps.

  “Oh, thank you, dear!” Mother said breathlessly. “It was a lovely ceremony, wasn’t it? I cried just like a baby! But I always do at weddings. I cried at my own! Isn’t our Rossalyn the bonniest bride you’ve ever seen? Although Dallis, of course, was just as pretty, and so was Nairna! Your Aunt Bethia quite agrees with me! And oh! Bethia shared with me the most astounding piece of news! She had it from her sister-in-law Sorcha who is, I’m sure, most reliable. Apparently Alasdair Penhallow has been scandalizing the Eight Clans for years with his disgraceful behavior, and not just on special occasions but every day! Consuming spirits to excess, presiding over debaucheries, and so on! A monster of irresponsibility! And he the great laird of Castle Tadgh!”

  “Well, Mother, so what? Besides, if he’s been doing this sort of thing for years, it’s hardly news,” said Fiona, guiding her overexcited parent down the uneven stone steps and at the same time keeping a sharp eye out for Logan Munro.

  “No, no, you mistake me! According to Bethia, Alasdair Penhallow, on a dare, recently rode his horse all throughout his castle, and without a stitch of clothes on!”

  “Did the horse have a saddle?” inquired Fiona, now a little interested.

  “Bethia didn’t say. I’ll have to ask her. But isn’t it an atrocious tale?” Mother made a tsk-tsk sound, but whether it was because of the enormous pile of dog manure blocking her path or her feelings about the shocking Alasdair Penhallow, Fiona didn’t bother to ask. Her flicker of interest had already waned. And she had more important things to think about.

  Nairna—is she expecting too??

  Make plan: must get rid of Niall, Walraig & Ross

  STOP THINKING ABOUT LOGAN MUNRO

  Throughout the feast, Fiona was irritated to find that her three would-be suitors had decided to all sit next to her, two on one side and one on the other, altogether giving her a disagreeable sense of claustrophobia. It quite took away one’s own appetite, which made her even more resentful.

  Nonetheless, as the evening wore on, seemingly interminably, she not only managed to avoid the dancing, she also went here and there and got a great deal accomplished.

  She found Aunt Bethia’s spectacles, which were, in fact, in the stillroom, although they had inexplicably been placed in the bowl of a large wooden mortar otherwise used for crushing herbs.

  She dashed up to Rossalyn’s room, spoke with her maid, approved the packing of the trunks.

  She neatly avoided speaking with Cousin Isobel, against whom she still bore a grudge after nine long years, for her role in the Logan Munro disaster—

  But no. She wasn’t thinking about him.

  She went on.

  She learned that her sister Dallis, three years married and with a little one at home just taking his first wobbly steps, was looking forward to the birth of her second child in six months or so.

  She enjoyed a fascinating and productive discussion with old Clyde Keddy about rupturing blisters and the various possibilities for treatment, although he confessed he was stumped about the bloody scours.

  She drew Nairna aside, into a private alcove, and clasped her hands in her own. She looked down into her sister’s lovely heart-shaped face; it was thinner and paler than she remembered, although Nairna looked decidedly plumper in her midsection. “Are you quite well, my dearie?”

  Nairna smiled radiantly. “I’ve never been happier! Oh, Fiona, it’s happened at last!”

  “You’re increasing?”

  “Yes! Finally!”

  “I’m so glad for you!” said Fiona, meaning it, and warmly hugged Nairna, already thinking, in the back of her mind, about sewing some adorable little garments for the baby in addition to the ones she’d already planned for Dallis’s.

  “Logan’s been so patient all these years,” Nairna said, blushing. “It’s not been for lack of trying. But three months ago, my courses ceased, and I’m already showing! And it’s all thanks to Tavia Craig!”

  “Who is that, my dearie?”

  “She’s a wisewoman, and so awfully kind! She cured Logan’s mother of the warts on her hands—they’ve been plaguing her for months — and knew exactly what to do to make his sister’s cough go away!”

  “Yes, but—” Fiona hesitated. Wasn’t there a vast difference between warts and coughs, and difficulty in conceiving a baby? “What does Mother say?”

  “Mother said she wished she’d consulted a wisewoman, for very likely she would have had boys instead of girls.”

  Fiona refrained from commenting that Mother’s regret implied a desire to negate her daughters’ very existence, then immediately was ashamed of this sour thought, for she knew that Mother loved them all. “Well, it’s wonderful news to be sure, my dearie!” she said instead.

  “Yes, and Tavia is certain it’s a boy! Logan is so excited!”

  “So excited about what?” came a familiar voice, and at the sound of it Fiona felt as if her stomach dropped like a boulder to her toes. She took a breath, and tilted her head toward Logan Munro. She was considered very tall for a woman, but Logan was even taller. Once upon a time, she had loved that about him, loved gazing up into his deep, dark eyes.

  “Excited about the baby, Logan!” said Nairna breathlessly, her pretty face lighting up as it always did when she saw him. “I’ve just been telling Fiona all about it—about him!”

  “Yes,” Logan replied, smiling, “it’s wonderful news, my beautiful one.”

  Nairna blushed all over again, then said, “Oh! I have another question for Dallis about the lying-in! Stay, darling, and talk to Fiona! Doesn’t she look lovely in that blue gown?”

  “Indeed she does.” Logan watched as his wife hurried away.

  With that crest of thick black hair and juttingly straight nose, his profile was magnificent. And how often, how very often, had he called her, Fiona, my beautiful one … Fiona tamped down a treacherous rush of sweet memories as Logan turned to her again. Behind them, along the stone corridor, tramped a raucous horde of guests, singing “At the Auld Trysting Tree” at the top of their lungs and banging—God in heaven, where had they gotten pots and pans?—on the walls. Yet Logan never took his eyes from her. It was another one of his attractions: he always made her feel as if she was the only one in any room, at any gathering …

  Fiona almost felt as if she was melting in the delicious warmth of Logan’s proximity. The years seemed t
o suddenly dissolve between them—she was once again a romantic, dazzled eighteen-year-old, and she found herself leaning a little closer to him, her lips parting expectantly, her limbs all at once feeling wonderfully heavy. Then, with a kind of inner gasp, she thought in horror: You fool! Nairna! Your sister!

  She drew herself up to her full height, said coolly, “My congratulations to you both,” and briskly walked past Logan Munro, away from him, ignoring the fact that in his expression, his half-smile, was a sympathetic sort of understanding, as if a little secret bond, unshakable, unbreakable, drew them together.

  A night and a day later, the celebrations were finally over. Her sisters had left with their husbands. Nearly all the guests had gone, too, and the weary servants were hard at work cleaning up the keep—no small task given the broken dishes, the spilled food, the toppled bottles of spirits, the rushes in the common areas sodden and bad-smelling, and everywhere discarded items of clothing which made Fiona frown as she made her way up to the solarium where Mother spent much of her time. Here, at least, was order and cleanliness. Well, actually, to be honest there was more cleanliness than order, for Mother, as dear and delightful as she was, wasn’t known for her organizational abilities.

  Still, as afternoon sunlight poured in through the long bank of narrow windows that had once served as arrow-loops, the solarium was a pleasant chamber, with the scattered piles of fabric, the great loom in the corner, Mother’s harp, old copies of La Belle Assemblée, shawls and ribbons and colorful spools of thread all combining in a scene of familiar and cheerful disarray.

  “Hello,” said Fiona cautiously, standing at the threshold.

  Mother looked up from the escritoire at which she sat and put aside her quill, her face brightening in welcome, then promptly clouding. “Oh, Fiona dear,” she said uneasily.

  Fiona came in and threw herself into a chair by the fire, stretching out her long legs to warm her toes in their tall boots. “What’s done is done, Mother,” she replied, unable to keep a slight note of defiance from her voice.

  “Yes, but to challenge Niall Birk and Walraig Tevis to an arm-wrestling match?” said Mother with plaintive dismay. “And then to beat them both!”

  “I can’t brag about it, Mother, for they were both so drunk they could hardly sit up.”

  “Brag about it? Oh my goodness, why would you? So unmaidenly! And then to dare Ross Stratton to compete with you in a footrace!”

  “It wasn’t a fair match either. He was drunk and for some reason he had on someone else’s shoes, and they were far too small for him.”

  Mother gave a little moan. “Oh, Fiona, this is dreadful!”

  “Yes, but Mother, I had to get rid of them, don’t you see? Everyone mocked them so badly that they left before dawn, without trying to propose to me again. And now Father can’t pressure me into accepting them. Wasn’t it clever of me?”

  “Well, yes, of course it was, darling, you’ve always been so terribly clever, but now …” Mother looked nervously toward the doorway. She lowered her voice and went on: “But now your father is furious with you, and he’s completely taken away your dowry again.”

  “I don’t care about the dowry, but—” Fiona felt a frisson of anxiety on Mother’s behalf. “— he’s not angry at you, is he?”

  “Oh no, dear, it’s all you, I’m afraid. But without a dowry, and for who knows how long, what is going to happen to you? Who will want to marry you?”

  Fiona knew that Mother didn’t mean to be hurtful. But still it did hurt, a little, in some obscure, unprotected area of her heart. “Why, I’ll go on living here forever,” she said lightly. “When Father isn’t angry at me, he finds me quite useful to have around. In fact, when he’s in a pleasant state of mind, or is a little inebriated, he’s often said I’m nearly as good as a son—such a way as I have with the crops and the animals.”

  Mother brightened again. “That’s true. And you’re such a help in the keep! Speaking of which, Cousin Isobel would like to switch bedchambers. She’s worried her room is overlarge and requires too much wood to keep warm. I’ve tried to dissuade her—we’ve wood enough for an army!—but she insists! Please could you talk to Mrs. Abercrombie about it?”

  “Cousin Isobel is still here? Ugh. Why?”

  “Yes, dear, she’s come for a nice long visit. You ought not to scowl so. You’ll get wrinkles before your time, and that won’t help matters! I invited her to stay on because she’s suffered some financial reverses. She’s had to give up her house in Edinburgh, you know, the poor thing. Where are you going?” Mother added, as her firstborn stood and shook out her skirts.

  “Riding.” Fiona glanced down at Mother’s cluttered escritoire. “Your quill needs mending. Would you like me to do that?”

  “No, thank you, darling, I’ve quite finished my letters. Six thank-you notes, and I even managed to write to Henrietta Penhallow—I’ve owed her a letter for these many ages.”

  Penhallow. That name again. How odd. “Who is she, Mother?”

  “A distant connection in England, whom I met in London many years ago.”

  “Oh,” said Fiona, losing interest. Not only did she want to avoid Cousin Isobel, she’d prefer to get out of the keep without encountering Father if possible, while his temper was running high. “Well, I’m off to see Osla Tod, and bring her a tincture for her toothache. You know she lives beyond the bogs, so don’t expect me for dinner.”

  “Oh dear, must you stay out past sunset? You’ll take a groom, won’t you?”

  “No.” Fiona spoke without rancor. Mother knew she’d left off having a groom accompany her on her rides for many years now, but still she faithfully asked, in the same sweet and hopeful way. Fiona dropped a kiss on Mother’s smooth white forehead and quickly left the solarium, her boot-heels clicking sharply on the cold flagstone flooring. She spoke with the housekeeper Mrs. Abercrombie about accommodating Cousin Isobel’s request, and it was with relief that some half an hour later she was on her stallion Gealag and riding fast—away from the keep, away from Father, away from them all. Sleep had not come to her last night and now she was fatigued to her very bones, but at least she could, for these few snatched hours, be free.

  She loved the feel of the cool afternoon air ruffling her hair and her skirts, loved the vibrant green of summer all around her and the great blue sky above. Loved gripping the leather reins in her bare hands and how willingly her big white horse carried her along. It was almost like flying. Her tired mind calmed, quieted; slowly, slowly, almost without realizing it, she drifted into a pleasant daydream.

  Herself. In a lovely blue gown. Dancing, swirling circles on a polished wood floor, her lacy hem fluttering around her ankles. Held in strong arms. Her heart beating hard. Looking up. Looking up into dark eyes, alight with passion …

  No.

  Fiona snapped out of it. Gripped Gealag’s reins more tightly. And fiercely summoned a new image into her mind.

  A small piece of paper.

  Rheumatism—Mrs. Abercrombie—chamomile? Cat’s claw?

  Order new parcel of books

  Sheep & rupturing blisters—research. Cause, treatment?

  Visit northern cow pasture tomorrow

  Gift for Mother’s birthday?

  Start sewing baby things

  Gealag—to be shoed next week

  NEW RUSHES brought in tomorrow WITHOUT FAIL

  And so it went. Today she would visit old Osla Tod. Tomorrow she would cross off as many items as she could from her list. The next day, she would do the same. And the day after that as well. There was, after all, a kind of comfort in knowing what the weeks and months ahead would bring.

  But Fiona was wrong.

  Five days later, the letter came—the letter that would change everything.

  Chapter 2

  Castle Tadgh, Scotland

  Three weeks earlier …

  Pain. So much pain. His head felt as if it were clamped in the devil’s own vise, and his temples throbbed with fiendish intensity,
as steady and relentless as his own heartbeat. His limbs were stiff and cramped. His mouth was dry and his closed eyelids were but a feeble shield against the stabbing brightness assaulting them.

  Alasdair Penhallow groaned softly.

  Slowly, reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

  Various items of note swam sluggishly up to the surface of his dazed consciousness.

  He was sitting (more or less) in the laird’s throne-like chair of beautifully carved wood, in his own Great Hall. Squeezed next to him was a voluptuous black-haired lass, dressed only in her chemise, deeply and peacefully asleep, with her head lolled back and a gentle snore issuing from between cherry-red lips. Late-morning sun illuminated the Hall with a cheery intensity that seemed, in his current pained state, to be more than a little incongruous, and possibly even slightly jeering.

  All around the Hall—on the floor, in chairs, even atop the long tables—were men and women, sleeping, stretched out, curled up, flat on their backs, sometimes intertwined. Bottles, dishes and goblets, clothing and hats, candles burned down to their wicks, lutes and pipes and drums, all lay scattered without rhyme or reason. Someone—dear God, hopefully not himself—had knocked over one of the massive suits of armor which now lay sprawled by the fireplace in a very undignified way, with a spangled slipper sticking out of the visor.

  Alasdair frowned and with an effort turned his aching eyes to the woman with whom he was sharing the laird’s seat. Who in the hell was she? He had no idea. Uncle Duff had invited a lot of people to the celebration he’d organized in honor of his nephew’s thirty-fifth birthday, and they’d brought a lot of people, and by midnight the Great Hall had been literally packed with guests.

  Alasdair smiled faintly as the memories came flooding back. A good time had been had by all. The feasting, the singing, the dancing, and more …

  So now he was thirty-five. He wondered if he should feel a little different. But why would he? A birthday merely represented, in an arbitrary way, the passage of time. Here he was, in the vigorous prime of his life, healthy as a horse, strong as an ox, rich as a king—enjoying an uninterrupted spate of years in which he did exactly as he pleased, whenever and wherever he liked.