The Laird Takes a Bride

by Lisa Berne

  Looking goaded, Duff said, “There’ve been some problems from the Dalwhinnie clan. They’re notorious horse-thieves—and worse —and in the last day or two have gotten too close to home for the laird’s comfort.”

  “What do you mean by ‘worse’?” cried Mairi, her face as white as snow.

  Janet laughed scornfully. “How stupid it all is! I’m not afraid in the least! I think it’s terribly exciting!”

  “No, it’s dreadful!” worriedly put in the father of Wynda Ramsay. “What is being done?”

  “The laird and a goodly number of his men are patrolling as I speak, and he’s set other men to guard the castle and the stables. But as a precaution, he asks that everyone obey him in this matter.”

  There were nervous murmurs among the guests, and many went immediately to their own quarters, as if to barricade themselves from harm. An ominous quiet seemed to descend upon the castle, and the air itself to vibrate with unease. Fiona saw Cousin Isobel, anxious and fluttering, to her bedchamber, then went to her own rooms where she changed out of her light morning-gown into a heavier day-dress, fastening underneath it a large pair of heavy cotton pockets. Hardly fashionable, but very practical, especially at a time like this.

  Fiona pulled on her tall sturdy boots, braided her hair, and removed from one of her trunks a flat leather case. In it were her pistols. Carefully she checked them, loaded them, slid them into her pockets. Finally she wrapped a large, warm tartan shawl about her shoulders, and made her way downstairs. When she came to a side hallway that led outdoors and to the stables, she encountered Duff MacDermott emerging from stairs that, she assumed, led to the cellars, for in each hand he carried a tall bottle of some spirit or another.

  “Here now, lass!” he sputtered. “What’re you about? Can’t leave the castle! Laird’s orders, don’t you know!”

  “Stand aside, old man,” answered Fiona coldly. “If you believe I’m going to allow the Douglass horses to be harmed, you’re even stupider than I thought.”

  “There are guards, and grooms!”

  “Yes. But they’re my horses, and I take care of my own.”

  Duff was plainly so astonished—and also, perhaps, already half-drunk—that he made only a feeble resistance as Fiona strode past him.

  She met with stouter opposition when she reached the stables, but brushed it aside with such cool implacability that reluctantly, the men allowed her to go inside. She checked on the Douglass’s carriage horses. Satisfied, she found a stool and placed it just outside Gealag’s stall. Softly she spoke to Gealag, who with a troubled whinny had stuck his great white head over the gate; she stroked his velvety ears and forehead, gave him some chunks of sugar, and at length he calmed, relaxed. His head drooped and he seemed almost to lapse into an easy slumber.

  Fiona sat on the stool, pulled her shawl tightly around her to ward off the morning chill, and waited. Aside from low-voiced exchanges among the men from time to time, all was quiet. The long hours ticked by, and still Fiona sat, upright, listening.

  Then, as the cheerful yellow sunlight of afternoon reached its peak, she heard in the distance faint, hoarse shouts and the muted crack of muskets firing. She slid her hands into her pockets and groped for the reassuring feel of cool metal.

  The men muttered; moved about, shuffled their feet as if longing to be out and into the fray.

  “Stay at your posts, lads,” one of the guards commanded. “The laird said we must stay.”

  “Aye,” Fiona heard them say, “Aye,” and was impressed by their instant obedience.

  Suddenly, startling her, there was a commotion from within, protests from the men, and Fiona caught the high-pitched sound of a woman—a girl—laughing.

  Oh, Lord in heaven, no, she thought angrily, standing up.

  Floating to her from across the vast stables came Janet Reid’s voice, gay and vibrant.

  “Move, you dolts! I saw them from my window! I’m going to show the laird that I’m just like Scáthach!”

  The sound of rapid hoofbeats. A triumphant peal of laughter.

  “Marston, get your horse, quickly, man, and you, Waldroup, get my own!” barked that same guard, “the rest of you stay here,” and for a few seconds, Fiona was so furious at Janet she considered the simple expedient of doing nothing. But she remembered her own words to Alasdair Penhallow—I don’t suppose she can help herself, especially given how monstrously her parents indulge her … And she’s so young — and thought of her little sisters, and in a flash she had pulled open the stall door, thrown a bridle over Gealag’s head, was on that broad white back, astride it, and riding after the foolish, the terribly foolish Janet Reid.

  Fiona burst into bright sunlight, and saw ahead of her Janet on a raw young piebald too strong for her. Nor was Janet a capable enough rider to be on him without a saddle. The piebald bolted, veering toward a cluster of men in ragged tartans, their faces painted blue and all of them wielding muskets and swords. Janet screamed, a high, desperate sound that carried all too clearly over the shouting, and to her right came an answering shout from—quickly Fiona glanced to the side as she bent low over the racing Gealag—Alasdair Penhallow, riding fast on his bay toward Janet, a large group of his men right behind him.

  Fiona saw him say something over his shoulder to the men, and several of them immediately separated, making straight toward the blue-faced men, and he continued toward Janet, whose screaming seemed to go on and on, as frantically she pulled on the piebald’s reins. Behind Fiona came hoofbeats from the stable, but not quickly enough; she herself gained on Janet, got closer, but when she was about fifty feet away, watched helplessly as the piebald, plainly resenting the desperate rider sawing clumsily on its reins, twisted its mighty head and reared up on its hind legs, sending Janet tumbling to the ground, where she lay very still.

  Within seconds, Alasdair Penhallow was there, had leaped from his horse, knelt down by that unmoving form. There was a whoop from behind him and a crack, and Alasdair abruptly pitched forward. One of the Dalwhinnies, some thirty paces away, grinned and dropped his musket, then reached for the other one strapped across his chest. He cocked it. Aimed it at Alasdair. Wanting to be sure the laird was dead.

  But he hadn’t reckoned on Fiona, who had swiftly brought Gealag to a halt, slid to the ground. Pulled out from her pocket one of her pistols, and without hesitation shot the blue-faced man in the heart. Looking surprised, he dropped the musket and crumpled to the ground. Fiona pulled out her other pistol and held it steady, keeping watch, waiting until Alasdair’s men had killed—been killed—and captured any remaining Dalwhinnies, and it was all over.

  It wasn’t till much later, when Fiona was alone in her bedchamber, that she cried, covering her face with hands that still smelled of gunpowder and steel.

  Cried without making a sound, and for a very long time.

  Then, slowly, carefully, she washed her hands. Dried them, and her face, too.

  And she went to find Janet’s parents, to see if she could do anything to help them.

  Chapter 5

  Dr. Colquhoun had come and gone, telling Alasdair he must remain in bed for several days longer, for though the wound in his shoulder was healing well enough, infection remained a danger, movement could set him to bleeding again, and the fever still flared from time to time.

  “You’ve lost enough blood as it is, laird,” the doctor had sternly said, “and if you don’t eat more of that good bone broth, I’ll come and feed you myself.”

  With his sound arm Alasdair now waved away the bowl his manservant Grahame was proffering. “What day is it?”

  “It’s Wednesday, laird,” answered Grahame.

  “No. How many days is it since I was injured?”

  “It’s been a week, laird. Laird, may I not give you just a wee bit of broth?”

  “No.” Alasdair did the sum in his head. He was nowhere near the deadline of thirty-five days. Still, he’d had the news from Grahame, and there was no point in putting off the inevitable. “S
end for Miss Douglass and her chaperone.”

  “Aye, laird.”

  While he waited, Alasdair hitched himself up on his pillows, ignoring the stab of pain this induced, and ran a hand along his jaw, bristly with beard. He looked at Cuilean, who lay in a large shaggy ball near his feet.

  “Well, sir?” he said, in a rough voice which imperfectly concealed his affection. “No gestures of condolence from you?”

  Cuilean only thumped his tail agreeably, not lifting his head from the bedcovers.

  Alasdair smiled faintly. But his smile faded as the minutes passed and it felt as if the waiting was interminable. Where in the devil’s name was she? Was she defying his order—defying him—already? This, he thought morosely, was a bad omen, a bad start to things.

  A wave of heat swept over him and he shoved the blankets down to his waist. To his left was a pitcher of cool barley-water but he didn’t dare reach for it; his shoulder was still throbbing ominously, as if warning him. He ground his teeth, felt himself sweat, and irritably wiped at his face.

  At last there was a tap on the door.

  “Enter,” he said curtly.

  The door opened and Grahame came in, stepping aside to admit Fiona Douglass and her plump middle-aged companion. He then placed a chair by the fire and conducted Dame Isobel to it, while Fiona came toward him, very pale and grave, wearing a high-necked gown of brown figured muslin, her hair in a simple knot at the nape of her neck.

  To Alasdair’s annoyed surprise, Cuilean jumped from the bed and went to greet her, tail wagging. So big a dog was he that he nearly reached her hip. Without fear she held out a slim hand, and he very affably licked it.

  Traitor, thought Alasdair, and snapped, “Come!”

  They both looked over at him.

  “Which of us do you mean?” said Fiona coolly.

  “Both of you, damn it!”

  Without the slightest air of guilt, Cuilean bounded back to the bed and leaped up on it. Fiona remained where she was. Dispassionately she gazed at him, her gray eyes flicking from his face to his bare chest, and to the silver pitcher on the table. Then she advanced, until she was some two feet from his bedside. She poured some barley-water into a glass and held it out to him.

  Without moving he said, unpleasantly, “What took you so long?”

  “I was in the kitchen garden, gathering herbs.”

  “What for?”

  “To make a salve. Your cook scalded her arm yesterday, and I thought it might help.”

  “That’s the business of Dr. Colquhoun.”

  “I was the one who sent for him. He agrees that a lavender salve can be very soothing.”

  “And what were you doing in the kitchen, may I ask?”

  “Asking your cook about some recipes.”

  “I hardly expect my guests to be wandering into the kitchen.”

  She only shrugged, and ungraciously Alasdair took the glass from her. Already he was losing control over his life, and he hadn’t even yet told her what was on his mind! He gulped down the barley-water— not for the world would he have admitted how refreshing it was—and handed back the glass. “Grahame! Bring a chair for Miss Douglass.”

  Grahame hastened to obey, then just as promptly retreated.

  “Sit down,” Alasdair said to her.

  “I’m not your dog.”

  He curled his lip. “Please.”

  “As you will.” Without haste she complied. She sat very straight, and folded her hands in her lap.

  Frowning, restlessly he plucked at his blankets. He supposed it was highly improper for her to be seeing him like this, but as the view of his exposed torso didn’t seem to be sending her into a spate of missish blushes (or a raging torrent of lust), evidently it didn’t really matter.

  “I understand,” he finally said, “that Janet Reid is dead.”

  For a moment, just a moment, he would have sworn that Fiona’s eyes filled with tears. But steadily she answered:

  “Yes. Her parents have left, and taken her body with them.”

  “I blame myself,” he said harshly.

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  Anger, hot as the fever, surged through him, and he spoke even more harshly. “She’s dead, don’t you understand that? Or are you stupid?”

  From across the room came an indignant twitter and Dame Isobel said, as if directing her remark to the leaping fire, “Well! A fine way to treat the person who’s saved your life!”

  Fiona paid no attention to her companion and replied to him with that same steadiness, “I’m not stupid. It’s a tragedy, laird. How could it not be? And oh, such a sad, sad one. But I don’t see how you could have prevented it. No rational person would have felt the need to lock people in their rooms. Janet’s parents were berating themselves for not having kept a better watch on her.” Fiona looked down, though whether or not she actually saw her hands, clasped loosely in her lap, was unclear. And then she looked up and directly at him again. “In the end, Janet brought it on herself, the poor reckless girl. Nor should you forget how her actions resulted in a dreadful injury to yourself—and I saw two of your men killed as a result. That is a tragedy also.”

  He stared at her. Noticed again how pale her face was. Saw, now, the dark circles underneath her eyes. “You speak like a chieftain’s daughter,” he said slowly.

  “Which is what I am.”

  “My men told me how cleanly you made your shot. Your father taught you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “He did so when I was twelve, and began riding alone, all across our lands.”

  “He allowed you that freedom?”

  “He knew I’d do it no matter what.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged again.

  There was a silence, and finally, as if the words were dragged from him, Alasdair said: “Thank you.”

  “There’s no need for that. I’d have done it for anyone. The Dalwhinnies should not have sought to harm you, or steal what is yours.”

  God above, she was cold, cold. He pulled his blankets up, hating the wound that rendered him so weak. Still he pressed on. “Wynda Ramsay is gone?”

  “Yes, she left after Janet Reid was killed. She took all her mother’s money and jewelry, and one of their horses, and fled in the middle of the night.”

  “To her home?”

  “Apparently not. If I had to guess,” Fiona added thoughtfully, “I’d say she went to England. I heard her say more than once that Scotland is so coarse and barbaric, so offensive to those of more refined sensibilities. The events of last week finally convinced her, I daresay. I wouldn’t have expected such enterprising behavior from her, but people can surprise one sometimes.”

  “Yes, life here is very coarse and barbaric,” he echoed sardonically, glancing around his elegant bedchamber.

  “As compared to London,” Fiona explained, in a carefully neutral tone. “Où les rues sont pavées d’or, sur lequel les gens à la mode foulent.”

  Where the streets are paved with gold, upon which the fashionable people tread.

  He snorted. “You’ll not catch me among all those damned Sassenachs.”

  “I believe Wynda finally realized that. Are you sending anyone after her, for her violation of clan law?”

  “No. Her parents may if they so choose.”

  “I think they desire nothing more than to be allowed to quietly return home.”

  “So be it. And Mairi MacIntyre lies ill in her bed, close to death?”

  Fiona smiled slightly. “The reports exaggerate. According to your good Dr. Colquhoun, she is in the midst of an extended fit of hysterics.”

  “From which she will recover?”

  Alasdair watched as Fiona’s smile disappeared. “I expect she’ll make a remarkable recovery as soon as she learns she too can go home.”

  “You suggest that her illness is a ruse?”

  Fiona was silent, then reluctantly answered: “No. It’s my opinion she truly believes she’s
at death’s door. She is very fragile. In another week or two I think she may well somehow persuade herself to die.”

  “And the remedy is to tell her she’s not to be my wife?”

  “That is, of course, up to you, laird.”

  “I’ve no interest in murdering someone by marriage.”

  “A commendable attitude.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Miss Douglass.” He loathed this feeling of helplessness, of being supine in his bed when she sat so straight, so upright, in her seat. He gave a loud, lengthy, irritable sigh. “It seems there’s only you left.”

  Her lips thinned. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “You’ll obey the decree?”

  “I must, for I don’t care to die. My father could very well see to that.”

  “He’d do that?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  Alasdair looked hard at her. She puzzled him. Confounded him. Other lasses would be weeping, raging, at having such a parent. Other lasses would be crying with joy at their good fortune in having their hand secured by the laird of Castle Tadgh.

  But not Fiona Douglass.

  She sat very still, her eyes gone a wintry slate-blue.

  “I too intend to live,” he said slowly. “In that, at least, we are of one mind. You wish for a brilliant wedding, I suppose, as all women seem to do?”

  “No. Nor would such a thing be appropriate given the recent deaths here. A small, private ceremony will suffice.”

  “At your home?”

  “Here.”

  “With your family present?”

  A shadow crossed her face—was it sorrow, or pain?—and stonily she said:

  “No. My cousin will bear witness.”

  “Fiona, dear, this must not be!” protested Dame Isobel, who, obviously, had been eavesdropping for all she was worth. “Your family! All your sisters and their husbands! And let us not forget your trousseau! Naturally I am most deeply sensible of the honor you do me, but—oh, dear, I really haven’t anything to wear! What would your mother say? I vow my head is all in a whirl!”

  “Be quiet, Cousin, if you please. You must write to my father for his consent, laird, and by express if you like. A formality only, of course, and I’ll write too, and ask for my things to be sent here. You may set the date at your convenience.”