The Laird Takes a Bride

by Lisa Berne

  Or, stated another way, she was all of twenty-seven.

  Were the best years of her life behind her?

  You face in the wrong direction, lady, you stare at the moon, ever changing.

  The solemn, eerie voice of little wall-eyed Sheila now insinuated itself into her head.

  You look but you do not see. Turn about, lady, turn about.

  Despite herself, Fiona shivered a little in the brisk breeze that swirled about her, playing with the hem of her gown, the white ruffles at her wrists.

  Her slender—bony—wrists.

  My! You have quite the appetite, don’t you? And yet you’re so very slim! One might almost call you skeletal!

  She really shouldn’t have teased Janet Reid like that. Father was right about her sharp, sharp tongue.

  Janet, boldly jumping off that high stone wall, landing as gracefully as a bird.

  Sheila’s eerie voice, directed toward Janet:

  You leap, but should not. You go, but you ought not.

  Fiona’s shiver turned into an involuntary shudder, and she turned her eyes again toward the head of the cavalcade, to where Alasdair Penhallow rode next to Janet Reid, whose emerald ear-bobs glittered so brightly in the sun that it almost hurt to look at her.

  There was a tour of the castle one afternoon; then, on a warm halcyon morning, a walk through the gardens, which were exquisite, followed by another picnic, this one by the river. Those who cared to could fish, and nearby, from a gracious old oak tree hung a wide wooden swing, on which Mairi joyfully allowed herself to be swung back and forth until suddenly she got nauseous, and had to lie down with her head in her mother’s lap.

  On the next day, they all visited an impressive waterfall.

  The day after that, the men went shooting while the ladies hung back and watched; later, there was an archery competition on one of the wide lawns, and here the men were to watch while the ladies drew their bows.

  Fiona looked over at Janet who, wearing a charming gown of snow-white lawn, was inspecting a cluster of arrows laid out on a table. Here, she thought, might be an opportunity to improve relations between them. She joined Janet and said in a pleasant tone:

  “Which do you prefer, Miss Reid, those blue ones or the white ones?”

  Janet turned on her a sparkling look of challenge. “Why? So you can have the ones you like better?”

  Rise above, Fiona reminded herself. “Some people favor broader fletches. I was wondering what you’ve found most effective.”

  “It’s hardly information I’d like to share, Miss Douglass.”

  Fiona tried another, more neutral tack. “You’re from the Lowlands, I believe? I’ve heard archery is very popular there.”

  “Well, and what of it?”

  “You’ve played the sport for a long time?”

  “Oh, yes. But you, of course, have the advantage over me in that regard, Miss Douglass.”

  With an effort, Fiona kept her voice pleasant. “Inevitably, I fear. Have you lived in the Lowlands all your life?”

  “Yes, but I’m looking forward to a change in the very near future.”

  Rise above. “Have you brothers and sisters back home, Miss Reid?”

  “No, and aren’t I lucky? How tedious it must be.”

  “I’ve always felt lucky to have sisters.”

  “Well, and there we go—differing yet again.” Janet smiled, showing all her teeth in a grin that struck Fiona as rather feral. “It’s been lovely having this time with you, dear Miss Douglass. But if you’ll excuse me? I’d like to concentrate on choosing my arrows. I intend to win, you see. Win everything, if you know what I mean.”

  “Miss Reid, it’s only a silly competition. And I’m not your rival.”

  “Well, you’re mine.” And Janet deliberately turned her back to Fiona.

  That was that, then. Fiona was very fond of archery, but withdrew from the event and sat on the sidelines to watch, a goblet of cool lemonade in her hand. Looking on the bright side, she’d at least made the attempt. Also, nobody had dropped a bug down her gown.

  So far.

  Teas, nuncheons, dinners; long, festive evenings in the Great Drawing-room during which the company was treated to performances on the pianoforte by Wynda, whose playing was mediocre despite years of lessons, and also by Janet, who demanded her turn despite very little training, and whose playing was even worse (although glowingly acclaimed by her parents). Mairi sang in her high, sweet, true little voice, and sometimes Alasdair Penhallow joined her, his own deep voice harmonizing very pleasantly.

  After one such duet, Alasdair thanked Mairi MacIntyre, smiling, and looked around the room. He’d already spent a half-hour conversing—if one could call it that—with Wynda Ramsay, whose mangled French made it sometimes difficult to follow her, and then another half-hour with Janet Reid, who was bubbling over with excitement about tomorrow evening’s ball, and so it would have been less than civil of him to not go and talk with Fiona Douglass. Besides, they’d barely spoken a word since his curt rebuff at the Keep o’ the Mòr.

  Looking very self-contained, even rather aloof, she was sitting in an armchair near a window, her head bent over some sewing. She was wearing a white muslin gown, its hem and sleeves embroidered in gold thread, and with the dark green window-hangings behind her creating a vivid contrast, and her pale hair illuminated by flickering candlelight, she reminded him a little of a figure in a painting, perhaps something soft and infinitely subtle by Vermeer.

  She looked up as he approached.

  “May I join you, Miss Douglass?” he asked, a little warily.

  “If you like, laird,” she said politely, and went on sewing.

  He sat down, crossed one leg over the other, and watched her needle flashing in and out of a length of soft crimson flannel. Well, now what? What could they talk about? He’d be circumspect, this time, and avoid any mention of age and marriage. There was always the weather. Christ’s blood, not that, he’d already discussed it ad nauseum with a dozen people tonight. What else? Miss Ramsay had, as far as he could tell, been talking about London, unaware of the fact that he’d never been there and would never, ever set foot anywhere in the whole of England, as he despised everything Sassenach. So London as a conversational topic was decidedly out. Miss Reid, for her part, had gone on and on about dancing. He enjoyed dancing, but to listen to someone soliloquizing about steps, and slippers, and all the dancing-masters she’d had, because they’d had to let go one after another—because they all fell hopelessly in love with her—

  Alasdair shifted restlessly in his chair. It occurred to him that this extended house party was starting to get on his nerves. He’d initially welcomed having a leisurely thirty-five days, but now they were, frankly, starting to drag. Maybe he should make his decision sooner, rather than later. Wouldn’t it have been nice to have had more than four—no, three—viable candidates?

  His mind leaped back to fifteen years ago, to the girl for whom he would have cheerfully moved heaven and earth.

  To Mòrag.

  But she was dead and gone …

  With an iron inflexibility Alasdair brought himself back to the present moment. To the here and now, to reality, to the Tome’s decree, and to his own desire to remain in the here and now, alive.

  Fiona Douglass said, “That was a charming rendition of ‘Annie Laurie.’”

  She’d given him some purchase, and he seized upon it. “Thank you. Do you like to sing?”

  “Not really.”

  “Do you play an instrument?”

  “No. My mother tried to interest me, but I’m not very musical, I’m afraid.”

  “Nor interested in cards, either? You’ve not been joining in.”

  “No. Quite the dull stick, aren’t I?”

  He groped for something else to say. “Dancing?”

  “No.”

  This was not encouraging. “What do you like to do for fun?”

  “I like to ride. And read. And work in my garden. I enjoy sewin
g and knitting, too.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, I do like food.”

  “And?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “I like to ride, and to read, too, Miss Douglass. And I’m fond of a good meal also. But it wouldn’t be enough for me.”

  Fiona shrugged, as if indifferent. “To each his own.”

  He leaned forward. “Do I detect, perhaps, a hint of criticism in your voice?”

  At last she looked up from her sewing, brows lifted. “Why on earth would I criticize you, laird? We’re parting ways soon enough, after all.”

  She was so cool, so composed. So incredibly annoying. He said, edgily, “I could choose you.”

  She laughed. “Against my will? Dear me. What a delightful marriage that would be.”

  He couldn’t stop himself, and replied, with mockery playing in his tone, “After nearly a week together, you haven’t changed your mind about me?”

  “No.”

  To his surprise, the cynical humor faded from her expression and she looked at him very thoughtfully.

  “But I’ve seen how other women respond to you. As if—oh, I don’t know, as if you’re the sun, ever shining, and they’re flowers seeking your warmth.”

  “Very poetic.”

  “A garden metaphor. It seemed to fit.”

  “Yes, but comparing women to flowers? A wee bit stale.”

  “True. I suppose it’s the colorful gowns that made me think of it. The point is that women like you. And you obviously like them.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “I didn’t say there was. There’s no need to be defensive.”

  “I’m not,” he said, defensively.

  “We’ve wandered off track. I’ve also observed how you wear your authority absolutely, but lightly. That you have a nice way with servants. That your clan obeys you without reserve. That you have great material wealth, and you live in a marvelous home in a breathtakingly beautiful part of the world. And yet …”

  “And yet what?” he asked, more sharply than he intended. And yet. Together they were two of the most irritating—defiant—troubling words in the world. God’s blood, but Miss Fiona Douglass got under his skin in a way he didn’t care for one iota. “Should I prepare myself for a catalogue of my faults? Or a further recitation of all the scurrilous gossip you’ve heard about me?”

  Fiona blinked, as if she’d abruptly been jerked from a dream, and focused on his face, on the fiery gem-like brilliance of his eyes. She’d gone and let her tongue run away with her. Again. She’d just been about to say And yet there’s something missing in you.

  Quickly she looked back down at her sewing. At the soft flannel bed-gown she was making for Nairna in her forthcoming confinement. For the baby she had conceived with Logan Munro.

  Fiona almost laughed out loud. And with a certain bitterness. She was a fine one to talk about something missing.

  “And yet nothing, laird,” she said, and to her then came rushing a confusing torrent of thoughts and emotions: a strong desire to change the subject, a painful feeling of vulnerability, a sudden strange wish to see that hard look in his eyes soften. She went on, a little shakily and almost at random:

  “Speaking of gardens, what do you—”

  But here was Janet Reid, young and lovely in her emeralds and silk. “Oh, laird, won’t you show us that card trick again? We all want so much to see it!”

  And she swept him away.

  Fiona kept her eyes on her sewing, glancing up only once, when she heard the now-familiar sound of Alasdair Penhallow laughing. Apparently he’d made the jack of spades appear and disappear seemingly at his will. Sitting on the arm of his uncle Duff’s chair, his white teeth displayed in an engaging smile, Alasdair held the deck in one long-fingered hand as he swept a mock-complacent half-bow while the others applauded.

  “Again!” cried Janet Reid playfully. “I’ll learn your ruse, laird, I swear I will!”

  “Never, Miss Reid,” he answered, just as playfully. “I must keep some of my secrets intact.”

  “To be sure, to be sure!” chimed in Duff MacDermott, chuckling, lifting his brandy glass in salute. “Come hell or high water, a man’s life is his own!” He saw Isobel frowning at him and added facetiously, “Begging your pardon, ma’am, at my rough language!” Then he finished his brandy at a gulp and managed with only partial success to suppress a burp.

  It was at this precise moment that Fiona realized she was getting tired of this absurd event at Castle Tadgh. Being around Alasdair Penhallow was getting increasingly less pleasant, for somehow, he seemed to make her question things about herself —her life—in an unsettling way.

  Well, so what if she was a dull stick?

  It was nobody’s business but hers.

  Fiona looked back down again at the crimson flannel she’d selected with such care—its color would set off to great advantage Nairna’s white complexion and dark hair—and felt her heart twist within her. Grimly she went back to her sewing, and was glad, glad, when the evening was over and she could escape to her luxurious bedchamber, shutting the door firmly behind her. But some ten minutes later, as she sat at the dressing-table, brushing out her hair with long strokes of the brush, there was an agitated tap on the door.

  “Yes?” Fiona said reluctantly, already knowing who it was.

  “My dear, may I come in?”

  “Certainly, Cousin.”

  Isobel opened the door and hurried inside, very nearly quivering with outrage, and plunked herself in the little chair next to the dressing-table. “You’ll never guess what that awful man told me!”

  “Which awful man?”

  “Why, Mr. MacDermott, of course!”

  “Ah.” Fiona didn’t stop brushing. “Let me guess. He loves you and wants to marry you,” she said flippantly.

  “My dear! What in heaven’s name are you saying? If I didn’t know better, I would think you’ve been imbibing! No, Mr. MacDermott—who decidedly had been drinking! Did you see how many brandies he consumed?—told me that the local gentlemen are placing bets among themselves as to whom the laird will choose!”

  “Oh, who cares? Some men do that sort of thing all the time. I remember one night Father went outside with his cronies, put down a pan of oatmeal, and they bet each other as to how long it would be before a raccoon would come along and eat it.”

  “Really?” inquired Cousin Isobel, diverted. “Who won?”

  “Nobody. One of the dogs got out and ate it.”

  “Well, that simply proves my point about betting! At any rate, Mr. MacDermott says that Janet Reid—and by the way, I’m nearly positive she cheated during the archery competition!—is the frontrunner, and that you and Wynda Ramsay are tied for last. It’s outrageous, and so I told that man, but he only laughed. I vow I had to stop myself from tweaking that beard of his!” Isobel’s eyes now shone with tears. “Fiona, dear, I’m so sorry we ever came here! I practically forced the girl who brings my chocolate in the mornings to tell me all about Alasdair Penhallow, and the things she said! I absolutely cannot repeat them to you. But the drinking, and the wenching! I’ve never been more horrified in my life. Why, for his birthday celebration last month—no. I cannot repeat it. But the drinking, and the wenching! I know this sounds dreadful, but I’m glad you’re last! I wish we could leave tomorrow!”

  Fiona’s hand halted, and, not for the first time, she puzzled over Cousin Isobel’s lightning-fast thought process—if it really could be considered a thought process at all. Were little Sheila standing by, she would in all probability say, You are a leaf in the wind, madam, blown hither and yon, without rudder or sail. Then Fiona went back to brushing her hair, with long, deliberate strokes. “If it’s a comfort to you, Cousin, I couldn’t care less where I’m situated in the rankings. But given that I’m faring so poorly, the odds are good you’ll get your wish.”

  Isobel brightened. “That is a comfort to me, dear! Now! What are you going to wea
r to the ball tomorrow night?”

  “Oh, good heavens, what a bother. You know I don’t dance. I’d much rather stay here and have a bath and read a book.”

  “But all the local gentry are to come, and there’s to be a full orchestra—and I heard they may play some waltzes! Oh, I’d love to try that. It’s been so long since I’ve danced …”

  “You have my permission,” said Fiona, bored, and stood up. “Now, may I escort you to the door? I’m to bed, for—” She smiled a little, but very ironically. “For I need my beauty sleep, you know.”

  This had instant appeal to Cousin Isobel, who at once departed in a hurried bustle, only pausing on the threshold to adjure Fiona, most earnestly, to sleep on her back, by far the best preservative of the female complexion. When Fiona did get into her bed, she blew out her candle and promptly turned onto her side. And stared, without expression, without hope, into the darkness.

  The ball was a huge success, and Mairi MacIntyre was indubitably the belle of it, looking so much like a fairy princess in her shimmering white gown that Janet Reid was catapulted into a barely contained fury. From her seat among the matrons and dowagers, Fiona observed with mild interest as Janet threw herself into every dance with a coquettish energy bordering on abandon, and also she noticed that while Alasdair Penhallow danced every dance—although not with her, for she adamantly refused all offers including his—he also was several times in deep discussion with little clusters of the local gentlemen, their voices low and their faces serious.

  It was a new glimpse of the great Penhallow: no smile, no laugh, no light riposte or lively flirtation.

  What, Fiona wondered, was going on?

  Her curiosity was heightened when, the next morning, she went to the stables to have Gealag made ready for a ride and was informed by Begbie with gruff politeness that the laird had forbidden such activities for all his guests.

  Not long after that, at breakfast, Duff MacDermott told everyone to remain inside.

  “Oh, but why?” said Janet, scowling. “We were to hunt today, and I was so looking forward to it!”

  “Laird’s orders.”

  “Where is the laird? And if these are his orders, he ought to be telling us himself!”