The Laird Takes a Bride

by Lisa Berne

  “Are you awake, madam?”

  “Yes,” Fiona said with her eyes closed. When she had heard the door to the bedchamber opening, she’d quickly shut her eyes. She wasn’t going to take any chances. She wasn’t going to be confronted by the sight of his naked self (tall, lithe, muscular) strolling with unsettling self-assurance from his dressing-room toward the bed. Especially since the very first thing she had noticed, earlier that day when Alasdair had surprised her in her morning-room, was that his sling was gone.

  Tonight was it, then.

  She took a deep breath.

  Felt, heard him getting into bed. The shifting of the mattress, the rustle of bedclothes.

  Here he was.

  A tall, lithe, muscular, and (very likely) naked man.

  Her husband.

  Her life’s partner, supposedly, now and forevermore.

  She remembered Isobel’s advice.

  All you have to do, Fiona dear, is to lie there, and endure what happens.

  She waited.

  After what felt like a year of strained silence, very cautiously she opened her eyes and turned her head on the pillow. Alasdair was looking at her and it took all her will to not slam her eyes shut again.

  He moved a little, and she felt in her body a kind of instinctive tremor. And then he spoke.

  “Are you well, madam?”

  His voice was quiet, careful, civil.

  “Yes,” Fiona said, just as carefully. It seemed only decent to add: “And yourself, laird?”

  “Aye.”

  Another year passed.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.” Time dragged by. Oceans rose and fell, forests grew and withered. Fiona cleared her throat. “So how was the cattle meet in Crieff?”

  “It was excellent.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, the Watsons were there, describing how they’re—but I don’t want to bore you.”

  “I’ve heard about the Watsons. Were they speaking of the Buchan humlie?”

  “Yes, they’re cross-breeding it with the Angus doddie.”

  “Oh yes, at home we’ve been thinking of doing that too. Did you hear anything about the Shorthorn strain?”

  “It was the talk of the meet. In fact, I bought a bull from a factor sent up by the Colling brothers. A Sassenach, but he seemed to know his business.”

  “Was the bull sired by Young Jock, by any chance?”

  “Aye. This one in particular had a very broad chest, and its knees looked very sturdy.”

  “Ah, that is excellent. When does it arrive?”

  “Next month.” Alasdair paused. Then: “Would you …”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you like to see it?”

  “What?”

  “Would you like to see the bull when it arrives?”

  “Oh. Yes. I would.”

  “I’ll let you know, and we can ride out together.”

  “Thank you, laird.”

  “You’re welcome, madam.”

  They stared at each other, and Fiona wondered if her expression was as surprised-looking as was Alasdair’s. Suddenly, abruptly, she wished she had banked the fire so that even its current dim glow was gone.

  “Well—” he said. Now he was a little awkward, but polite, careful, businesslike, impersonal. A new transaction was about to happen. Needed to happen; there was nothing to discuss, or argue about. She answered in a calm, steady voice:

  “Yes.”

  “Speaking of, uh, breeding—”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought perhaps we ought to—”

  “Yes.”

  “You are amenable?”

  “Yes,” she repeated.

  Underneath the warm, cozy covers, he slid a few feet closer, and closer still. “You’re certain, madam?”

  “Yes.”

  “I gather you have an understanding of what will happen.”

  Fiona stared up at the canopy. “Yes.”

  “I’ll do my best not to hurt you.”

  “Thank you.” For a crazy moment she wanted to laugh. Suddenly they were being polite with each other, and at this juncture! But when he came even closer, all desire to laugh vanished. The bedcovers had slipped down and she could see how densely muscled his shoulders were. How large he was, and why did his body seem to give off so much heat?

  “I wonder if you might, uh—”

  “Yes?”

  “If you would lift your nightgown up? Just to your waist.”

  He said it as he would ask someone to pass the salt cellar.

  “Certainly.” Still staring at the canopy overhead (though she could not, to save her life, have articulated what those embroidered figures were), Fiona hitched up her nightgown, bunching it around her middle. “It’s done,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  Still underneath the covers, Alasdair slid closer—closer—and she could smell the clean scent of him, soap, damp hair, a hint of the stables, ever so faintly pungent. It was a good smell, attractive in her nostrils. Then he was on top of her, and with a pulse of intense awareness she received his warm, heavy weight and just as quickly closed her eyes, plunging into the safety of self-imposed blindness. But she could not ignore the long length of him, hard muscles, the electrifying brush of wiry masculine hair against her bare legs. His knees gently nudging her own apart, her will allowing it, allowing her thighs to part to him.

  He moved, gently rocked himself against her, and she could feel his hardening shaft. Far, far past the part of her brain where every vivid new sensation was felt, registered, noted before cataloging another one, she was thankful that he was able to bring himself to this necessary state.

  “Are you all right?” His voice, low and deep, polite, so very close to her ear.

  “Of course.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then.”

  She kept her eyes closed, let herself be soft, not taut. She could tell that he braced his arms on either side of her, and she wondered what she should do, if anything, with her own arms held close to her sides. Then his shaft was there, at the very center of her. For a moment her breath stopped. Then his hand was there too, briefly, and back again, wet with his own saliva.

  “Ah—” he murmured, as gently he moved, entered into her; paused.

  “You needn’t stop,” Fiona said.

  “All right.” Alasdair moved again, in short, careful strokes, was in her, within her, there was a brief and momentary discomfort, sharp and then gone, like a thought one had and forgot. Gradually his strokes lengthened, filling her up with him. Fiona was a little surprised, somewhere, at how gracefully her body gave way to his hard largeness, how gracefully he moved above her, but in her blindness still she wanted to turn her mind elsewhere: and into it flashed an image of the soft wee doll Isobel had made for little Sheila, Sheila’s preternaturally wise little voice saying Turn about, lady, turn about, and then to Fiona came a rush of anguished memory: big, tall Logan Munro, an empty parlor, his arms around her, his tongue in her mouth like a hot, wet, insinuating hint of his intentions as he drew her trembling hand down his chest, lower, lower still …

  What if it were Logan above her, upon her, now?

  Logan with his deep dark eyes, all agleam, Logan with the bold black hair she loved to toy with, Logan who would say, caressingly, My beautiful one, when we are wed …

  Between her legs, deeply within her, was hot, hard maleness, rhythmic, and Fiona, yielding without hesitation, allowed memories, fantasies, to flood her mind and body, like a flower blooming with artificial speed and violence. My beautiful one … my beautiful Fiona. Here. Touch me here. Her hand, timid, against the fall of his trousers, before retreating. Logan’s clever fingers at the back of her gown. Never had she let him undo the buttons, or lift up her skirts, but oh, with a sweet ache at the core of her, she had wanted him to.

  Wanted him.

  A hard chest brushed against her breasts,
as if snapping her awake, and she opened her eyes to the shock of his face so intimately close to hers.

  Alasdair’s face, and no other’s.

  Red hair, not black. Those amber eyes were shielded, dark lashes upon his cheeks, upon his countenance was a look of—she puzzled over it. A kind of grave, remote concentration. He reminded her of a statue from Greek antiquity, regal, aloof, untouchable.

  But magnificent.

  He, Alasdair, was magnificent.

  Suddenly she was too frightened—frightened of herself—to keep looking at him, and tried again to put her mind elsewhere, but it was impossible now. Alasdair’s breath had quickened, he moved his body more quickly. Then: his peak, a shudder, he let out his breath on a guttural sigh. Stopped. She felt the warm wetness of his seed as gently he withdrew.

  It was over.

  They had done their duty.

  He lay next to her, and she listened as his breath evened, softened. She pulled the covers up a little higher. Wondered what she should do about the wetness between her legs. She decided to get up later, when he was deeply asleep.

  Finally he said, “Thank you.” As he would acknowledge someone who had, in fact, passed the salt cellar.

  Fiona was conscious of a welcome flicker of irritation. She’d die before she would say, “Thank you” in return. Or, even worse, “You’re welcome.” Instead she made a soft, vague, neutral sort of noise. It seemed to suffice, for he responded politely:

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes,” she answered calmly.

  “Well then, good night.” And he shifted over to his side of the bed, rolled away with his broad muscled back to her.

  “Good night,” she said, her tone just as civil as his. She lay listening to the sound of his breathing. It was but a few moments, she could tell, until he had fallen asleep. A kind of bitter jealousy flared, then subsided into her customary resignation.

  She spent a few minutes eyeing the canopy above her. Now she was able to identify the figures. Stags, does, wildcats, foxes, hawks, eagles. It was remarkable embroidery work. Perhaps she’d do some embroidering herself. Not tomorrow, no, for she and Mrs. Allen, who now was helping her, still had many hours of linen inventory ahead. And it was baking day; she wasn’t sure if the starter yeast was as vibrant as she would like. Also, she wanted to … Her mind stuttered somehow, and she realized that not tomorrow, but right now, she wanted to know what Alasdair had been thinking above her with his eyes closed.

  Had he been picturing some other woman? A lovely, rounded woman, all voluptuous and responsive, shameless and loud? The sort of trollop who’d agree to ride her man like a stallion?

  A hot blush came over her, guilt manifesting itself in the blood that rushed to her face, and she was glad, glad, that Alasdair had turned his back to her. Hadn’t she been thinking of Logan, dreamily and treacherously, as she lay beneath her husband, as limp as a little doll?

  So what? There’s no harm in it, a part of her cried out defensively, and she pressed cool hands to hot cheeks. It occurred to Fiona that Alasdair hadn’t kissed her, hadn’t even tried to kiss her.

  Did she want him to?

  Memory, insistent, undeniable, snaked its way into her head.

  The empty parlor at Cousin Isobel’s, Isobel conspicuously gone out into the garden. Logan and herself on a sofa, Logan pressing her down upon it. His mouth on hers, soft, wet, his tongue fully within her, probing with such boldness, licking at her teeth, that she felt an excited kind of panic (half-wondering if she would suffocate), felt her knees start to shake as a hot giddy fire seemed to roar through her whole body. Logan laughing softly, obviously aware of her response to him, pulling her bashful hand to where he could display his desire, showing her how to stroke him through the fabric of his trousers. My beautiful one, when we are wed …

  Now, here, in the warm coziness of her bed at Castle Tadgh, Fiona abruptly felt chilled. She pulled the covers up to her neck.

  Baking day. Yeast? Also, new pans needed?

  Linen inventory. One hour at least. Check: moths?

  Lister’s father— dentures—where is closest dentist (reputable!)

  Rumor re bedbugs in servants’ quarters: find out for sure

  Sewing scissors need sharpening. Who does that here?

  Shaw’s retrievers. Ask Cook to give them meat scraps. Cuilean also?

  Talk to Monty about beehives—could foraging ants or toads be the problem? Show him section in Maxwell’s Practical Bee-Master

  Dallis birthday next week. Send note

  Cow-house. How much milk, cream? Any village families who need some extra?

  Go for ride on Gealag. LONG RIDE

  Yes indeed, she was going to be busy.

  Thank God.

  The next morning Alasdair found himself whistling a little as he rode out to take a look at the hay fields. Relief—he was feeling relief. Things had gone all right last night. It had all been accomplished with a minimum of fuss and botheration. Fiona hadn’t been missish, their exchanges had been amiable enough. The pattern had therefore been easily established. They could go on about their business from now on, knowing what to expect during these interludes.

  As he rode in the bright sun of late summer, Alasdair observed with pleasure the crisp amber of the hay all around him. The harvest was going to be a good one this year.

  Her legs, he suddenly remembered (for no apparent reason), were long, slender, white and soft-skinned, and strong, too. In his determination to get it over with, he hadn’t really paused to notice that.

  It was an interesting combination, that soft femininity and supple strength.

  Of course, during the days Fiona was active and energetic—that would explain it. He’d caught glimpses of her, up and down the staircase, walking with her brisk step here and there, in and out of the castle, and he knew she rode almost every day.

  Last night, though, she had been calm, quiet, remote. What, he now wondered, would it feel like to have those long, strong legs wrapped around him?

  An intriguing thought.

  But …

  In its wake came uncertainty.

  A certain sense of risk. Of disruption.

  And so he dismissed it.

  He had carefully shaped his life these past years, to a form and a flow which suited him admirably. To this form, to this pattern, he would adhere. Continue to adhere.

  Relief came again in a welcome wave, and he whistled “Bonnie Leslie” from start to finish, three times straight.

  While Alasdair was riding, Fiona was in the breakfast-room, eating with enjoyment a freshly baked scone and reading her letters. There was one from Mother, with her flowing, looping writing, which wasted a great deal of space on the page, but was cheerful and affectionate. It had rained on Sunday, wrote Mother, but her charming new kid ankle-boots in the most delicate shade of aquamarine had, most fortunately, not been damaged on the way to and from church. Osla Tod had recovered beautifully from her tooth-pulling; the whitewashing in the Great Hall had gone smoothly (aside from Father twice losing his temper and subjecting the workers to a furious tirade). Oh, and there was interesting news from Henrietta Penhallow in England, Mother added. Her grandson, Gabriel, is engaged to a Miss Livia Stuart from Wiltshire. Wherever that is. English geography is so dreadfully confusing, isn’t it? Do you suppose Miss Stuart is related to our own poor lamented Queen Mary? I can’t image Henrietta settling for anything less than an exceedingly highborn addition to her family.

  Also in Fiona’s pile was a letter from Nairna, joyful with reports of her advancing pregnancy, so long desired, a very miracle; the wisewoman Tavia Craig in constant attendance, and oh so kind! There was a letter from Rossalyn, too, happily settling into married life with Jamie MacComhainn.

  Fiona put down the letter, and sipped her tea. How nice to hear that everyone—including the w
orkers, she assumed, now the whitewashing was complete—was doing so well.

  As for herself, she was doing well also. Of course. Last night had gone very well. Now that she knew what to expect, why, she wouldn’t have to think about it at all anymore.

  While Fiona was reading her letters, Isobel was trotting up the stairs to the Little Drawing-room, holding a soft sheepskin shammy Mrs. Allen had kindly found for her. It was perfect for dusting those exquisite figurines she so admired. Her handkerchiefs—made from inexpensive bleached cotton she’d purchased in Edinburgh and hemmed herself—simply weren’t good enough for such an important task.

  When she entered the room, she cast an appreciative glance around. All pink and frilly it was, with billowy lace curtains and lovely chairs and sofas upholstered in French toile. And as a centerpiece to it all, there was that enormous cabinet with its leaded glass windows and arched pediment. All told, it was a delightful chamber, and so cozy! It was a mystery as to why dear Fiona seemed to despise it.

  Poor dear Fiona, trapped in a loveless marriage to that great hulking red-haired man! (Who had the misfortune of being the nephew of that detestable Duff!) It was dreadfully sad how things had turned out. And there was so little she could do to help her poor suffering cousin!

  Isobel ran her shammy along the fluted edges of the cabinet’s middle section, a narrow mahogany shelf gleaming with satinwood inlay. It was then she observed that beneath the shelf was a row of little doors, which could be opened by means of shiny oval knobs set with black onyx. How strange that she hadn’t noticed them before.

  Surely no one would mind if she just peeked inside?

  Her heart pattering in excitement, Isobel sank to her knees and cautiously pulled on one of the knobs.

  The door opened easily, almost as if it wished to reveal what lay inside.

  But there was only a big, dusty book, bound in faded and cracked leather.

  Normally Isobel didn’t care for books. She had never been much of a reader. But the vanquishing of dirt struck an instant chord. It seemed to be, in a very small way, something she could do to be helpful. How gratifying.

  Isobel pulled out the book—so big and heavy that it took much of her strength—from the dark recesses of the cabinet, and ran her shammy across its binding. Gracious, it even had cobwebs clinging to it. She brushed them away, and read the words now more clearly visible in gilt—or was it actual gold leaf?