The Laird Takes a Bride

by Lisa Berne

  “Does it matter?” He could hear how he was almost slurring his words with drowsy fatigue. His eyelids were impossibly heavy. Sleep, like an irresistible sorceress, beckoned.

  Did it matter? For the life of her, Fiona didn’t know how to answer him. Why not crawl underneath the warm bedclothes, still in her gown and jewelry and blue silk slippers? What possible difference would it make?

  She thought about it.

  Somehow—it came to her in slow realization—somehow it would seem like giving in.

  Involuntarily she shuddered. She really was cold. Her fingers were starting to feel numb. Alasdair, she saw, was already deeply asleep; his set, shuttered expression had given way to an unguarded relaxation.

  Well, there’s added insult to injury, Fiona told herself with a kind of wry desolation. He had slammed a door in her face and then promptly fell asleep, while she sat ramrod-straight, exhausted yet wide awake, feeling utterly alone.

  Blearily, hopelessly, she got off the bed and eased from it one of the heavy blankets, then took one of her pillows and went quietly into the dark, high-ceilinged passageway off the bedchamber. She meant to go into her dressing-room, but somehow her steps led her to that mysterious locked door and she found herself standing in front of it with her hand on a doorknob that turned but did not yield.

  An actual closed door, and not simply a metaphor for her life, Fiona thought with that same bleak amusement. She gave the doorknob a last futile twist and made her way into her dressing-room where she lit a single candle.

  Without haste she folded the blanket into a makeshift bed, changed into her heaviest nightgown, took off her jewelry, brushed and braided her hair, cleaned her teeth. She did all this methodically, like an automaton. And finally she blew out the candle, lay down, and snugged the blanket around her.

  Ha, I’ve made my bed and now I must lie in it, she thought, staring into the obliterating darkness. She couldn’t even make out the shapes of the armoires, the dressing-table, anything. She did catch a whiff of the rose perfume she had, earlier in the evening, dabbed with joyful anticipation behind her ears. That seemed a lifetime ago. She had been reasonably happy then.

  And now?

  Now she was—nothing. Empty. With nothing to say, nothing to talk about.

  The long minutes ticked past, one after the other, just as slowly as they had in the Great Drawing-room.

  Eventually, she supposed, they would all add up into an hour. And then another hour. Morning would, whenever it was ready, come.

  A deep sigh escaped her.

  She turned onto her side.

  She wished that rose scent would go away.

  Oh, she was weary, so weary. But not the least bit sleepy. Her mind churned uselessly, on and on. Was she right? Was she wrong? Was she greedy and demanding? Was she foolish to have allowed herself to fall in love with Alasdair Penhallow? And could these things even be controlled? Her love for Alasdair was like—oh, God, it was like a wild riot in her heart. Unstoppable, as exuberant as wildflowers in the spring. Nothing you could do would ever keep them from blooming in dazzling profusion, as far as the eye could see.

  Suddenly her brain served up a new idea: I could try to make him love me.

  And just as quickly it was rejected. What, manipulate Alasdair, lie to him, be someone she wasn’t? And what sort of sorry love would that be?

  No, he had made it clear what his limits were. And you couldn’t lose what you never had.

  People were—what they were. She couldn’t help but feel more than a little foolish for issuing her passionate speech to him about change.

  Take her, for example.

  She thought back to the second night of her marriage, when Alasdair had come strolling toward the bed, naked, jolting her into awareness of his intense and alluring masculinity. Had your fill? he had said in his deep and equally alluring voice, mocking her, unsettling her. At that moment she had somehow splintered into different Fionas: the cool, efficient, everyday Fiona; a cracklingly angry Fiona; and, surprising her, a Fiona so alive with desire she practically caught on fire with it.

  Here in the silence of her dark, dark dressing-room she could almost feel herself reverting to that first, fundamental, reliable Fiona. It was like putting on an old pelisse that you’d had for years. It wasn’t in the best condition, perhaps, and was tight-fitting in certain areas (because you’d outgrown it?). But it was familiar. And with familiarity came a certain comfort. A certain sense of safety, cocooned in which she could acknowledge that a great love was, clearly, to be denied to her. Well, that was life, wasn’t it? And after all, she had a lot to be thankful for.

  As if by magic, a sheet of paper presented itself to her mind’s eye.

  Good health

  Meaningful work

  A beautiful house to live in

  A library filled with books

  Delicious meals

  Wonderful rides with Gealag

  A husband who doesn’t berate or beat me

  This imaginary sheet of paper, only partially filled with her neat, efficient writing, seemed so vivid that Fiona felt she could almost reach out in the darkness to touch it.

  And there, you see? she told herself. You’re back to making lists again. How splendid. Congratulations.

  If there was a rather sardonic quality to this little interior commentary, well, she could live with that.

  And immediately, with a sort of horrible fluency, she turned her mind to the tasks that awaited her tomorrow—no, today, actually, given how late in the night it was. Hand over those old bills to Alasdair (there was no point in hanging on to those, that was plain). Talk to Cook about the dinner party. Visit the heavily pregnant farmer’s wife. Take the lovely, elegant, damaged, celestial-blue evening-gown, cut it into small pieces, and stow them away in her scrap-bag. Oh, and it was brewing day; she must see how the fermentation was coming along. Write letters to her sisters, and to Mother—

  Suddenly Fiona knew a sharp, painful stab of homesickness. For soft, sweet Mother. For her old bedchamber, in the high turret room with a view that seemed to go on forever. For Wick Bay. For Mother’s cheerfully messy solarium, the horribly draughty drawing-room, even the interminable parade of mutton dishes. Even—yes—even for Father.

  She’d be there right now, if …

  If Alasdair had married one of the other women.

  Bold, vivacious Janet Reid. She would have been a spirited mate for Alasdair. Perhaps, in time, she’d have matured. Mellowed. Possibly she would have been kinder to the servants.

  And the dainty, ethereal Mairi MacIntyre? Not a terribly useful sort of girl, but oh so lovely to look at. Some men liked a wife high on a pedestal, as an ornament to admire from afar.

  As for the bovine Wynda Ramsay and her obsession with the English ton and her execrable French—well, at least she had a tremendous bosom, which is more than she could say about herself.

  Oh, that wretched clan decree! If not for that, she’d never have met Alasdair. Married him. Would never have fallen in love with him. She’d still be home in Wick Bay, no doubt, and wouldn’t that have been better?

  Fiona wrestled herself onto her other side, bunching the blanket firmly around her. She tried to tell herself it was true.

  When Alasdair entered the breakfast-room that morning, he did so a little warily, not knowing quite what to expect. How would it be between himself and Fiona? Hostile, difficult, peppered with barbed comments, thinly veiled insults? Would there be a loaded question, perhaps, about how well he had slept?

  There she was in her place at the foot of the table, wearing a charming long-sleeved day-dress of softest periwinkle, her hair smoothly coiled into a low knot at the nape of her neck. She was her usual elegant self, slim, upright, neat as a pin and pretty as a picture.

  She looked up from her teacup as he entered. Pleasantly she said, “Good morning, laird,” and Alasdair was aware of a rush of relief.

  “Good morning,” he answered, and nodded at Duff and Isobel, who were,
he noticed, eyeing him with trepidation before glancing with the same nervousness at Fiona. Yes, there had been quite a scene last night in the drawing-room, and no doubt they were expecting something of a similar nature.

  But Fiona had obviously set the tone, and Alasdair gratefully took his own seat at the head of the table. Today was, after all, a new day. Perhaps they could talk things through. He saw that next to his plate and silverware was a dark red brocaded document folder.

  He looked at Fiona.

  “The old invoices,” she said calmly, “for your review.” And that was that. A servant offered her more tea, and with that same pleasant manner she accepted.

  “Thank you,” Alasdair answered, pushing aside the brocade folder with a sharp repugnance he didn’t, at the moment, care to analyze.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Silence then filled the breakfast-room, which was illuminated by a particularly beautiful and piercing September sunlight, warm and golden. It wasn’t until halfway through the meal that Alasdair became aware of that silence. Usually Isobel would be chattering about this or that. Duff might be mentioning his plans for the day, and urging Alasdair to join him. Fiona would at least be saying something.

  It was then he realized that Duff and Isobel kept glancing between him and Fiona. And that Fiona, usually so hearty in her appetite, had barely touched her food. That underneath her eyes were the heavy dark circles of one who had not slept much the night before, if at all. But to this she had not referred, and had only sipped calmly at her tea.

  “Madam,” said Alasdair, “is your breakfast not to your liking?”

  She turned her eyes—cool gray today—to him. “I find I’m not very hungry this morning, laird.”

  “Ah.” He paused. “Are you unwell?”

  “By no means.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Thank you for inquiring.”

  “Of course.”

  It was all very civil. Her tone was still pleasant. So what exactly was bothering him? It was like having a pebble in your shoe. Such a small thing, yet impossible to ignore. Doggedly he continued:

  “My bailiff Shaw says that the bull sent by the Colling brothers has arrived. I know we talked about riding out together to see it. Would you like to do that?”

  “How kind of you to ask. But I’m afraid I’ve so many things to do today. Perhaps another time.” Fiona rose to her feet, smoothed out her gown. “In fact, I really ought to get started. If you’ll excuse me?”

  Briskly she left the breakfast-room. Baffled, struggling within himself, Alasdair stood and caught up with her in the long high-ceilinged passageway. Servants bustled to and fro, but he had to speak.

  “Madam,” he said, “Fiona—”

  She turned, her eyebrows lifted inquiringly.

  He came close to her, and saw with a certain gladness that she didn’t step away. In a low voice he said, “Would you like to talk?”

  And lightly she answered, “About what, laird?”

  “About last night.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “You were honest with me,” she said, lightly, pleasantly. “I appreciate that. We understand each other now. And when I agreed with you about no more talking, I meant it.”

  “Yes,” he said, “but …”

  She waited. His eyes searched her face. His brain searched for words. Abruptly there flashed into his memory an experience from long ago, when at a dare from Hewie—both of them reckless fifteen-year-olds—he had agreed to climb a sheer rockface on Ben Macdui. Initially he’d done well, and had easily ascended to a point some fifty feet above the ground. And then his fingers could no longer find purchase above him. It had been a sickening sensation. He could go no further.

  That’s what it felt like right now.

  Fiona wasn’t cold, wasn’t furious. Those luminous eyes weren’t blazing with passionate emotion. Yet it was as if he could gain no purchase on her; she was in some fundamental way inaccessible.

  “Well,” she said at last, “if that’s all, laird?”

  “Yes—no.” He groped for her hand, held it gently. She did not resist, but there was about her the slightly distracted air of a busy person who was mentally already somewhere else.

  “How sweet,” Fiona said, and with equal gentleness withdrew her hand. “I do hope you have a nice day.”

  And she turned and walked away from him.

  Although he had long finished his breakfast, Duff lingered at the table while Isobel poked at a strawberry tart, picking away at the buttery crust until a pile of golden crumbs had accumulated on her plate and the sweet red interior lay exposed but uneaten. Her white brow was wrinkled and her lips pursed distractedly, her eyes downcast. She wore this morning a high-necked gown of soft violet, trimmed at the neckline and sleeves with a modest fall of white ruffled lace, and it came to Duff, as he observed her, that she rather resembled a pansy.

  He liked pansies.

  One of his favorite flowers, now he came to think on it.

  He said, unconsciously echoing Alasdair, “Is your tart not to your liking, madam?”

  She started. “Oh! Only look what I’ve done. How wasteful of me! I’m sure it’s delicious, sir, but—”

  “Call me Duff, won’t you?”

  “Oh! Ought I? I should hate to appear forward.”

  He observed with pleasure the pretty blush on her plump cheeks. “Not a bit of it,” he declared. “And might I have the privilege of calling you by your Christian name? I’ve always thought ‘Isobel’ to be a lovely name. That’s what I called a terrier bitch I had when I was just a lad. What a hunter! She must’ve killed a hundred badgers if she killed a one.” Nostalgically Duff added, “Had bright eyes like little shiny buttons, just like yours.”

  “How sweet of you … Duff,” answered Isobel, fluttering a little at the compliment, and he felt in the region between his stomach and his shoulders an unfamiliar, but agreeable sensation. In his lungs? What else was in there? Kidneys, liver? Yes, and also one’s heart. He smiled and said:

  “Now then! What’s had you so preoccupied that you’ve torn that pastry to bits?”

  At once Isobel looked worried again. “I was just thinking about what happened last night in the Great Drawing-room. Such a fierce quarrel! And it was so tense just now between dear Fiona and the laird. Underneath, if you know what I mean? It’s dreadful! I can’t help but be upset.”

  “Yes, well … But … Oughtn’t to dwell on … I mean—” Fumblingly Duff struggled to think of something consoling to say. It didn’t come easy; he hadn’t been in the habit of paying much attention to the feelings of others. But there was something about Isobel that made him want to try. And then, in a stunning bolt of inspiration, it came to him. “Did you notice how—well—snappish Fiona was last night? They say that in a certain—ah—delicate state, ladies can be peevish—and consider how she didn’t eat her breakfast this morning. Maybe she’s … you know …”

  Isobel’s eyes were round. “Goodness! Why, yes! Of course, it would be early days yet, but still … It certainly would explain … How terribly clever of you to think of it!”

  “It’s nothing, really,” he said modestly. God’s eyeteeth, but it was nice to bask in some womanly admiration, and from a lady, too, none of your silly little tavern wenches either. To be sure, Isobel’s face did have some lines upon it, but so did his, truth be told, and conferred upon them both, he thought, a fine sort of shared dignity. He was especially glad, now, that he’d lopped off that unruly beard of his, and that today he’d put on one of his better shirts.

  Which reminded him. He called to one of the servants: “There’s a basket of mine out in the hall—bring it in.”

  When the servant returned bearing the basket, he said, “Place it by Dame Isobel.” And added, as if the words came to him a little rustily, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, sir,” said the servant, and Duff realized that it didn’t feel so bad to acknowledge when people
did you a service, either.

  Isobel was staring in bewilderment at the brilliantly colored heap of garments before her. Bright yellow. Loud green. Vibrant chartreuse. Blazing red. “Your—your waistcoats, Duff? Shall I mend them for you, as I did your shirt?”

  “No—no, you misunderstand me,” he answered quickly. “I’m discarding them. They are, perhaps, a trifle too—er—vivid for one of my age. What may have suited me most excellently in the past might not be quite so—ah—comme il faut. I thought—well, I thought they might find new life as wee dresses for the dolls you make.”

  “Oh, Duff, how very kind of you!” exclaimed Isobel, touched. “And the fabric will make the most delightful little gowns. Thank you so much!” She smiled at him, eyes shining with gratitude.

  Duff opened his mouth to reply, but found himself at a loss for words. It had been a long time since a lady had looked at him in that way. Maybe never.

  A servant broke the spell, by offering to take away his empty plate. “Oh—um—yes. I thank you,” said Duff, and was filled with a surprising regret when Isobel rose to her feet, saying:

  “Oh dear! We’re keeping the servants from their work, I’m afraid.” She ran a caressing hand over the smooth, bright material of a gaudy yellow waistcoat. “How lovely. Well! Thank you again! So considerate of you! Good day to you, Duff.”

  “And to you, Isobel. I trust I’ll see you at nuncheon?”

  “Yes,” she said, a little breathlessly, her face pink, and thus they went their separate ways, Isobel with her basket to the Little Drawing-room, Duff to the library where he intended to pore over the latest racing journal but instead stood at the window, thoughtfully puffing on his pipe in a state of pleasant—very pleasant—abstraction.

  Chapter 14

  By late afternoon Fiona had accomplished all the tasks on her list, moving through them capably and efficiently, one after the other. So what if she felt like a machine? At least she might felicitate herself on disguising that fact reasonably well.

  Or so she thought.

  She was in the kitchen garden, clad in an old muslin gown, on her knees among the mint, fennel, basil, and dill. For quite some time now she had been trimming, watering, uprooting weeds, picking off snails. Cook, surprised and solicitous, had more than once sent servants out to help, but Fiona had waved them away. In particular, there were several prickly spear-thistle plants which had recently sprung up and she was determined to eradicate them. A large bushy heap had piled up in her basket when, abruptly, a shadow fell upon her. Quickly Fiona looked up.