The Laird Takes a Bride

by Lisa Berne

  He remembered Fiona saying scornfully:

  Three hundred and eighty pounds for the fabric alone. And nineteen pounds for the tassels.

  God’s blood, but that was a lot of money.

  There was a tap on the open door, and Alasdair turned. In the doorway stood Mrs. Allen the housekeeper in her tidy spotless gown and ruffled cap.

  “You sent for me, laird?”

  “Aye. Come in.” He gestured toward the curtains. “Could you have those taken down, please, and cleaned?”

  “Of course, laird.”

  “And afterwards—I want to give them away. To someone who’ll find them useful. Any ideas?”

  Mrs. Allen looked thoughtful. “You ordered more wagons to go to the Sutherlainns next week. The fabric is very thick, and will help keep a room warm. There must be a dozen or more lengths to divide up, laird.”

  “Do it, then.”

  “I’ll see to it at once.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Allen. By the way, what do you think of them?”

  “Of the Sutherlainns, laird?”

  “I was unclear. I mean those window-hangings. What’s your frank opinion?”

  Mrs. Allen hesitated.

  “Your frank opinion, please.”

  “Well, laird, they’re a wee bit much for the room, aren’t they? And with all those tassels—I can’t help but think them rather busy, if you know what I mean?”

  He looked at them again. And nodded. “Aye,” he said. “I do know what you mean.”

  Change was coming.

  Change was coming, and it was good.

  It was Fiona’s seventy-second wedding. Seventy-third, she supposed, if she counted her own ephemeral one to Alasdair Penhallow.

  But she wasn’t going to.

  So: her seventy-second wedding.

  She sat once more in the very last pew of the church in Wick Bay, where, far to the front, her fourth cousin, Boyd Iverach, was marrying his fourth cousin, Effie Bain. It was a small, local wedding, and the church was only half-full. Several rows ahead of her sat Father, Mother, Isobel, and Logan Munro. Next to Logan, pretty Helen MacNeillie (yet another cousin) had placed herself just a little too close for respectability, and Fiona, observing them from behind, noticed what a striking pair they made—he so tall and broad, and with his dark hair, Helen so plump and round, with curls of tawny gold.

  She herself had come just a tiny bit late, having ridden out past the bogs to visit old Osla Tod, and had to quickly scramble into nicer clothing for the wedding. Now she looked down at the charming kid ankle-boots Mother had let her borrow. Aquamarine. So beautiful, that liminal shade between green and blue. Once in a while, the loch near Castle Tadgh had been that color, rendering it breathtakingly lovely.

  The minister was going on and on in his sonorous voice about the duties and obligations of marriage, and surreptitiously Fiona loosened the silken cord of her reticule. She pulled from it a small pencil and a little piece of paper. As it happens, it was the very same piece on which, a few months back on that perfect summer’s day, she had added to her list during Rossalyn’s wedding.

  Fiona turned over the paper.

  It was blank.

  Absolutely, totally blank.

  Slowly, secretly, she began to write.

  Things I like about myself:

  Intelligent

  Kind

  Capable

  Hardworking

  Good sense of humor

  Strong

  Things I don’t like about myself:

  Stubborn

  Too proud (?)

  Insecure

  A dull stick

  Greedy

  She thought for a while.

  In the Things I don’t like category, she crossed out Greedy.

  She also crossed out A dull stick.

  Then she looked up and to the front, where Boyd was kissing Effie, with a boisterous smack that resonated sweetly throughout the church.

  She looked back down at her list.

  Crossed out Things I don’t like about myself, and wrote instead Aspects to improve.

  Yes.

  That was better.

  She’d work hard to improve on her stubborn, insecure, overly proud aspects.

  She gave a decisive little nod.

  And finally, in the Things I like category, underneath Strong, she added:

  Good enough.

  I am good enough.

  I am MORE than good enough.

  I am worthy.

  I am

  She paused. What was the right word?

  Then it came to her, and she wrote: lovable.

  Capable of loving, and worthy of being loved.

  Suddenly she noticed that the wedding was over. People were standing up, talking, laughing.

  Fiona folded her paper, and put it and the pencil safely back into her reticule. With a firm step, she went to warmly congratulate Effie and Boyd.

  Time marched on, relentlessly, inexorably, everywhere around the vast earth, yet for two particular people, in their separate parts of the world, long miles apart from each other, it had a distinctly peculiar quality. Was it going by quickly, or curiously slowly?

  It must have been two months after she’d come back to Wick Bay, on a cool, cloudy morning, that Fiona stood at a workbench in the stillroom, using a stone pestle to grind the tough leaves of a house-leek into a pulp for a poultice. Isobel had a headache, and leeks were an excellent remedy. After she had delivered the poultice—Fiona glanced at the long list she’d set near the mortar—she’d go to the kitchen to talk with the cook, then stop by the stables, and after that sit with Mother for a while in the solarium, and do some sewing. Then—

  “Hello.”

  Fiona paused. There was Logan, very nearly filling up the width of the doorframe with his massive shoulders. She looked up at him. “Hello.” Then she went on mashing a particularly fibrous leaf.

  “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  Fiona considered this. “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. But it would be fair to say that I haven’t been seeking you out.”

  “Are you still angry at me for Nairna’s death?”

  Fiona considered this also. “No.”

  “I’m glad.”

  There was a silence. Fiona finally mangled the leaf into a satisfying pulp. Logan leaned against the doorframe.

  “A long time ago,” he said softly, “we used to have conversations.”

  “True.”

  “Perhaps we could have one now?”

  “What about?”

  “Whatever you like.”

  Fiona looked up at him again. Goodness, but he was as handsome as ever. He really did have the most classically perfect nose she had ever seen—like the bold prow of a ship. And how had he managed to have just one lock of his black hair lying across his forehead in that dashing way? Had he done it on purpose, or was it one of those lucky accidents in life?

  “Very well,” she said. “I’ll begin. Why are you still here, Logan?”

  “I have a reason for staying.”

  “I see. Don’t you have an estate to run at home? Fields, a house, servants, and so on?”

  “I don’t think you do see, in fact. And yes, I have an estate, but I also have a bailiff, who spares me the boredom of having to think about—or, worse, deal with—sheep and farmers and crops. And I have a mother and a sister to manage my house and my servants.”

  “What on earth do you do with yourself all day?”

  “A gentleman can always find ways to keep himself occupied.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Trust me.” He smiled, and there it was—the fetching little dimple in his left cheek.

  She had always found that dimple incredibly charming. The very first time she’d met Logan, when she was eighteen, he had smiled at her—in just the way he was right now—and she had badly wanted to touch her tongue to that intriguing hollow. And immediately had turned as red as a strawberry, and made an ina
ne, awkward remark about the weather, expecting him to turn on his heel and walk away in disgust at her maladroit manner.

  But he hadn’t. He had agreed that the weather was fine. And stayed. And she’d been lost.

  “So,” she now said, “what is your reason for staying on?”

  “You.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re the reason I’m still here.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I want us to start over again.”

  Fiona pushed away the mortar and pestle. Already the house-leek pulp was losing its potency; she’d have to grind some more as soon as this absurd exchange was over. Because it was absurd.

  Wasn’t it?

  “My, my,” she said in an even tone. “Moving rather quickly, aren’t you?”

  He took a step toward her. “If life has taught me anything, Fiona, it’s that anything can happen at any time. The past is gone. Right here, right now, is a second chance for us. We cared for each other once.”

  “Yes, but you jilted me for Nairna, as you’ll recall.”

  He took another step closer.

  “I liked you. I liked you very much.” His voice, his eyes, everything about Logan was eager earnestness. “But—I had debts, Fiona, large debts from foolish gambling while at university.”

  “And Nairna had a much bigger dowry.”

  “I’ll not deny there was, in part, a mercenary incentive. I was desperate, in danger of losing my estate. I don’t gamble anymore —at least not beyond my means. And I was a good husband to Nairna—you know I was.”

  “Yes. You made her very happy.”

  “So now let’s look to the future, Fiona, you and I.”

  If he had touched her, she would have shoved past him and left the stillroom, poor Isobel’s remedy be damned. But he simply stood there, so very tall, so very big. And whether he knew it or not, he was saying all the right things to a woman with a broken heart. The past is gone. Start over again. Second chances. The future.

  Fiona said:

  “Just so we’re clear. Are you saying that you want to marry me?”

  “Yes, my darling, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  She let this sink in. Such marriages were far from uncommon among the pragmatic Douglass clan; no one would bat an eye. But more important, what would Nairna have said?

  It was an easy question.

  Fiona could almost hear her sweetest, kindest, most loving of sisters saying, Of course! Marry him with my blessing. Take good care of him, won’t you?

  “Well,” Fiona said to Logan, “if you’re looking to make money from marrying me, you’d better think again, because you never know with Father and his vagaries.”

  “It’s not about money. I have a very competent bailiff and my income is ample for my needs.”

  “Have you spoken to Father?”

  “No. You’re no green girl.”

  “I need time to think about your proposal.”

  “Of course. Take as much time as you need. May I kiss you?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  He smiled, those black eyes of his flashing. “You disappoint me, but I can be patient. Good day, my sweet.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Somewhere there’s a fire. This keep is atrociously cold.”

  “Father’s gone off to look at some fishing boats, if you’re interested.”

  “I’m not.”

  “As you like. Good day.”

  His smile was caressing. “Till we meet again.”

  Then he was gone, and Fiona was alone again. She turned at once to the mortar and pestle. She threw out the old house-leek, and started on a new one.

  Chapter 16

  Alasdair whistled, and Cuilean came running, panting joyfully. They’d been to the river and back, and now, as they made their way through the gardens toward the castle, Alasdair saw the long ladder once more propped up against that tree, where once he had watched Fiona high above him. Monty was slowly descending, rung by rung, and when he reached the ground he said in laconic acknowledgement:

  “Morning, laird.”

  Alasdair paused. Cuilean frisked round him, plainly wondering what next exciting adventure awaited them. Alasdair said, “So how are those eggs doing?” Never in his life would he have imagined he’d be asking after a nest of goldfinch eggs, but if Duff could shave off a beard he’d had for thirty-five years, anything, he supposed, was possible.

  “Not eggs anymore. Hatched.”

  Alasdair hesitated.

  Monty said, “Want to see them?”

  “Actually, I do.”

  “Shall I hold the ladder steady, laird?”

  “Monty, how long have you known me?”

  “All your life, laird.”

  “Have you ever held a ladder for me?”

  Monty reflected. “Nay, laird, though there was that time when you were stuck on the roof.”

  “You offended me grievously with your suggestion then also.”

  “You were nine, laird.”

  “I may have broken my collarbone jumping down, but my pride was intact.”

  Monty smiled, ever so slightly, which for him was the equivalent of a face-splitting grin. “You were ever a game lad.”

  “That’s one way to put it. My mother used to say that I was an imp from hell. And that’s when she was in a good mood.” Alasdair went to the ladder and swiftly climbed it. There, high among the branches, was a cup-shaped nest, and in it were five little —what were they called? Not fledglings, for the tiny fragile creatures had no feathers to speak of. They were covered in a fluffy gray down that made them look at once rather comical and, he thought in wonderment, incredibly vulnerable. Their eyes were black and bead-like and utterly without guile. New life, new hope. He found himself wishing with a startling intensity that they’d survive, grow, fly.

  A little flutter from a branch some three feet away caught his eye. An adult finch. A nervous parent. At once Alasdair went down the ladder. Cuilean greeted him with as much enthusiasm as if he’d just returned from a long sea voyage, and Alasdair reached down to affectionately rub that rough woolly head.

  “Mayhap,” said Monty, “we’ll see goldfinches more often now.”

  Alasdair straightened. “What are the odds of that?”

  “Time will tell.”

  He nodded, and was just about ready to move on when Monty added:

  “Always felt—” He stopped, looked meditatively up into the tree. “A shame about that accident on the loch. Never had a chance to change, and grow, as a family. Hard for you, being on your own.”

  For Monty this was an epic speech, and Alasdair stared down at him, amazed.

  “Aye,” he answered slowly. “A shame. Thank you, Monty.”

  The older man dipped his head a little and cleared his throat. “Rosebushes need cutting back. If that’s all, laird?”

  “Aye.” Alasdair watched him trudge off. Cuilean had gone to investigate an interesting smell underneath a hedge, but came instantly when Alasdair whistled, and followed obediently at his heel as he went into the castle and—to Cuilean’s disappointment —not into the breakfast-room but up the stairs and eventually to the Portrait Gallery.

  Alasdair slowed as he came to the painting of his ancestor Raulf Penhallow, the savage medieval warrior-prince said to have been the terror of half the island. Very fine he was here, in his handsome tunic and leggings. Very arrogant and proud. There’d never been a need to wonder, Alasdair thought, how he had come by his dark-red hair. Raulf was sporting a full head of it.

  As a child he’d never spent much time looking up at old Raulf, for by some devious trickery the artist had managed to render his eyes in a way that seemed to follow you about, with an expression in them that suggested ill intent. One of the pleasures of adulthood was that he’d become tall enough to meet Raulf face to face, as it were, without a superstitious chill running down his spine.


  Alasdair lingered there, his gaze resting thoughtfully on that haughty countenance. Not only was Raulf renowned for his ferocity, he was also notoriously stubborn (which made all his sieges successful). But in the end, evidently, he was undone by his insistence on eating oysters brought in from Cairnryan—against the advice of his ministers, his astrologist, his surgeon-barber, his wife and his mistress, and his priest, for the distance was such to make consuming them hazardous.

  He was dead within the hour.

  “You bloody old fool,” Alasdair said out loud to Raulf. “Hoist by your own petard.”

  He moved on.

  At length he came to the portrait of himself and Gavin. How they’d hated standing still for so long! Also, he and Gavin had been in the middle of a long-running feud as to who was better at spitting their saliva the furthest, and the only way the harassed artist could keep them from breaking out into fisticuffs was to abandon his idea of posing them with their arms around each other. But the entire time he and Gavin had muttered crass scatological insults to each other.

  Speaking of stubborn.

  Suddenly Alasdair grinned.

  Christ, maybe it all could have worked out all right, no matter what would’ve happened with Mòrag Cray.

  Anything was possible.

  His smile dimmed, and he reached out a hand to one of those faint discolorations on the wall.

  Then he walked on to the laird’s bedchamber and into his dressing-room. On a low shelf in his armoire was a small box hewn from oak and fitted with ornamental brass along its curved lid. Inside the box was a steel key, and Alasdair took the key, went into the passageway, and stopped before the locked door.

  Into his mind came little Sheila’s voice, that odd remark she’d made the day after his thirty-fifth birthday, right after Dame Margery had issued her stunning pronouncement.

  A room with a door, a door with a lock, she had said in that dreamy way she had sometimes. An egg that won’t hatch, a bird that can’t fly …

  There was no doubt about it, Sheila was an interesting child, with those pale blue eyes that could, apparently, see two things at once.

  Alasdair unlocked the door.

  Without windows, without candles to illuminate it, the room was dark, but Alasdair didn’t need such things to know what was inside.

  A dozen portraits of his family, set carefully against the walls.