The Laird Takes a Bride

by Lisa Berne

  And yet … and yet there was something about it which baffled her, though she could not, at the moment, specify what exactly it was.

  “You stare, Miss Fiona, and why not?” said Duff MacDermott. “Here you see the hand of the laird’s mother—my sister, God rest her soul. According to common report, it was his father—my brother-in-law, may he also rest in peace—who undertook the renovations you’ll see everywhere, but it was really Gormelia. Never happier than when she was having old curtains ripped down and new ones put up, and fancy new dishes brought in by the hundreds!” He chuckled, which made his beard ripple in an undeniably fascinating way. “She’s probably redecorating heaven as we speak, and telling Saint Peter he needs a modish new desk at the Pearly Gates! I suppose,” he added thoughtfully, “she did so much here in the castle, during her day, there’ll be little for the laird’s new wife to do, beyond producing offspring, of course.”

  “Of course,” echoed Fiona, sardonically. “And I’m sure the castle practically runs itself.”

  “Now, now, don’t trouble your head with domestic affairs, my dear,” he said with an avuncular condescension that made Fiona’s teeth grit. “Come! The laird’s waiting for you.”

  With what struck her as overdone courtliness, MacDermott proceeded to usher her to a tasteful little sofa near the cozily crackling fire, and drew Cousin Isobel away to a seat on the opposite side of the room. Fiona sat, and, opposite her, so did Alasdair Penhallow. Stubbornly she gazed at the leaping flames within the hearth. Here she was, just as she’d angrily remarked last week to Father, on display like some poor dumb animal before a reprobate.

  Even though—she now realized—she’d mixed up her metaphors, it was a ridiculous situation. And a demeaning one.

  She sat very straight. Set her lips firmly together. Thought of other things.

  Go to stables tomorrow—all well with Gealag? Our other horses?

  Check on carriage also. Fleas. How to treat?

  Cook re: recipes

  Find something to read. Library here?

  Write to Dallis & Rossalyn

  “We ought, perhaps, to have some conversation.”

  His voice was deep, calm, pleasant.

  Unwillingly, Fiona was jolted back into the present moment. She tore her gaze away from the fire.

  So here, sitting across from her, was the infamous laird of Castle Tadgh.

  He was tall (but not as tall as Logan Munro), and his shoulders were, she supposed, broad enough (though not as broad as Logan’s). Altogether he had a big, lean, active sort of look about him, and wore with casual distinction the traditional evening wear of black coat, black breeches, and black stockings, with the usual white waistcoat and a white cravat, tied gracefully and without ostentation. But goodness, that dark red hair, clipped very short, and those ordinary brown eyes!

  Oh, well, perhaps not completely ordinary: they did seem rather brilliantly alive, with an unusual kind of yellow-gold gleam to them, and he had nice dark eyelashes and strongly marked dark eyebrows. Still, what was red hair to black hair, brown eyes to deep dark ones? He really wasn’t her type at all.

  Nonetheless, Fiona had a sudden, unexpected pang of self-conscious regret over the gown she had deliberately worn, a severely cut, rather high-necked, somewhat dated dress of a nondescript blue color. Then again, what did it matter? Composedly she folded her hands in her lap. “Conversation, laird?” she replied coolly. “To what end?”

  His expression of polite interest gave way to one of mild surprise. “Why, so we might get to know one another a little better.”

  “With respect, laird, I’ve no desire to know you better. All I ask is that you make your choice as soon as possible, so that I might return home.”

  “You do not wish to be my wife?”

  “No.”

  He lifted one dark eyebrow, and said lazily, easily, in his deep voice, “You do not find my person comely?”

  Fiona found herself leaning back, as if retreating from what felt like a wave of pure masculine charm, warm and seductive. She’d had her fill of that from Logan. “Not particularly.”

  “You are blunt.”

  “I beg your pardon. Would you prefer the social lie?”

  Instead of answering her question, he posed one of his own. “What sort of man do you find attractive?”

  An all-too-familiar image flashed into her head and just as quickly she banished it. “It’s not relevant.”

  He said nothing, only eyed her appraisingly for several deliberate moments. “You are twenty-seven, I believe, Miss Douglass?”

  “Yes.”

  “And unmarried. Why?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “You also have three younger sisters who all are married.”

  She gave him a challenging glance. “How came you to know that?”

  “We have a resident authority on such matters. No doubt you’ll meet her by and bye.”

  “I’d rather be gone before that happens.” Fiona sat up straight again and spoke with a new earnestness. “See here, laird. We both know you don’t want me, and that I don’t want you. Let’s spare each other all these false courtship rituals. I’ll bide my time, and you can have fun watching the other three jump through your hoops.”

  “Yes, you’re very blunt. What makes you think I don’t want you?”

  Fiona smiled at him humorlessly. “Do you?” She watched as he shifted in his seat, as those dark brows drew together. Finally he leaned against the cushions of the sofa on which he sat, and crossed one leg over the other, his expression now one of relaxed alertness.

  She thought of a cat, playing with a mouse, and firmly set her jaw.

  “Your father, so I’ve heard, is a hard man,” Alasdair Penhallow remarked.

  She was thrown for a moment by the change of subject. Then, cautiously: “Yes, he can be very hard indeed. But he’s also a canny chieftain. It’s thanks to his diligence that our clan thrives in many ways.”

  “I’ve heard that too. Still, some women, under such circumstances, might be eager to make a new home elsewhere.”

  “Yes, some women might, I suppose.”

  “Especially if that home was a fine one.”

  “An added inducement for some, perhaps,” she said coldly.

  “Don’t you want children, Miss Fiona Douglass?”

  She considered prevaricating, but it really didn’t seem worth the trouble. “Yes.”

  “Well, then?”

  “I’ll not marry only for that reason.”

  “Don’t you think you ought to hurry, at your age?”

  His voice was not unkind. It was even gentle. But still his words stung. “All the more reason to choose one of the others,” she snapped. “As you’ve no doubt observed, they’re considerably younger than I am.”

  “I have observed that, yes.”

  “And yet you sit here wasting your time with me.”

  “Wasting my time? Hardly. I find you very … entertaining.”

  Fiona could feel a hot, angry flush overtaking her face and throat, and she recalled Mother’s breathless report from a few weeks ago:

  Alasdair Penhallow has been scandalizing the Eight Clans for years with his disgraceful behavior. Not just on special occasions but every day! Consuming spirits to excess, presiding over debaucheries, and so on! A monster of irresponsibility!

  “Yes,” she said to him now, her voice full of pointed meaning, “I understand that you’re very fond of … entertainment, laird.”

  Those brows drew together again. “And what might you mean by that, miss?”

  “It would hardly be maidenly of me to say.”

  “You needn’t spare me. I have no delicate sensibilities.”

  “Obviously.” Fiona permitted herself a slight, a very slight sneer.

  He leaned forward, frowning. “What in the devil’s name are you insinuating?”

  “I’ve heard some things about your … habits, laird, which would hardly inspire in a rational wo
man an ambition to become your wife.”

  “Are you criticizing me? You don’t even know me.”

  “Nor do I want to. We’ve come full circle, haven’t we?” Fiona smiled triumphantly, as if she had scored a well-deserved point. And indeed, she could almost feel the tension in those broad shoulders of his as he said, slowly:

  “You give the distinct impression, miss, of being a shrew.”

  “I haven’t the slightest interest in what you think of me.”

  “I pity the man who marries you.”

  “As long as we’ve established it won’t be you, you may disburse your pity as freely as you like.”

  “Although now I begin to wonder why any man would want to.”

  “Now who’s being blunt, laird?” It gave Fiona what did seem like slightly juvenile satisfaction to have shaken him from his posture of calm politeness, but he certainly deserved it, for his gibe about her age if nothing else. Deliberately, even a little ostentatiously, she settled herself into the corner of the sofa. Ugh. The pillow there was as stiff as a block of wood, and its elaborate beaded decorations pressed uncomfortably into her spine. All in all, a stupid pillow. It looked good, but felt bad. No doubt an acquisition of the Penhallow’s sainted mother. Fiona jabbed her elbow into it, then looked measuringly at Alasdair Penhallow. Now that they’d cleared the air between them—in a manner of speaking—she couldn’t resist satisfying her curiosity. “So did you ride your horse all throughout this castle?”

  His frown deepened. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It was just something I heard.” Then Fiona remembered the other part of the story. That he’d done it stark naked. My, my. It was one thing to hear gossip when the person it was about was elsewhere; it was another thing entirely to think about that person without any clothes on when he was sitting right across from you. And even when that person wasn’t your type and you didn’t like him but he was still a tall, broad-shouldered, muscular man, who seemed to literally radiate provocative virility …

  A hot red flush suffused not just Fiona’s face, but her neck and chest, too. Resisting a powerful, even desperate urge to fan herself with her hand, guiltily she met his eyes, those brilliant amber eyes, and saw that he was looking at her with a hard quizzical gleam in them.

  “You heard that I rode my horse here? Inside Castle Tadgh?”

  Fiona cleared her throat a little. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “On a dare.”

  “On a dare as a grown man?”

  “Uh … yes.”

  “And you think I’d do it? Likely breaking the spirit of my horse by forcing it to do such a thing, and quite possibly risking its life for a prank?”

  Well, when he put it that way … And clearly it would be a bad idea to mention the part about him not wearing any clothes. Fiona now felt more than a little foolish. Plus, that horrible red flush was still making her feel like someone had been poking at her with a lit candle. So she took refuge in prim hostility again.

  “Since I don’t know you, laird, it’s not unreasonable to suppose you capable of anything.”

  Now he smiled at her in a way she didn’t like one bit.

  “I don’t know you either, Miss Douglass, but to be listening to gossip? And you such a mature woman, too. I’d never have credited it.”

  “I notice you didn’t deny it,” she snapped, nettled despite herself.

  “Since you seem to have an active imagination, I’ll let you decide for yourself.”

  Oh, splendid. It was as if he was making her picture him stark naked on a horse. With a flash of temper Fiona got to her feet. “Well!” she said, with an affability that was utterly false. “This has been instructional, laird, hasn’t it? Now, if you’ll excuse my cousin and me … ? I’m sure those other young ladies are simply champing at their bits for their time with you. An apt metaphor, don’t you agree, for are they not creatures to be bought and sold?”

  “I will excuse you with pleasure,” said Alasdair Penhallow, his smile a little grim, standing up as well.

  She dipped a little curtsy and left the room with long strides. That same feeling of mildly spiteful satisfaction remained even as she had to endure the breathless chatter of Cousin Isobel, who struggled to keep up with her along the various passageways to their rooms.

  “Oh! That insufferable Duff MacDermott! I simply observed what a handsome couple you and Alasdair Penhallow make, and he had the gall to—I wish you would slow down, Fiona dear! Why must you lope so? It’s not at all proper, I do assure you!—What was I saying? Oh, yes, that dreadful man, and his beard! I could barely keep my eyes from it the entire time. Why, he scratched at it in the most vulgar way!”

  A sidelong glance revealed to Fiona that Cousin Isobel was herself digging her fingers into her armpits, but nobly she refrained from comment.

  “This castle is massive, is it not? Oh, my dear, what a thing to be mistress of it! Are you quite sure we ought to go left here? Yes? Well, thank goodness you remember where they placed us! Isn’t that a magnificent hanging? How ancient it looks, yet so well-preserved! But I haven’t yet told you what that MacDermott said! He commented that you and the laird seemed a most ill-suited couple, with such very different temperaments! The cheek of that man!”

  Fiona caught at Cousin Isobel’s arm and steered her away from going into someone else’s room. “He’s right, you know.”

  Her cousin fairly quivered with outrage. “Nonsense! Such matters can’t be deduced so quickly! Although with dear Logan and yourself, of course—but that’s neither here nor there! Do slow down, Fiona dear! Else I fear a palpitation may come on, which would never do, as we’ve so much planned for tomorrow! Have you heard? An excursion to the Keep o’ the Mòr, an old monastery. Isn’t that delightful?”

  “I adore crumbling ruins,” answered Fiona sarcastically, “as every female must. If we’re lucky, there will be a hermit, or possibly even a ghost or two.”

  “Oh, no, do you think so? A ghost, really? Surely not, in this day and age! But a hermit would be most interesting! I’ve always longed to see one. What on earth do they eat, do you suppose? And how do they protect their clothing from the damp? It seems terribly unhealthy. But what was I saying? Oh! Yes! Of course Laird Penhallow will choose you, for you are infinitely superior to those other girls.”

  “Well, I’m certainly taller than them. Here’s your door, Cousin. Good night.” Fiona practically bundled Isobel into her room, and swiftly went on to her own, sorry she had neglected to bring her knitting from home, and that she had finished the two books she’d brought along with her. It was going to be a long night. But then, they all were.

  Later, much later that evening, Alasdair lay with his head resting on interlaced fingers and his elbows akimbo. He was a big man, but even so his own self took up but little space within the great laird’s bed. Four massive oaken posts, carved long ago, upheld a canopy and looped hangings of rich cream-colored linen, upon which had been skillfully embroidered figures of falcons, hawks, eagles, does and stags, foxes and wildcats. At this canopy Alasdair gazed unseeingly, for he was thinking about the four women.

  About Wynda of the extraordinary bosom, so generously displayed, he could only wonder what exactly was the jewel on her pendant necklace, it having disappeared like a climber descending between two close-set boulders. He supposed she had talked to him in the drawing-room, but for better or for worse he retained nothing, as he had primarily exerted himself not to stare at her deeply fascinating balconniere.

  Little Mairi had told him, in considerable detail, about her dog: where he slept (on his very own pillow, right next to hers), what he ate, when he evacuated his bowels, his fear of squirrels, his hatred of baths, his love for a nice marrow-bone.

  Green eyes sparkling, Janet was full of enthusiasm for the morrow’s outing. “An ancient monastery!” she’d cried, clapping her hands. “What fun! I simply adore old ruins, the more ramshackle the better! Oh, I do hope there are ghosts. Or a hermit at the very lea
st!”

  He had been obliged to inform her that the keep was entirely free of hermits, and as for ghosts, he had yet to encounter one there.

  Janet had been only temporarily daunted, and smilingly said: “Still, it sounds wonderfully romantic! So Gothic! How I look forward to exploring every inch of it! Now! I want to hear all about you, laird!”

  Now that was the right sort of lass, positive and friendly, excited about visiting a local landmark, a good conversationalist, and all soft and plump and round, like a ripe hothouse peach.

  As opposed to the prickly, sharp-tongued, aloof Miss Fiona Douglass. Her eyes, when they spoke, had been suddenly, strikingly blue against the drabber blue of her gown—and practically crackling with fiery intelligence.

  She was not uninteresting.

  But God’s blood, she’d be a handful for a man.

  Some other man. Not him.

  He liked his private life to be easy, predictable, as smooth as silk. And nothing about Fiona Douglass suggested smooth, easy predictability.

  Besides, she’d made it clear she didn’t want him, either.

  He wondered again why she was still unmarried. Was there, perhaps, a swain anxiously waiting for her back in Wick Bay?

  Oh well, it wasn’t his problem.

  So now there was one lass crossed off his list.

  Still, there was no point in saying anything to her about it. No use in sending her home early, under a cloud of humiliation.

  He thought again about Janet, and Mairi, and Wynda. Good God—Wynda. He spent a few moments imagining himself spending the rest of his life, the rest of his nights, with his face buried between those prodigious, those delicious, yielding breasts.

  His last thought, before sleep claimed him, was of Fiona Douglass, and the recollection that her breasts weren’t prodigious at all.

  Chapter 4

  Riding on Gealag, who confidently ascended the steep, rocky path leading up to the massive crest on which lay the Keep o’ the Mòr, Fiona took in deep breaths of the cool, bracing air as she gazed at the magnificent views all around her: gently rolling green hills, a lush meadow in which heather bloomed a vivid purple-pink, the immense mountain called Ben Macdui, and, past Castle Tadgh, a stunning blue loch, long and deep, whose placid surface reflected, mirror-like, the drifting clouds above.