“Of course,” echoed Fiona, sardonically. “And I’m sure the castle practically runs itself.”
“Now, now, don’t trouble your head with domestic affairs, my dear,” he said with an avuncular condescension that made Fiona’s teeth grit. “Come! The laird’s waiting for you.”
With what struck her as overdone courtliness, MacDermott proceeded to usher her to a tasteful little sofa near the cozily crackling fire, and drew Cousin Isobel away to a seat on the opposite side of the room. Fiona sat, and, opposite her, so did Alasdair Penhallow. Stubbornly she gazed at the leaping flames within the hearth. Here she was, just as she’d angrily remarked last week to Father, on display like some poor dumb animal before a reprobate.
Even though—she now realized—she’d mixed up her metaphors, it was a ridiculous situation. And a demeaning one.
She sat very straight. Set her lips firmly together. Thought of other things.
Go to stables tomorrow—all well with Gealag? Our other horses?
Check on carriage also. Fleas. How to treat?
Cook re: recipes
Find something to read. Library here?
Write to Dallis & Rossalyn
“We ought, perhaps, to have some conversation.”
His voice was deep, calm, pleasant.
Unwillingly, Fiona was jolted back into the present moment. She tore her gaze away from the fire.
So here, sitting across from her, was the infamous laird of Castle Tadgh.
He was tall (but not as tall as Logan Munro), and his shoulders were, she supposed, broad enough (though not as broad as Logan’s). Altogether he had a big, lean, active sort of look about him, and wore with casual distinction the traditional evening wear of black coat, black breeches, and black stockings, with the usual white waistcoat and a white cravat, tied gracefully and without ostentation. But goodness, that dark red hair, clipped very short, and those ordinary brown eyes!
Oh, well, perhaps not completely ordinary: they did seem rather brilliantly alive, with an unusual kind of yellow-gold gleam to them, and he had nice dark eyelashes and strongly marked dark eyebrows. Still, what was red hair to black hair, brown eyes to deep dark ones? He really wasn’t her type at all.
Nonetheless, Fiona had a sudden, unexpected pang of self-conscious regret over the gown she had deliberately worn, a severely cut, rather high-necked, somewhat dated dress of a nondescript blue color. Then again, what did it matter? Composedly she folded her hands in her lap. “Conversation, laird?” she replied coolly. “To what end?”
His expression of polite interest gave way to one of mild surprise. “Why, so we might get to know one another a little better.”
“With respect, laird, I’ve no desire to know you better. All I ask is that you make your choice as soon as possible, so that I might return home.”
“You do not wish to be my wife?”
“No.”
He lifted one dark eyebrow, and said lazily, easily, in his deep voice, “You do not find my person comely?”
Fiona found herself leaning back, as if retreating from what felt like a wave of pure masculine charm, warm and seductive. She’d had her fill of that from Logan. “Not particularly.”
“You are blunt.”
“I beg your pardon. Would you prefer the social lie?”
Instead of answering her question, he posed one of his own. “What sort of man do you find attractive?”
An all-too-familiar image flashed into her head and just as quickly she banished it. “It’s not relevant.”
He said nothing, only eyed her appraisingly for several deliberate moments. “You are twenty-seven, I believe, Miss Douglass?”
“Yes.”
“And unmarried. Why?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“You also have three younger sisters who all are married.”
She gave him a challenging glance. “How came you to know that?”
“We have a resident authority on such matters. No doubt you’ll meet her by and bye.”
“I’d rather be gone before that happens.” Fiona sat up straight again and spoke with a new earnestness. “See here, laird. We both know you don’t want me, and that I don’t want you. Let’s spare each other all these false courtship rituals. I’ll bide my time, and you can have fun watching the other three jump through your hoops.”
“Yes, you’re very blunt. What makes you think I don’t want you?”
Fiona smiled at him humorlessly. “Do you?” She watched as he shifted in his seat, as those dark brows drew together. Finally he leaned against the cushions of the sofa on which he sat, and crossed one leg over the other, his expression now one of relaxed alertness.