The Laird Takes a Bride

by Lisa Berne

  “Look, there’s God dividing water from Heaven. And He has red hair, just like yours! These must never be painted over.” And Fiona laughed, too.

  All too soon, they were at and into their bedchamber, and she was given into the competent hands of her maid Edme, even as two other maidservants came in, one with a covered tray that smelled delicious, the other with an armful of fresh toweling, and Mrs. Allen was there, to check on things, and at the same time as Fiona was thanking Alasdair again, an exuberant Cuilean bounded into the room, excited to see everyone, and Alasdair said something to Fiona which she didn’t catch and was also ordering Cuilean to calm down, and then another maidservant came in and the next thing she knew she was being bundled off to her dressing-room, stripped of her soggy clothes, and put into a warm bath which felt wonderful.

  Next she was helped into her nightgown, hustled into bed, propped up with pillows, and the tray, uncovered, placed in front of her. On it was a bowl of rich beef broth, a plate of warm bannocks, all soft and buttery, and a large roasted chicken drumstick. She ate it all, every crumb, every drop of broth. And then, sated, surrendered her tray to Edme, who betook herself to her own bed, and Fiona was alone in the great bedchamber.

  She leaned back against her pillows, yawning, but vowed to stay awake until Alasdair came. Within her was a new little glow, unnamable, fragile, yet it seemed to somehow warm her whole self. She hardly knew what she wanted to say to Alasdair; she only knew that she wanted to see him.

  Maybe, just maybe, she’d even keep her eyes open when he came out of his dressing-room. She’d just spent several hours snugged up against that magnificent body of his, and had gained a new appreciation for it. In fact, it now occurred to her, she wouldn’t mind getting close to Alasdair again.

  Quite a bit closer.

  A fiery blush heated up her face, her neck, even her chest, and her hands went to the high soft ruffles around her throat, as if finding them confining, as if wanting to do away with them. Fiona hesitated, then shoved back the covers and hurried into her dressing-room. Quickly she went to the armoire in which her night things were kept, and fishing through a drawer she pulled out a different nightgown, of silk rather than cambric; she swept off the one she had on, and swapped it for the other, then nervously eyed herself in the full-length cheval glass.

  Did she look ridiculous with the daringly low neckline, without those concealing ruffles? And heavens, silk seemed to accentuate one’s form, rather than to conceal it as did the more demure cambric. How soft it felt against one’s bare skin …

  Fiona hesitated again, as if checking within herself.

  Yes, that tender little glow was still there, warm and brave.

  That decided her. She put the cambric nightgown away. Meticulously cleaned her teeth, smoothed her hair in its long thick braid. Hurried back to bed, plumped up her pillows, lay flat, sat up, then finally settled for something in between. She tucked the bedcovers around her. And waited for Alasdair.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  But he didn’t come.

  The little glow flickered. Waned. And, finally, it died out. Toward morning she drifted into a light, restless doze, aware, as she shifted in and out of wakefulness, that she was sad. Painfully sad. And even a little ashamed. When finally she gave up on sleep and pushed herself out of bed, the first thing she did was to rip off the silk nightgown and shove it back into its drawer.

  The next thing she did—of course—was to look for a quill and a piece of paper.

  Items for Sutherlainns

  Stop thinking about Alasdair

  Gealag—check hooves. Stones, mud from last night?

  My boots. Ruined? Or salvageable? Ask Edme

  Write to Father; has he tried those warm oat & burdock poultices for the sheep?

  Salve—wrists

  Ask Cook: boeuf à la Bourguignonne soon? With bannocks

  Kitchen garden. Blackberries. Preserves. Plums?

  Any new remedies for insomnia? Research

  STOP THINKING ABOUT ALASDAIR

  It had been a long night. Alasdair sat at the breakfast-table, tired, but satisfied. He’d come straight from the stables, ravenous, and now was no longer hungry, in itself a pleasant state of affairs, but his cheerful mood was due only in part to that. He felt good—sanguine. The situation with the Sutherlainns had been successfully resolved; most importantly, Fiona was safe.

  Thank God, she was safe.

  And they seemed to have moved past the cold, icy cold tension of the past few days.

  Thank God for that, too.

  And today was a new day.

  Today, perhaps, they could have peace between them.

  Sweet, calm, easy peace.

  That wasn’t so much to ask, was it?

  “Black pudding! Excellent!”

  It was Duff, ambling into the breakfast-room in a distinctly bleary way, and Alasdair searched his memory: had Duff been among those who’d gathered last night to welcome his safe return home with his mysteriously absent wife?

  Not that he could recall.

  He frowned a little, watching as Duff sat down, called imperiously for ale, filled his plate with black pudding, baked beans, grilled tomatoes, fried mushrooms, buttery toast; he himself waved away the ale a servant proffered, but accepted a second cup of coffee, and nodded his thanks as the servant removed his plate.

  “No ale?” inquired Duff, with such concern that Alasdair felt a sharp prickle of—well, there it was again, annoyance. There was no law that said one had to have ale every day, even if, perhaps, it had long been a convivial custom shared with one’s uncle. He answered:

  “No.”

  “Really? Are you all right, lad?”

  “Aye.”

  “If you say so.” Duff stared at him, looking perplexed, then finally took a long ostentatious draught of his own ale, as if somehow proving a point, and went on with his meal.

  Alasdair’s annoyance intensified.

  Finally, when Duff reached for his fifth piece of toast, Alasdair said, with deliberate casualness:

  “You may remember that my wife went missing yesterday.”

  “Did she? Oh—ah—yes, now that you bring it up, lad, I do recall somebody mentioning it. Big castle, this. Off somewhere mending something, I suppose? Never saw such a lass for sewing. Always with a needle in her hand! Hmmm—wonder if she’d fix this shirt of mine? Look at this rip—d’you see it? How it got there I’ve no idea. Might’ve been Hewie jabbing at me with a billiard stick—only in fun, of course. I think it was only in fun. Though he may not have liked it when I kicked him in the seat of his pants. For a lark, you know! Did you try some of that whisky he brought over last night? Only one bottle, but superb! Jameson, 1782! Let’s buy some, lad, what do you say?”

  “I wasn’t in the billiards room last night.”

  “Oh, weren’t you? Could’ve sworn it was you making that bank shot that put away four balls in a row. Superb!”

  “No, I was riding into the Dunstan woods in search of my wife.”

  “Why? Ran away, did she?”

  “No, she was kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped? Really?” Duff lifted his tankard to wave it in the direction of a servant. “God’s blood, the trouble these women make! Ah! To the brim! That’s the dandy.”

  It occurred to Alasdair, then, to think suddenly of Crannog Sutherlainn’s uncle Faing, a man whose guidance of his young nephew was questionable at best.

  He’d been twenty years old—just about Crannog’s age, he reckoned—when Duff had come to live at Castle Tadgh. He’d been young, in trouble, desolate with grief. Vulnerable.

  Alasdair looked across the table at Duff and with that same deliberate air of relaxation made himself lean back in his chair. It was, he thought, lucky for Duff that he didn’t have a billiard stick in his hand, for he might have been tempted to jab it at him. And not in fun. He said:

  “Would you like to know if I found my wife?”

  Duff gave a start.
“What did you say, lad? I was wondering if we might want to go to Pitlochry for the races. There’s a filly to be running there I’ve had my eye on for many a week. We ought to go today, though, if we wish to find good lodgings.”

  “No. I’ve plenty to do here.”

  And he did. For one thing, he wanted to confer with his bailiff Shaw about sending the promised supplies to the Sutherlainns, and with Fiona as well, about what they could include in the way of linens, clothing, and household supplies.

  From his place at the head of the table, Alasdair glanced over at the foot where the lady of the house would sit. It was empty at the moment, but he realized with a sense of surprise—pleased surprise—how good it felt to know that here in his home was his wife Fiona, and that he could rely absolutely on her capabilities. It was not something he’d known in his fifteen years as chieftain, ruling alone. He really had done just fine on his own. But now he had a helpmeet—a partner.

  It felt … different.

  It felt … better.

  Because it was better for the clan, of course.

  Thoughtfully Alasdair ran a hand across his beard-stubbed cheek, jaw, chin, his thoughts shifting in an entirely different direction. Surely, surely, Fiona did not find him repulsive? Unattractive? Surely it had not been only fatigue—and brandy —that made her relax into his embrace as last night they rode together … ? Lord, but he needed a bath, a shave, clean clothes—

  Then he heard her voice in the corridor, speaking to a servant, and he glanced toward the doorway with an alacrity that a few days ago, that yesterday, would have been unimaginable to him.

  She came into the breakfast-room, wearing a simple and elegant gown of the palest, softest green, a white fringed shawl around her shoulders, and her hair, thick, lustrous, in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Why had he failed to notice, before, just how striking she was?

  How bonny.

  How unique.

  And then he also saw the dark circles of fatigue underneath those long-lashed eyes of cool gray. Her slender face was pale. Had she not slept? he asked himself. How could she not, after such a long and difficult day? It seemed impossible. He had left their bedchamber confident that on this of all nights, she would sleep.

  He wished, powerfully, that somehow he could be of service to her. As it was, he could only stand, smile, say pleasantly:

  “Good morning, Fiona.”

  His heart seemed to sink a little when she replied, courteously but without warmth, “Good morning.”

  A servant pulled out her chair and she sat; in answer to his query she said, “Chocolate today, please.” He poured it out for her and she thanked him, then curled her fingers around her cup as if to warm cold hands.

  Having sat again, Alasdair gazed down the length of the table at her. It was not a particularly long table, perhaps some fifteen feet of gleaming oak and meant for cozy en famille gatherings, but there did seem to be quite an immense distance looming between them. He felt oddly tongue-tied. And it did not feel right, somehow, to begin their conversation on the subject of organizing household goods.

  So, instead: “How are you?”

  She took a sip of her chocolate, then met his gaze with her own. “I’m fine, thank you. And you?”

  His heart sank a bit lower. “I’m fine.”

  “Good.” She asked the servant for oatmeal, cream, currants, sugar, then, dauntingly aloof and self-possessed, she applied herself to eating, without hurry, and Alasdair couldn’t come up with anything else to say. He would, he thought darkly, stop his mouth with his own napkin if he started to make a lame and platitudinous remark about the weather. Morosely he accepted another cup of coffee. Fiona was halfway through her bowl when suddenly Duff chuckled.

  “There’s your wife right there, lad.”

  “Yes,” answered Alasdair coldly. “I can see that for myself, Uncle.”

  “Well then! All’s well that ends well. I don’t hold with lasses running off into the woods, and most especially at night. Disruptive, and not the thing,” he said, addressing this last sentence to Fiona with an air of avuncular sternness.

  She gave him a look over her spoon that might otherwise have smote a more sensitive individual. “I’ll remember that the next time I’m carried off by bandits.”

  It was possible that Duff would have said more on the topic of proper behavior, but just then Isobel hurried into the breakfast-room and he jumped to his feet, nipping in ahead of the servant to draw out her chair with a grandiloquent gesture. “Do be seated, Miss Isobel,” he said, then leaned down to pick up the reticule she had dropped in her evident astonishment. Even from where Alasdair sat he could hear the bones in Duff’s back creaking at his unusual speed of movement and sure enough, when Duff straightened, he winced, then groaned under his breath as stiffly he resumed his seat. Still, he managed to smile at Isobel, then said, with ponderous gallantry:

  “Where were you, madam? We’ve missed you.”

  “Oh! Am I late? How dreadful of me!” Isobel exclaimed, and although ordinarily Alasdair found little about his wife’s cousin of interest, he was mildly surprised to now see her face turn an exceedingly bright red.

  “I was—I was reading, you see,” she explained to Duff, rather breathlessly, “and I’m afraid I lost track of time. Oh! Black pudding! One of my favorites! Yes, please, I’d love some—thank you!” Busily she unfolded her napkin, rearranged her silverware, added sugar to her tea, filled her plate.

  If he didn’t know better, Alasdair might even have said that Dame Isobel was looking rather guilty. What on earth for, he wondered, still with only faint interest. As far as he knew they had no salacious books lying around the place. And even if they did, it was difficult to imagine short, plump, fussy, chattery Dame Isobel poring over them.

  Still, one never knew about people.

  It occurred to Alasdair that he hadn’t seen her among the crowd welcoming them home, either. Not that he cared one way or the other for himself, but he’d have thought she’d be concerned as to the welfare of her cousin.

  So he said to her, “I trust you passed a pleasant night, madam?”

  She turned round, anxious eyes to him. “I wish I could say yes, laird, but what with my terrible worry for Fiona, and my fear that the castle would be under attack at any moment, I’m sorry to confess to you I did not! I locked my door, and even took the precaution of wedging a chair underneath the doorknob.”

  He frowned a little. “Someone told you the castle might be attacked?”

  “Oh, no, laird, it was my own assumption. It’s such a different life here from the one I’m used to in Edinburgh, you see. Why, I hardly dare to venture out of doors these days! One might be murdered by blue-faced men, or abducted without warning, to suffer a fate worse than death! One never really feels safe!”

  “Nonsense!” heartily interposed Duff. “You’re safer here than on the muck-filled streets of Edinburgh, where ruthless cutpurses roam about and ruffians break into people’s houses at all hours of the day and night!”

  “Oh! Do you think so?” responded Isobel, timidly. “That is, I am sure you are right, sir, but in my neighborhood—so quiet, so genteel!—that is to say, my old neighborhood, for I no longer—well! I’m sure that’s not a tale worth telling—so grateful as I am to dear Fiona for—It’s just that one feels so nervous here.”

  “That’s but womanly foolishness,” Duff told her, with such genial condescension that Alasdair could only wonder why Isobel didn’t swat angrily at him with her little beaded reticule. “You’d not catch me in a city!” went on Duff, warming to his topic. “Foul, crowded, degenerate places, filled with sloth and vice! Dankness and darkness! Here in the countryside, the air is pure! Clean! Fresh! Nature everywhere, humans and beasts in divine harmony! Where men protect their women, and cherish them, and keep them from harm! Just the way it should be!”

  “Speaking of beasts, you have an enormous rent in your shirt,” commented Fiona dispassionately. “Were the wolves after you?”<
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  “Wolves?” echoed Isobel, knocking her napkin off her lap in a convulsive gesture. “Here inside the castle?”

  If Fiona had laughed, Alasdair might have also, but when he looked down the length of the table at her, he saw that her expression was cool and remote. Why would that be? Last night they’d parted so amicably. Puzzled, Alasdair only half-listened as Duff spent several minutes reassuring Dame Isobel as to the complete absence of wolves roaming the hallways of the castle or lurking behind a cabinet, deviously waiting for the unwary to come along and be promptly ripped to shreds.

  “Although,” Duff concluded, “there was that time a buzzard somehow got into the Great Hall, do you remember that, Alasdair my lad? Devilish hard to capture it. I had to cast that old fishing net just so—” He shot his arm upwards to demonstrate and there was an audible sound of ripping fabric.

  “And now,” said Fiona, “the rent is even bigger.”

  If it weren’t for the hair everywhere on his face, Duff might, perhaps, have been seen to be flushing self-consciously.

  “Sir,” Isobel said timidly, “if you like, I could sew that up for you.”

  “Would you, madam?” He looked hopefully at her.

  “Oh yes, to be sure! I do love to be helpful! I wonder if I have the right color thread? Yet no matter what color I choose I’m afraid the repair will still be visible—unless I’m very, very careful with my stitches, and I—”

  Isobel proceeded in this animated vein for some time, and Fiona, with what felt like superhuman patience, refrained from interrupting and, instead, ate another bowl of oatmeal and had some more chocolate. When finally her cousin subsided, Fiona pushed away her bowl and said in a businesslike tone:

  “Laird, will those wagons you mentioned have room for bed linens and clothing? I expect the Sutherlainns will need such things, and badly too. I’ve already spoken with Lister and Mrs. Allen, and we’ve been to the attics as well, to see what’s been stored there. We’ve plenty to spare—if this is agreeable to you?”

  Alasdair was looking at her from his seat at the head of the polished oak table. He was looking at her as if she was a mystery he was unable to fathom, but she’d volunteer to sew up every rip and tear in Duff’s large wardrobe of scruffy clothing before she would offer any clues. How could Alasdair have gone off like that last night?