The Laird Takes a Bride(109)

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.”