The Laird Takes a Bride

by Lisa Berne

  “Oh, Fiona dear,” Isobel said uneasily.

  The minutes ticked by, with agonizing slowness, some ten or fifteen of them, Fiona guessed, and then a servant, William, came in with the tea-tray. Well, here was one small comfort, she thought, he’d come too late for the fireworks. And speaking of fireworks, it occurred to her that it felt as if her entire life had spontaneously combusted, and all she had left was a pile of black ashes.

  Nothing seemed to matter anymore.

  Carefully William set the tray on the low table before her. Of course there were macaroons. Delicious macaroons. She knew that if she tried to eat one, it would stick in her throat like sawdust.

  “Thank you, William,” she said.

  “You’re welcome, mistress,” he answered, then crouched down and reached for the jumble of threads.

  “No. I’ll do that.”

  “Mistress?” He was puzzled.

  “I’ll do it. Thank you, William. You may go.”

  “Very well, mistress.” He stood, left the room, still looking puzzled.

  Isobel approached, moving as one would toward a formerly friendly dog who had just sunk its teeth into someone’s ankle. “Fiona dear, please let me help you.”

  “No. I made the mess, and I’ll clean it up. Have a macaroon.” And Fiona laughed without humor. She slid from the sofa to kneel on the soft floral-patterned carpet, where with an awful punctiliousness she began picking at the spools of thread.

  Twisting her hands together, Isobel stood uncertainly. She looked from Fiona to Duff, whose expression was as taken aback as her own. “I’m—I’m not hungry,” Isobel said softly, apologetically. “Can’t I at least pick up something?”

  “No.”

  In Fiona’s voice was nothing but steel, and Isobel’s eyes began to fill with tears.

  “I think I’ll—I think I’ll go to bed then, Cousin. If you’ll excuse me?”

  “By all means.” Fiona did not look up.

  Duff hastily rose to his feet. “I think I’ll do the same,” he said. At the doorway he paused, with a discombobulated Isobel at his side, and added awkwardly: “Well—good night, lass.”

  “And to you,” Fiona responded mechanically, not lifting her eyes from the seemingly impossible snarl of colorful thread. And she too added something, only with terrible irony.

  “Sweet dreams.”

  Chapter 13

  Fiona could not have said how long it took for her to pick up everything from the carpet as well as from the polished wood floor beyond—how many minutes (hours?) it took to neatly separate the spools of thread. Her legs hurt from kneeling, and behind her eyes there developed a painful ache from the strain of peering so minutely in the flickering light of the candles. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized she didn’t have to restore the thread to its usual tidy state. So what if she missed a pin or two? She knew it wasn’t of any real consequence. But still she persisted, her fingers moving without conscious volition as the great violent storm of rage and frustration within her slowly receded, leaving her awash in a dreadful all-encompassing state of—

  Fear.

  A cold, nasty, desperate sort of fear.

  What if Alasdair hated her now?

  After their inauspicious beginning, things had been going so well between them. Better than well.

  Yes, swimmingly, said a cruel little voice inside her brain, forcing her to think of the loch, a sinking boat, the loss of life and hope.

  Her eyes caught a tiny glimmer underneath a large wing chair and grimly she inched toward it, still on her knees. Yes, another pin. God, God, had there been millions inside her work basket? She picked it up and knew a brief temptation to stab herself with it as she realized she had gradually crept all the way across the drawing-room to the green velvet curtains—curtains she now hated with a vehemence she knew wasn’t rational. But still. Was she really going to have them taken away tomorrow?

  She had no answer.

  The thought of tomorrow only made her feel anxious, weak, alone.

  Quick, make a list, she told herself hastily. Order out of chaos. Her old standby. It had never failed her. Do this, then this, and after that, do this.

  For years, making lists and keeping busy had allowed her to move on reasonably well from her … disappointment. It had saved her from falling into despair. Hers had not been a perfect life, of course, but it had been a useful one, a productive one. How many items had she crossed off her lists? Hundreds. Thousands. There was something to be said for that.

  Making lists had proved to be an excellent coping method.

  But it failed her tonight.

  Like a magician whose tricks failed to materialize, her mind felt undone; she couldn’t think of a single comforting task that called out to her.

  Tomorrow was only blank slate, frightening in its abject emptiness.

  A creeping panic came upon Fiona now, and even though she wasn’t actually cold, she shuddered as if with a chill. Her chest felt tight, and it was hard to draw a complete breath. Quickly she stood, her eyes searching the room for—what?

  For help.

  For Alasdair.

  She had enough presence of mind to drop the miscreant pin into her work basket, but that was all. Then she was hurrying to her bedchamber. Their bedchamber. She wanted to run, but it was only not running that kept her from giving way to true hysteria, especially since traversing the labyrinth of stairs and passageways in the dead of night was bad enough. She half-expected doors to fly open and monsters to leap out at her, or to feel an icy hand grabbing at her skirts from behind. Oh, the Sack Man, the Sack Man, her old nurse would say with gloomy relish, he’ll put you in his nasty sack and there’s nothing you can do to stop him. He’ll eat you alive, and laugh at your screams …

  Fiona’s heart pounded hard, frantically, as if trying to escape the confines of her chest. There’s no such thing as a Sack Man, she told herself, I am safe, I am real, slow down, just put one foot in front of the other, BREATHE—

  Nonetheless it still seemed like years, agonizing years, before she finally found herself in the long high corridor of the laird’s great suite. There was faithful Cuilean, who promptly rose to greet her, tail wagging, then subsided into a large furry ball at her soft command.

  She put her hand on the doorknob, reassuring in its solidity. Turned the knob. Slipped into their bedchamber. Oh, God, what if he wasn’t even there?

  He was, he was. The candles were extinguished—or had burned down—but the heavy draperies had been left open to admit wan, spectral moonlight, and she could make out his big long form in the bed.

  Fiona waited for her heart to slow its rapid beat, but it seemed she might have to wait forever for it to do that: a frantic need had her in its grip and her heart, her body, knew it. She had to span the divide between them, she had to turn back the clock and restore what they’d had, only a day before. She took five, six paces into the room. And in a strange reversal, into the dimness she said:

  “Are you awake?”

  There was a pause.

  “Aye,” he answered, without inflection. Even so, that one word was enough. In an instant she was at the bed—and ripping back the covers—and on the bed, on him. He was on his back and with unhesitating boldness she straddled him, groin to groin, her elegant, delicate gown of celestial blue crêpe puddling in disarray around her thighs.

  Was it genuine desire that was driving her? Or something else (pure desperation, for example) that made her behave like an animal leaping upon its prey? Not for the world would Fiona pause to try and figure it out. It was time for action, not words, or so she told herself, and so she grabbed Alasdair’s wrists, shoved them up and back on either side of his head as if restraining unwilling arms; leaned down and pressed her breasts onto his bare hard chest, and urgently found his mouth with her own. She kissed him roughly, wildly, all moistness and heat and sinuous urgency.

  For a few moments—possibly the longest, most terrible interlude in her whole entire life—h
is only response was absolute stillness. Cold, cold despair threatened to rise up within her and defiantly Fiona tightened her fingers around Alasdair’s wrists and ground her hips against his.

  Then:

  His tongue met her own, demandingly; his shaft, now rapidly hardening beneath her. From Fiona’s throat rose a guttural noise of satisfaction and with a provocative twist of her head she withdrew from their kiss, only to slide her tongue, wet, knowing, along the underside of his jaw, to the hard column of his throat to where the skin was tender. And without warning, but with provocative deliberation, she bit him—just hard enough to leave her mark upon him.

  Alasdair jerked, and softly she laughed. Laughed when with ridiculous ease he broke her hold upon his wrists, brought his hands to her shoulders, pushed her upright and slid his hands down to play upon her breasts, still hidden within the soft silken bodice of her gown.

  But her laughter was silenced as Alasdair’s clever fingers, his strong body beneath hers, evoked unspoken answer from her own body, and Fiona heard herself begin to pant, felt a molten energy begin to ignite within her. Lust. Glorious all-consuming lust. She lifted her hands to cover his, pressed fiercely upon them as if to urge him on. He laughed then, pulled down upon the fabric of her bodice, and when it resisted, with a casual purposefulness he simply tore it apart, baring her breasts to him.

  Fiona registered first the sound of the crêpe ripping and gasped, a giddy half-shocked excitement rippling through her; next she felt the sudden sensation of cool air upon her exposed chest, and then Alasdair was sitting up, arms wrapped around her, his mouth suckling at her so insistently, so hungrily and hotly, that she began pulling at her skirts, wrenching them up and out of the way, until she found his hardness, until she was upon him, until she joined them together, and they were one, together, moving in the most primal dance of all, and all at once she knew.

  He was the center of everything.

  He was home to her, everything that was familiar and real and solid.

  And wonderful.

  And true.

  The past had been swept away; she had opened up her heart again, she had changed. And change had made her free.

  The words tumbled out of her in a breathless rush.

  “Oh, Alasdair, oh, Alasdair, I’m so sorry for what I said, please forgive me,” and then the naked vulnerable truth, “I love you, I love you so much, I—”

  He didn’t stop, but kissed her, his mouth slanted hard on hers as they moved together, and she thought she might go mad with pleasure, but even as she kissed him back she felt the cool machinery of her mind stir to life. She tried to push aside the unwelcome intrusion, to drift away on the powerful tide of passion, but her brain wouldn’t be denied. It pointed out, in a horrible, dry, rational way:

  You told him you loved him. Then what happened?

  Be quiet, you. Go away. This feels too good. We’re back where we were last night, everything is all right again. Oh God, this feels so good.

  The inexorable rejoinder came back. You told him you loved him. And what did he say?

  It’s stupid to say such a thing and expect to hear it repeated back to you.

  Is it? coolly observed her brain. My, how easily you’re satisfied.

  Shut up, shut up! Fiona hoped she didn’t blurt those words out loud, but by then it was too late. It was as if a beautiful symphony had been waylaid by another song being played at the same time, jangly and discordant and distracting.

  “Stop,” she said to Alasdair.

  He did stop, almost as if he too was aware of the discordance. Fiona made herself pull away from him, and sat, as stiff and straight as a poker, among the rumpled bedclothes. She was just as rumpled, she knew, with her ripped gown and tumbled skirts, and no doubt her hair was a ghastly mess, but to this she was indifferent. Her only remedial act was to pull together the two pieces of her bodice, creating a mockery of modesty. She watched as Alasdair leaned his back against the intricately carved headboard, carelessly pulled up a blanket to his waist. His broad chest was damp with sweat and he smelled so good—

  Fiona set aside this tempting fact. Instead she folded her hands in her lap, just as if they were sitting fully clothed in a warm well-lit drawing-room. And she said, in a level tone:

  “You don’t love me, do you?”

  She saw that tempting chest rise and fall as he took a deep breath. “Fiona,” he said, “lass, let’s not do this.”

  “There, I suppose, is your answer.”

  He reached out to cover her hands with his own big warm one. “I like you,” he said, with unmistakable sincerity. “I like you, lass. And I admire you, I respect you. It’s more than a lot of married people can claim to share.”

  “True.”

  “Isn’t that enough for you?”

  “No.”

  “You mean that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” he said, “that’s a problem, for it’s all I have to give to you.”

  Fiona pushed his hand away. “It’s not enough.”

  “You knew this was to be a marriage not of our choosing.” His voice was a little cooler, a little harder. “Your expectations —they ask too much of me. You’ve no right to be changing the terms as we go along.”

  Here again the words tumbled out of her. “Life is about change, don’t you see that? It’s because of you, you wonderful maddening man, that I’ve finally learned it! You taught me how to love, truly love, and I don’t want to give that up!”

  He stared at her. And finally he replied: “Can’t we agree to meet in the middle? Each bringing to the table what we have?”

  “Oh, Alasdair, don’t you understand?” It was a plea, raw and vulnerable. “It’s not enough for me—not enough after all these years! I’m afraid I’ll dwindle away, until my existence is nothing more than—than a pathetic half-life. I’ll be a machine that gets things done—that’s all. I’ll be a ghost.” Two great fat tears spilled from her eyes and angrily she swiped them away. “I won’t live that way anymore! I want a real, full life! Can’t you understand? Don’t you want that?”

  “I have a real life that I enjoy,” he answered, coldly now. “And here’s what I think, for what it’s worth. I think you’re being greedy.”

  Greedy.

  The word sounded so harsh. Like a reproach, a slap in the face. A confirmation, once again, that she simply wasn’t good enough. Would never be good enough. In that instant Fiona wanted to crumple. Wanted to bury herself under the covers, hide her head as well. But then her pride reasserted itself. She lifted her chin:

  “You are, of course, entitled to your opinion.”

  “I thank you,” Alasdair said, in his tone a certain irony, and he saw Fiona sit up even straighter, if that were possible. Coldness, irony, detachment—all excellent defenses for a man who felt he’d been sent reeling with his back against a wall. Christ in His heaven, he thought with more than a prickle of resentment, but he hadn’t wanted to have this conversation at all. What was the point of all this yapping? What could possibly be gained from it?

  Why, he asked himself, couldn’t she simply leave well enough alone?

  There she was, some three feet away from him, her silvery-blonde hair shimmering in the pale faint glow of the moonlight, her eyes huge and blazing in her slender face, her body lithe and taut, to it clinging a subtle intoxicating scent of wild roses. She was tousled, disheveled, magnificent. Even now, with hostility practically crackling out loud between them, he wanted her.

  But when she spoke again, there was nothing in her manner which suggested that any sort of rapprochement was possible. She was as dry and analytical as a lawyer. “You say you have only liking to give me? But not love?”

  “That is so.”

  “It’s a lie. It’s not that you can’t love me. It’s that you won’t. There’s a world of difference, Alasdair.”

  She knew. She knew. Her words were like a brilliantly aimed sucker punch to his solar plexus, hard and painful, but he willed himself
not to show it. “You think yourself very shrewd.”

  “But I’m right, aren’t I?”

  No matter what he said next, he was doomed. If he told the truth, that she was right. If he denied it—he would be lying. He was many things, but not a liar. Which meant he had nowhere to turn, nowhere to run. Savagely he ran a hand through his hair. And to think that lately he’d felt so confident, so buttressed by his certainty it was all going to be easy. It was all going to be fine. Smooth sailing. He’d laugh at himself if it wasn’t so bitter a humor that now took hold of him. Oh yes, very smooth sailing. His wife was staring at him as if she’d like nothing better than to throttle him. Or worse.

  “Answer me,” she hissed.

  All at once Alasdair wished there was a cattle meet somewhere he could sneak off to in the middle of the night. But weariness swept over him then, weighty and hard, implacable, as if pinioning him to the bed. This, he thought, is what Sisyphus felt like, after being made to push a boulder up a steep hill all day long. It almost seemed like a boulder was on top of him. Would this excruciating, pointless exchange never end? “Oh, for God’s sake, Fiona, have done,” he said heavily. “I’ve had enough.”

  He heard her sharply indrawn breath. Then she said, “I’ve had enough also.”

  “Good. Let’s go to sleep. And if you like—” He exerted himself; he wanted to be generous. He wanted to at least offer her something; said, “If you like, we can talk more tomorrow.”

  “No. No more talking. Enough.”

  “It’s up to you.”

  “Is it? How nice.”

  Alasdair didn’t know what to say to that, so he only replied, “Good night then.” He slid back down, feeling with intense relief the pleasant sensation of his head resting against his pillows. But he realized she hadn’t moved. “Lie down, Fiona, under the blankets. You must be cold.”

  She was still staring at him. “Yes. I am cold.”

  “Come under the bedcovers, then.”

  “It’s apparently escaped your notice that I’m still wearing my evening-gown.”