The Laird Takes a Bride(111)
“Aye. The word spread quickly. Cook would have sent you entire meals had I not persuaded her of the impracticality of such a scheme.”
“How kind,” Fiona sighed happily.
“I’ve one last gift. I hope you like it. Give me your hand, please.”
Fiona obeyed. Alasdair gently turned it until her palm was revealed, and upon it he placed a ring. It was made of gold and it was fashioned, without ostentation, around a sapphire—square-cut, beautifully faceted, of a blue so exquisite, so pure, it made Fiona’s breath catch in her throat.
“Sometimes your eyes are that color,” he said.
“Are they?”
“Aye.”
“What color are they now, Alasdair?”
“Like that sapphire, lass.”
She nodded. My cup runneth over. I’ve never really understood that expression before. Now I do. Don’t explode, you, she told herself.
“Do you like it?”
“The ring?” she asked, a little dazedly.
“Aye, the ring.”
“Yes. So very much.”
“It was my mother’s, given to her by my grandmother. Who had it from her mother. And so on. I should have presented to you, before, all the Penhallow jewels, as was your right. But somehow it never happened.”
“There were distractions.”
“Too many. Let’s have a simpler life from now on.”
“I’d like that. Alasdair, is this a betrothal ring?”
“What do you think?” He smiled warmly at her.
“I think—yes. But I need to know for sure.”
“You can be sure.”
“Will you say the words?”
“Of course. Will you marry me, Fiona? This time for real? For ever? No matter what that damned Tome might reveal tomorrow, next year, or fifty years from now?”
“Yes, Alasdair, I will.”
“I’m glad, lass. Glad beyond words.” With a reverence that brought a rush of happy tears to Fiona’s eyes, Alasdair took the ring and slid it onto the fourth finger of her left hand.
“It fits,” she said softly, admiring the sapphire’s fiery sparkle.
“As we do.”
He leaned his head down to kiss her again, and eagerly did she return his kiss. He pulled her close and she slid her arms tightly around his neck and they stood there in the sheep pasture, body to body, heart to heart, soul to soul. Despite the cold unfriendly winds buffeting them, Fiona was sure she’d never felt so warm before, so completely connected to another person. So safe.
When at length they pulled away a little, he said, “I love you, Fiona.”
“I thought—I hoped you did,” she answered, still a little breathless from that long, that delightfully long kiss.
“I’m sorry for my blindness, for my stubbornness, and my fear.”
“I’m sorry for my own, and for my haste in leaving you. For running away. When Isobel and Duff found the second decree, I felt I had to go.”
“Naturally you did. I’d hurt you. I was a fool.”
“No. Not a fool. But—I think we both had to grow a little?”
“Aye. Do you still love me, Fiona?”
“Yes. I love you, Alasdair. More, I believe.”
She could feel his arms tightening around her again, and she smiled at him. She reached up a finger and lightly traced the firm curve of his chin, and those delicious lines bracketing his mouth. “What happened to your cheek?”
“Oh, a mountain lion came at me near Golspie,” he said, nonchalant.
“But how dreadful! Have you other injuries? Is Duff all right?”
“No other injuries, lass, and Duff is fine. Although he did get soaked to the bone when the bridge on which he was riding collapsed and he tumbled into a stream. I haven’t seen him laugh so hard in years. He’ll tell you, however, that he had more fun the day before last, when we were set upon by a pair of brigands in Brora, and that he whistled all the way through a snowstorm in the Grampian Pass.”
“Gracious, what a journey,” she said, twinkling up at him. “It’s all deeply romantic, and Isobel will be so pleased to think of the travails you and Duff overcame on our behalf.”
“Knights in shining armor, that’s what we are!” Alasdair said, much struck. “I wonder I didn’t think of that before. How I shall puff myself about. I suppose I’ll be completely insufferable by dinnertime.”
Fiona laughed. “Won’t you come back to the keep, and let me put some of my salve on that wound?”
“If it will make you feel better, lass.”
“It will.”
Hand in hand, they strolled along the muddy path as if bathed in mild spring sunshine. Fiona told him about Nairna. Then, when her sadness lifted, she described her unavailing efforts to convince the cook to try some new recipes, and also about a harrowing birth in the stables at which Father had managed to save the lives of both the mare and her foal, now a healthy, promising colt for which Father had great hopes.