But, apparently, not unmarried for long.
Unless he wanted to die, and that he most certainly did not. He was having far too good a time for that.
Besides, if he died without a son, everything that he owned and cherished—his title, his authority, his vast holdings— would be inherited by (according to the delightful vagaries of clan law) his distant English cousin Gabriel Penhallow, rumored to be an obnoxious, unintelligent, generally unappealing fellow. Second in line was his cousin, a man named Hugo Penhallow, of whom Alasdair knew nothing save for the fact that he was English.
Alasdair felt his lip curling. He would die before he left everything to a bloody Sassenach, left his clan in such repulsive hands. He couldn’t do that to them.
His fate, therefore, was sealed.
Alasdair looked again at Dame Margery. “I suppose, madam,” he said coolly, “you already know which eligible maidens I am to invite.”
“Aye, laird.” She pulled from her skirt pocket a crisp piece of paper. “I’ve the list right here. Miss Mairi MacIntyre, from the Western Isles. Miss Janet Reid, from the Lowlands. Miss Fiona Douglass, from the Northern Highlands. And Miss Wynda Ramsay, from the Uplands. All the other highborn damsels being already married, widowed, too old, or too young.”
“You are a marvel of efficiency, madam.”
“Thank you, laird.” She smiled—was it ironically?—and held out the paper to him. “For future reference.”
Alasdair eyed it as he might view (or smell) a rotting carcass. “Take it, Uncle. You’re to write to the lasses, and right away, for the sword of Damocles hangs above my head.”
Uncle Duff laughed. “Ha, you’re a funny one, lad,” he said, and took the paper from Dame Margery. “I’ll have Lister do it. What’s a steward for, after all? And here comes breakfast, not a moment too soon, for I’m about to perish from hunger!” With maddening casualness he stuffed the list that spelled Alasdair’s doom into his own pocket, and plumped himself into his seat at the high table, just at Alasdair’s left. Gloomily Alasdair shoved aside the Tome and sat down, to be promptly served a plate heaped high with fried eggs, bacon, sausage, and hot fragrant tattie scones. At this he only gazed morosely, but he did accept a cup of coffee.
As slowly he drank it he observed Uncle Duff consuming with relish—bordering on outright avarice—his own delicious breakfast. When finally Duff paused to reach for a fresh mug of ale, he glanced over at Alasdair’s plate.
“Not hungry, lad? I’ll take that bacon if you don’t want it.”
“Why? So you can have more bits of bacon decorating your beard?”
Duff looked down, plucked a few little shards free and unrepentantly popped them into his mouth. In other circumstances Alasdair might have been amused by his insouciance, but today was a—well, today was a special day.
“You’re a pig, Uncle,” he said sourly.
“Eh, you are what you eat, lad,” replied Duff, and reached for Alasdair’s bacon, neatly scooping the strips onto his plate.
Alasdair nodded his thanks to the servant who had just refilled his cup, and ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. His headache was finally receding, and for that he was grateful, but what was that small benefit compared to everything else that was happening?
With a frown he pushed his plate away.
“What in the name of heaven ails you, nephew? You look as if your best horse just died. I’ll just take those scones, shall I, since you’re not wanting them.”
“What ails me?” Alasdair repeated irritably. “What ails me, Uncle, is that I’m soon to be wed against my will.”
“So?”
“So? Are you daft, man? The life we’ve led is about to come to a crashing halt.”
“Why?” thickly said Duff through a mouthful of heavily buttered scone.
Alasdair stared at him, and put down his cup with a thump that sent coffee splashing over the rim. It was after the simultaneous deaths, on that memorable day fifteen years ago, of his parents, his older brother, and the others (he would not think of the others) in that ill-fated sailing party, that Uncle Duff, his mother’s younger brother, had become his boon companion. It was Duff—irrepressibly lively and larky and carefree—who had come to Castle Tadgh for the funerals and simply stayed on. He had rescued Alasdair from bone-crushing grief and gradually, patiently, lured him back into life. Or at least his own version of a merry nonstop hurly-burly involving wine, women, and song. And food. And dancing. And gaming. And whatever other pleasurable pursuit occurred to him.
Duff had never married, oft declaring bachelorhood to be the most desirable state known to man, and somehow, gradually, without really thinking about it, Alasdair adopted this same attitude. Not for a moment had he neglected his obligations as laird, but still there had been plenty of time for—why, for fun.