The Laird Takes a Bride(13)

Father shrugged, and Mother said in a high, excited voice, “What on earth is going on?”

“Alasdair Penhallow’s to choose a bride from among the eligible lasses of the Eight Clans, that’s what’s going on. I suppose I’ll have to reinstate her dowry. Although those drains in the turnip fields are clogging in a bad way.”

Penhallow, thought Fiona, her brain spinning frantically. Penhallow again! Then she seized upon one pertinent element. “I’m sure I’m too old for this, Father!”

He only gave her a wolfish smile. “Read the letter.”

She did. And glared at Father. “It says here that if I were twenty-eight, I’d be past the age of eligibility. This is ridiculous! Demeaning! I’d rather die than traipse off to Castle Tadgh to be displayed like a sheep before some reprobate!”

“Keep reading.”

In a disbelieving voice Fiona read out loud: “‘The consequence for failing to abide by sacred clan law is death. Said female to be weighted with stones and flung into the nearest loch known to have a depth greater than twenty feet. Bagpipe accompaniment optional.’”

“How romantic!” put in Cousin Isobel, wreathed in smiles. “Fiona, dear, what a wonderful opportunity for you!”

Fiona glared at her, too, wishing she could hang a millstone around that dame’s plump neck and shove her into the closest body of water.

“You’re to leave tomorrow,” said Father.

“Tomorrow?” Mother exclaimed. “But I couldn’t possibly be ready to leave by then!”

“Oh, you’re not going,” Father told her, then looked over at Fiona, his eyes twinkling maliciously. “I’m sending Isobel as her chaperone.”

There was a stunned silence.

“No!” said Fiona with revulsion, even as Cousin Isobel gave a little shriek of delight and said:

“My dear Bruce! What an honor! You can be sure I’ll take very, very good care of dear Fiona!”

Fiona shot her a malevolent glance. Yes, just as you did in Edinburgh nine years ago, you old bat, when I came for a nice long visit. Encouraging Logan Munro’s advances to me. Leaving us alone together, when you knew it was wrong. And look what happened. I fell head over heels in love with him, and expected to marry him. Only it didn’t quite turn out that way, did it?

Mother faltered, “But surely I ought to go . . . I simply assumed—”

“My mind’s made up, madam. We’ll have no further discussion on the topic. Besides, they won’t be gone long. Penhallow will take one look at her and I reckon that’ll be that.”

A soft, incomprehensible murmur of distress came from Mother but she didn’t dare to actually say anything, and Fiona responded, with a politeness that imperfectly concealed deep irony, “Why, thank you, Father. Everyone says I take after you, after all.”

He scowled. “Will you never curb that sharp tongue of yours, girl? It’s lucky for you that you’re the spitting image of myself, else I’d have sworn your mother played me false.”

“And you’d have left me as a babe on the shores of the bay to die?”

Another murmur from Mother; a growl from Father who curtly said to Isobel, “Make ready, for you both leave at dawn,” and stalked out of the solarium. Gone but not forgotten, thought Fiona, as he’d left the foul stink of his boots behind him. Furiously she jumped to her feet and thrust the letter into the fire, and with a satisfaction she knew was foolish, she watched it burn to cinders.

She did not turn around when she heard Cousin Isobel exclaim happily, “Well! This is going to be so much fun!” Because otherwise she might have been tempted to say—or do—something which later, it was just possible she might regret.





Chapter 3





Castle Tadgh, Scotland

One week later . . .



This dinner, thought Alasdair Penhallow, was bizarre. During it, as one course succeeded another, he’d been stared at by his guests as if he were a puzzle to be worked out, a celestial visitation, an exotic and possibly dangerous wild beast, or a meal for a starving person.

He took a sip of wine and glanced around the high table. How odd to think that sitting here before him was the young lady who would become his wife. He wondered how long it would take for him to make his selection. Would he decide right away, or wait until the last minute? Luckily, no one could expect him to make a decision tonight, so he could, at least, look at them without raising expectations too high.

One thing was already obvious: they were four very different women.

Miss Mairi MacIntyre was a wee dainty lass, pretty as a princess, even to the sparkly tiara set in her golden locks. She sat to his immediate right, and shared her chair (and much of her food) with her asthmatic pug-dog, a friendly little beast whose overtures to Cuilean had been met with regal indifference.