“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.