The Laird Takes a Bride(112)

Alasdair in turn told her all about a fascinating book he’d been reading (the subject being an ingenious new plow he wanted to try in the spring), his suspicion that Cuilean had sired a large and thriving litter of pups by one of Shaw’s retrievers (Shaw had offered to give her one), and also about the rumor going around the castle that Dr. Colquhoun had secretly proposed to Mrs. Allen. And of course he told her about the goldfinches.

“Oh, I can’t wait to be home again,” said Fiona fervently. “When can we, Alasdair?”

“Whenever you like, lass, although I must admit I’m keen to have you there sooner rather than later, and feed you Cook’s good food myself if I have to. You need fattening up.”

“Let’s get married tomorrow, then.”

“I brought your wedding ring. Just in case.”

“A short betrothal.”

“And a long marriage.”

They laughed.

“Alasdair,” Fiona said, “do you like puns?”

“You’d have to tie me to a chair to make me listen to them. Why?”

“I was just wondering.” Fiona couldn’t help it, she gave a little skip of joy, and together, hands still warmly clasped, they kept walking.



In the Great Hall they found a scene of genial confusion. Duff had wasted no time in gaining the hand of his Isobel (who, weeping happily, was successfully deploying one of her large new handkerchiefs), Mother was fluttering about still wrapped in her enormous shawl, Father had emerged from his gun room with one of the deadly-looking muskets grasped absentmindedly in one hand, his dogs were taking advantage of the disorder and boldly licking crumbs off the table, and Logan Munro stood close to the roaring fire, slavishly attended by two eager housemaids anxious to offer him tea or ale or whatever—whatever —he liked.

Alasdair was introduced, wedding plans put forth, Father’s assent given, Mother joined Isobel in happy crying, and Logan, seeing that he was beaten, gave in with good grace, shook hands with Alasdair, congratulated him on his good fortune, and promptly made himself scarce, leaving the keep quietly the next morning and his absence mourned only by the maids—even Mother, the most good-natured person imaginable, privately confessing to Fiona that she’d gotten tired of having Logan lounging around the solarium, talking, and all too often interfering with her naps.





Chapter 17




And so the very next day, in the church where her sisters had been wed, Fiona and Alasdair were married. Rather to the disappointment of the local folk, there were no brawls, no sudden deaths, no ferrets dashing about, no spectacular leaks in the roof, or anything, really, to liven up what was, after all, just another wedding.

Of interest was only the fact that immediately after Fiona and her foreign laird were leg-shackled, her cousin and his uncle were also married, and although Dame Isobel twice sobbed loudly enough to drown out the groom’s responses, nothing else untoward occurred.

The feast that followed was also sadly unremarkable. There was no shouting, no cursing, no overturned tables, no fights among the dogs for scraps.

Altogether a dull affair, said the locals.

Fiona, however, wasn’t the least bit sorry everything had gone so smoothly. There were a few surprises here and there, but agreeable ones. Father, for one, was positively mellow. He had given a toast so eloquent and sentimental that she’d had to borrow Isobel’s handkerchief with which to dry her cheeks. And Mother had made a comment of stunning perspicacity.

“I told you, Fiona dear, that you’d find someone you like!” she said complacently.

Further stunning those assembled, Father had nodded sagely, and then planted a loud kiss on Mother’s lips.

Wonders will never cease, thought Fiona, and turned her gaze from Mother’s astonished, but pleased countenance, to look across the table at Alasdair. They smiled at each other.

There was another surprise in store.

When the musicians began to play the lively, lilting “Largo Fairy”—not well, but with enthusiasm—Alasdair came to her and said:

“Will you dance with me, lass? I’ve not yet had that pleasure.”

Fiona demurred. “Oh, Alasdair, I don’t—I haven’t—the last time I tried was so long ago, and I tripped over my own feet, and forgot the steps, and really I was just terrible at it . . .” She trailed off, and for his ears alone she added softly, “I’m afraid.”

He took her hand in his. “It seems to me that a woman who saved my life from the Dalwhinnies, and who kept herself alive and well when kidnapped by a band of desperate ruffians—to mention only two examples of your courage—need not fear a reel. But fear, I know, isn’t always a rational thing.” He lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed it. “If you wish, I’ll teach you. If you trip, I’ll catch you. And if you prefer not to, I won’t persist.”