The Laird Takes a Bride

by Lisa Berne

  Father, Mother, Gavin, and himself: painted from the time of his own infancy until shortly before their deaths.

  After they were gone, he couldn’t bear to look at these portraits. Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to destroy them, and so had placed them in here. Not in the attics, where anyone might go and find them. Here, where they were concealed from prying eyes, and where they had been, undisturbed, for all these years.

  Alasdair leaned against the doorframe, his eyes fixed on the dim shapes of the portraits. He felt it coming, the massive wave of grief, but he didn’t brace himself against it or try to fight it, or ignore it, as he’d done before.

  Instead he let it roll through him, an overpowering rush of sorrow so intense that for a brief moment or two he wondered if it would kill him.

  But it didn’t.

  It rolled on and away.

  Leaving him not empty, but filled with—why, it was love.

  Love for Gavin, clever, mischievous, maddening, impulsive, merry, affectionate.

  For Father, intelligent, kind, easygoing, maybe a little weak, but well-meaning and generous.

  For Mother, brilliant and moody, a limited person, perhaps, whom he’d never fully understand, but she’d done the best she could, which is, in the end, all that anyone can do.

  As for Mòrag Cray, what he felt wasn’t love, or even the remnants of a boy’s fiery infatuation, that was all in the past now, but he didn’t feel the old longing anymore, the dreadful insidious pull of what might have been.

  The wave would come again, he was sure of that, but next time, he thought, it would be a little less intense.

  More bearable.

  It was, he thought, possible, just possible, that he had begun to heal.

  Alasdair took in a breath, and slowly let it out.

  Then he left the door open, put away the key, and went downstairs to the steward’s office, Cuilean trotting alongside him.

  “Lister,” he said.

  “Aye, laird?” Lister, at his desk, looked up, promptly set aside his quill.

  “You know the rooms off my bedchamber?”

  “Of course.”

  “In one of those rooms are some portraits of my family.”

  “Indeed, laird?”

  Alasdair smiled a little. “Haven’t you been wondering, all these years, where they were?”

  “It’s not my business to wonder, laird,” replied Lister piously.

  “I’d like you to have the portraits put back in their place, in the gallery.”

  “To be sure, laird, I’ll see to it.”

  “Good. Have you been able to pay those old invoices of my mother’s?”

  “Oh yes, it’s all been taken care of.”

  “I’m glad. Thank you, Lister,” said Alasdair, and went on to the breakfast-room. If Cuilean had been able to form the words, he doubtless would have said, in a joyful voice, At last.

  Late at night, wide awake, in her bedchamber Fiona took out paper, ink, and a quill. She sat at her old escritoire, wearing not only her thick flannel nightgown but also two of her heaviest wool cloaks and four pairs of stockings. Logan Munro was right: the keep was atrociously cold.

  Not that it was news to her.

  Was she going to marry Logan?

  She dipped her quill in the inkpot and slowly wrote:

  Pros

  Start a new life

  Babies (hopefully)

  Logan is very good-looking

  His house is probably warmer

  Cons

  No real sense of humor; fond of puns (ugh)

  Has a weak chin

  She paused.

  So what if Logan’s chin was less than ideal? She herself, after all, was far from perfect. For example, she’d become so thin that the last time she’d gotten onto Gealag’s back, he’d inquiringly turned his head around to see if it really was her, or perhaps a scarecrow from the field which someone had set on top of him.

  Fiona looked down at the sheet of paper on which she’d begun her list.

  Stared at it for a long time.

  She thought again about the things Logan had said to her in the stillroom. Then she pushed aside her list, and began writing them down on a new sheet of paper.

  The past is gone.

  Start over again.

  Second chances.

  The future.

  At this she also stared for a long time. Logan had said all the right things. He really had. Her mind moved and leaped, reversed itself and jumped ahead, looping over and over as she studied these eleven simple words.

  Finally she slid aside the paper, revealing another blank sheet.

  Slowly she began to write again.

  He was dreaming that he’d been very far down in the water, where all was icy blackness.

  He dreamed that he had at last figured out which way was up. Where the surface was. With powerful strokes of his arms, powerful kicks of his legs, he swam up, the water around him gradually brightening, until, his lungs seeming about to burst, he broke through and out into the air and light of the world. He breathed. A few gentle strokes of his arms kept him buoyant. Not for him another descent into the watery soundless gloom below. Radiance everywhere.

  And then Alasdair woke up.

  It was morning.

  He turned from his side and lay on his back, looking around his bedchamber.

  Another morning.

  Hours ahead of him, to fill as best he could.

  What next?

  He remembered, suddenly, the time he, and Gavin, and a group of schoolfellows had been taken to a zoo in Glasgow, one of the very first built upon modern scientific principles. He remembered standing in front of an enclosure, inside which a bear had been confined. It was a very large enclosure. It had obviously been carefully designed so as to provide a comfortable setting for the bear; there were trees, shrubs, a spacious pool of water. Still, the bear wasn’t free, and Alasdair had been almost unendurably sad to see it. Nonsense, said one of the masters, the bear is safe, it’s got no predators or hunters, it’s fed every day, what’s there to be melancholy about?

  But still he remembered wondering, at the age of ten, is it better to be safe or to be free?

  It occurred to him now that safety was, perhaps, overrated. And in the wake of that thought, his being was flooded again with the essence of his dream.

  Radiance everywhere.

  It came to him, all at once, with the ease of an obvious idea, what he needed to do today.

  It really was time to move forward.

  Yes.

  How simple it all was.

  Simple, and yet risky.

  The outcome was uncertain.

  But he was going to try.

  That’s all he could do.

  Alasdair got out of bed, pulled aside one of the heavy drapes, looked at the sky. There was snow in those low gray clouds. Well, it couldn’t be helped. He wasn’t about to let a little snow get in his way.

  It had been a tedious morning. After nearly a week of mild sunshine, the weather had turned nasty. The oatmeal served at breakfast had been burnt, the tea tasted worse than usual, and Father had been grumpy. Mother was nursing a cold; Isobel had been solicitous until Father had snapped at her, reducing her to tremulous silence. Only Logan had been cheerful, relating amusing anecdotes about his tailor back home and regaling them with a few choice puns. Fiona had finally stopped listening to him, given up on the execrable oatmeal, and simply looked at how beautifully put together Logan’s features were (aside from his chin). She had never before noticed that his eyelashes were so long and lush that they actually curled. A woman might envy them.

  After breakfast the ladies had escaped to the solarium, where the weak gray light of a cold, windy day seemed to fill it with a kind of hopelessness that not even the pleasant and colorful chaos within could overcome. Wrapped in an enormous tartan shawl, Mother had dozed on a chaise longue drawn close to the fire, and Isobel valiantly attempted, once more, to untangle various skeins of unruly
yarn. Logan poked his head in but, as if sensing the gloom pervading the solarium, had not come inside, only smiled intimately at Fiona before retreating.

  As for Fiona, she only stayed long enough to complete the set of embroidered linen handkerchiefs which she had been making. Very absorbent they were; wonderful for mopping up tears. She smoothed them together into a neat little stack, then placed it carefully on the table at Isobel’s side.

  “For you, dear Isobel,” she said. “May you have little need of them.” Then she dropped a light kiss on the older woman’s forehead, and went quickly to her bedchamber to change into a heavy, thick old gown, a long wool pelisse, and stout boots. On her head she tugged down a sturdy, close-fitting cap that was quite possibly the ugliest headgear she owned. But what did she care? It was warm, and outside it was freezing.

  In the Great Hall she crossed paths with Father, who carried a musket in each hand.

  “Cleaning your guns, Father?”

  He nodded. “Aye. Where are you going?”

  “The sheep pasture.”

  He nodded again, and so they parted in perfect harmony.

  The wind whipped at her skirts, not playfully but in a grabby malevolent sort of way, as Fiona walked along a muddy track lined with trees stripped bare of their leaves. Winter was coming, that was for sure. Everyone said it was going to be a bad one this year.

  She came to the pasture fence and leaned upon it for a while, thinking.

  This past week had gone by so slowly.

  More and more she had come to realize just how much she hated puns.

  At breakfast Logan had said, Why is it dreadful to have carrion near?

  And had answered himself:

  Because it makes an offal smell.

  He had laughed, and looked like he’d just thought of another one, and that was when she’d left off listening.

  Fiona straightened, then nimbly climbed over the fence and into the pasture. There were only some three dozen sheep contained here, and they eyed her placidly; she was well-known to them.

  “Hello,” she said, approaching them quietly, affably. A sharp gust of wind sent her skirts blowing wildly and doubtless revealed more of her legs than was seemly. Luckily there was no one out here to see it.

  From behind her, however, someone said:

  “Hello.”

  Fiona wanted to spin around, as fast as humanly possible, but through an immense act of will she schooled herself. She turned very slowly, very carefully, as if by so doing she would ensure that the owner of that deep, masculine voice—that voice like molten chocolate—would still be there when she was done pivoting her body.

  He was.

  Oh, he was.

  “Hello,” she said again, not to the sheep this time, but to Alasdair Penhallow, who stood just outside the fence in a dirty dark greatcoat. On his feet were tall, mud-spattered boots and his head was bare. He had an ugly gash on one cheek and his hair, longer than when she had last seen it, was a little rumpled. He was, without doubt, the most handsome, the most desirable man in all the great wide world. And his chin. So strong and so manly. She really could stare at it all day.

  “So,” said Alasdair, casually, “what are you doing out here?”

  “Oh,” she said, just as casually, “I had an idea the other day for treating bloody scours, so I tried it. I’ve come to see if it’s working.”

  He looked interested. “What did you use?”

  “I’ve been giving them a mixture of sodium carbonate in boiled water, with a pinch of salt and a little molasses.”

  “And?”

  “So far so good.”

  “Excellent. I’ll be sure and tell Shaw about your idea.”

  “Do.” The wind whirled viciously at her skirts and this time she was able to clutch at them and keep them from flying up.

  Alasdair squinted at the sky. “Blustery today,” he remarked.

  “Very,” Fiona agreed. “By the way, how did you know I was here?”

  “Your father told me.”

  “Oh? So you’ve met Father.”

  “Aye.”

  “And?”

  “We had a pleasant conversation. He invited me to walk down to the bay with him, to see some fishing boats.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said I would. After I had found you.”

  “Do you know about fishing boats?”

  “Quite a lot, actually.”

  She nodded. Then she said: “I’m surprised my letter arrived so quickly.”

  “What letter?”

  “The letter I wrote to you.”

  “You wrote to me?”

  “Yes.”

  He was silent for a moment. “You wrote to me,” he repeated softly, as if he needed to hear it again.

  “Yes. Isn’t that why you’ve come? You got my letter, and you’ve traveled very fast to get here?”

  “We did travel as fast as we could, but there was no letter from you before we left.”

  Now it was Fiona’s turn to be briefly silent. “So … you came without hearing from me.”

  “Aye.”

  “Ah.” She took this in, as might a parched land receive the sweet benediction of rain. Then: “You said ‘we.’”

  “Duff and I.”

  “Duff. Excellent. I’m so glad you had a traveling companion.”

  “He insisted on coming with me.”

  “Isobel will, I think, be very glad to see him.”

  “I hope so. He hopes so. What did you say in your letter?”

  Fiona looked into those eyes, all amber and citrine, that were fixed so straitly upon her. “I asked if we could try again.”

  “Ah. May I tell you why I’m here?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  Alasdair smiled. At last he smiled. And at once she felt an answering smile upon her own face as he said:

  “Why, I’ve come to woo you, lass.”

  Fiona hoped she wouldn’t explode, melt, dissolve into a dew, from the joy that was filling her to the brim. A gust of wind tried to blow her over, but she wouldn’t let it. Slowly, unhurriedly, she walked over to meet him at the fence. “What do you mean, woo me?”

  “You and I, Fiona Douglass, are starting over,” he said. “If you’ll have me.”

  “Yes,” she replied instantly. “Yes, Alasdair Penhallow, I’ll have you.”

  His face—his dear, beloved, familiar face—lit up. He looked so happy that even though she hadn’t thought she could possibly feel more joyful, she did. Don’t explode, she warned herself. Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

  “Fiona.”

  “Yes, Alasdair?”

  “Must I kiss you with this fence between us?”

  “Nothing more between us, I say.”

  “I agree.” He put one hand on the top rail, vaulted over the fence, and stood before her, the hem of his dark greatcoat rippling in the wind.

  “You may get sheep dung on your boots.”

  “Think you I care about that?”

  No, he wouldn’t care. Of course he wouldn’t care. Fiona lifted her face invitingly. Alasdair stepped close and gently set his big hands on her shoulders.

  “You,” he said softly, “are so very, very beautiful,” and then his lips were on hers, and he was kissing her, in exactly the way a man might kiss a woman for the very first time, as if each sensation was new and wonderful, as if the taste of her was the most delicious thing in the universe and he was hungry, so hungry, but he didn’t want to rush through the meal. He kissed her as if he never wanted to stop.

  It was only when a strange sensation of being intently watched came upon Fiona that she finally drew back a little. She turned her head.

  Said: “Dear me.”

  And laughed.

  The entire flock of sheep had drifted near and together they had the rapt air of an audience at the theater for whom an enthralling performance was being enacted. But not, Fiona thought, Romeo and Juliet. Rather, a play in which the lovers are to
live happily ever after.

  Alasdair was laughing, too.

  Then he turned to her and said, “I almost forgot.”

  “Forgot what?”

  He reached into an inside pocket of his greatcoat. “To woo a maiden properly, gifts must be tendered.”

  “I like gifts as much as the next person, but they’re really not necessary.”

  “Don’t subvert the wooing process.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “Good girl. Here.” He gave her a small, tightly stoppered jar. In it was a thick golden substance. “This is from Monty. It’s —”

  “Honey!” she exclaimed. “From our hives?”

  “Aye. From our hives. You and Monty have worked miracles.” Smiling, he reached into his pocket again. “And this is from Sheila.”

  It was a sampler, not entirely clean, but clearly the product of concerted effort. Around the edges had been embroidered a simple, pretty floral pattern, which framed these words in black thread:

  thy wood is a lamp unto my foot.

  “It’s lovely. Absolutely lovely.” Ignoring the misspellings, with great tenderness Fiona folded the grubby square of linen and put it, and the precious jar of honey, into a pocket of her pelisse. “What wonderful gifts. Did the whole clan know you were coming here?”

  “Aye. The word spread quickly. Cook would have sent you entire meals had I not persuaded her of the impracticality of such a scheme.”

  “How kind,” Fiona sighed happily.

  “I’ve one last gift. I hope you like it. Give me your hand, please.”

  Fiona obeyed. Alasdair gently turned it until her palm was revealed, and upon it he placed a ring. It was made of gold and it was fashioned, without ostentation, around a sapphire—square-cut, beautifully faceted, of a blue so exquisite, so pure, it made Fiona’s breath catch in her throat.

  “Sometimes your eyes are that color,” he said.

  “Are they?”

  “Aye.”

  “What color are they now, Alasdair?”

  “Like that sapphire, lass.”

  She nodded. My cup runneth over. I’ve never really understood that expression before. Now I do. Don’t explode, you, she told herself.

  “Do you like it?”

  “The ring?” she asked, a little dazedly.

  “Aye, the ring.”

  “Yes. So very much.”