The Laird Takes a Bride(11)

Just the way he liked it.

“You’ll excuse me for not exactly loving the idea of giving up my freedom,” he now said to his uncle.

“You’re the one who’s daft, lad. What is a wife but a brood mare? You’ll pick one of the lasses, get her with child as many times as it takes to produce a son or two, and that’s the sum of it. Nothing else will change.” Duff very generously put Alasdair’s bacon (all but one strip) back on his plate and slid it toward him. “And we’ll have a grand time once the lasses arrive! Feasts, dances, picnics, riding expeditions, tours of the castle, excursions to the Keep o’ the Mòr, boating on the loch—” He stopped himself, then hastily added, “No, no sailing! But we’ll be as gladsome as the day is long, you can be sure of that. It’s the Penhallow way!”

Thoughtfully Alasdair picked up a strip of bacon and bit into it.

It was true, after all, that as laird he did owe it to the clan to produce an heir.

But Duff had a point.

There was no need to get all worked up about the whole thing. Nowhere was it written that he had to permit a wife to cling to him, bother him, get in his way, make demands on him.

Nobody was talking about a love-match.

And love—as a word, as a concept—wasn’t something which he spent much time dwelling upon. Was his life diminished because of it? Not a bit of it; he’d gone on very happily, thank you very much, these past years.

All at once, like the dark clouds of night giving way to a clear new day, everything seemed wonderfully simple again, wonderfully safe, and Alasdair felt his mood lifting.

He took another bite of bacon.

It was fragrant and crunchy, with a delicious little ribbon of fat on one side.

He chewed, enjoyed, swallowed, reached for another piece, and as he did so he realized that Duff was leaning back in his chair, watching him, his hands folded across his ample middle and his eyes twinkling.

“That’s more like it, lad! We’ll seize the day as we always do! Once I’ve given the list to Lister with his instructions— ha! The list to Lister!—shall we head down to the river for some fishing?”

Alasdair smiled, really smiled, for the first time that day. Normalcy, like a fine, familiar mantle, seemed to wrap itself all about him, warm and comforting. It was all going to be just fine.

“Aye,” he said cheerfully, and found himself thinking about that delectable black-haired lass again, she of the voluptuous figure and the cherry-red lips. Perhaps later on today or tonight, if she was still around, he could get to know her just a little bit better.



When Miss Mairi MacIntyre, of the Western Isles, received and read the letter summoning her forthwith to Castle Tadgh, she gave a soft gasp, felt a trifle lightheaded, and promptly sat down on the nearest sofa, grateful that her maid was quick to bring her vinaigrette and wave it gently underneath her nose, and that dear little Pug kept trying to lick her chin, as if he wanted to help, too.

This was just like the Cendrillon story, which she had read countless times as a little girl. The prince—in this case, Laird Alasdair Penhallow, who really was a kind of prince among the Eight Clans of Killaly—had invited the young ladies of the land to his beautiful castle, in order to select one to be his bride! Only there would be just four candidates, which did improve the odds tremendously. And, of course, she herself wasn’t a servant girl forced to do a horrid amount of housework, dress in nasty tatters, and sleep among the cinders to keep warm.

Instead she lived a very nice life in a luxurious mansion, with fond parents who doted upon her and kept her under anxious watch as her constitution was, unfortunately, rather delicate.

On the other hand, there were so many similarities that it nearly took one’s breath away. For example, how often did Mama and Papa call her their little princess? Every day! Too, she had a wonderful godmother, a dear friend of Mama’s, who was so very kind and was always sending the most delightful gifts. And, like Cendrillon, Mairi loved to dance. At all the local assemblies she was quite sought-after. Everyone said that she had the tiniest waist, the prettiest little feet, and a laugh like the tinkling of fairy bells. People were so nice, weren’t they?

Mairi picked up Pug and cradled him in her arms. “Oh, I do hope there will be a ball, Puggie! If I’m well enough, and Mama and Papa let me, I’ll stay up long after midnight!”

Pug gave a short, sharp bark.

“You want to know if you can go too, Puggie? Of course you can! I’ll dress you up in your very best collar, too! We’ll make absolutely sure it matches my gown.” Mairi smiled and held him close.



When Miss Janet Reid, of the Lowlands, got her letter, she had only an hour before returned from a stroll in the manicured gardens to the back of her house, and in the company of a young man who had for the past months been courting her most ardently. (Her governess, Miss Sad Shovel as she liked to call her, had been discreetly trailing behind, her face just as dreary and spade-like as ever.) Janet had been inclined to encourage this young man over her other suitors, for he was terribly good-looking, came from a fine family, and stood to inherit a handsome fortune from his father. Oh, and she liked him well enough.