The Laird Takes a Bride(19)

About Wynda of the extraordinary bosom, so generously displayed, he could only wonder what exactly was the jewel on her pendant necklace, it having disappeared like a climber descending between two close-set boulders. He supposed she had talked to him in the drawing-room, but for better or for worse he retained nothing, as he had primarily exerted himself not to stare at her deeply fascinating balconniere.

Little Mairi had told him, in considerable detail, about her dog: where he slept (on his very own pillow, right next to hers), what he ate, when he evacuated his bowels, his fear of squirrels, his hatred of baths, his love for a nice marrow-bone.

Green eyes sparkling, Janet was full of enthusiasm for the morrow’s outing. “An ancient monastery!” she’d cried, clapping her hands. “What fun! I simply adore old ruins, the more ramshackle the better! Oh, I do hope there are ghosts. Or a hermit at the very least!”

He had been obliged to inform her that the keep was entirely free of hermits, and as for ghosts, he had yet to encounter one there.

Janet had been only temporarily daunted, and smilingly said: “Still, it sounds wonderfully romantic! So Gothic! How I look forward to exploring every inch of it! Now! I want to hear all about you, laird!”

Now that was the right sort of lass, positive and friendly, excited about visiting a local landmark, a good conversationalist, and all soft and plump and round, like a ripe hothouse peach.

As opposed to the prickly, sharp-tongued, aloof Miss Fiona Douglass. Her eyes, when they spoke, had been suddenly, strikingly blue against the drabber blue of her gown—and practically crackling with fiery intelligence.

She was not uninteresting.

But God’s blood, she’d be a handful for a man.

Some other man. Not him.

He liked his private life to be easy, predictable, as smooth as silk. And nothing about Fiona Douglass suggested smooth, easy predictability.

Besides, she’d made it clear she didn’t want him, either.

He wondered again why she was still unmarried. Was there, perhaps, a swain anxiously waiting for her back in Wick Bay?

Oh well, it wasn’t his problem.

So now there was one lass crossed off his list.

Still, there was no point in saying anything to her about it. No use in sending her home early, under a cloud of humiliation.

He thought again about Janet, and Mairi, and Wynda. Good God—Wynda. He spent a few moments imagining himself spending the rest of his life, the rest of his nights, with his face buried between those prodigious, those delicious, yielding breasts.

His last thought, before sleep claimed him, was of Fiona Douglass, and the recollection that her breasts weren’t prodigious at all.





Chapter 4




Riding on Gealag, who confidently ascended the steep, rocky path leading up to the massive crest on which lay the Keep o’ the Mòr, Fiona took in deep breaths of the cool, bracing air as she gazed at the magnificent views all around her: gently rolling green hills, a lush meadow in which heather bloomed a vivid purple-pink, the immense mountain called Ben Macdui, and, past Castle Tadgh, a stunning blue loch, long and deep, whose placid surface reflected, mirror-like, the drifting clouds above.

Then she turned her eyes to the drawn-out cavalcade of which she was a part. Inevitably, it seemed, she looked, first and again, at Alasdair Penhallow. Wearing a tartan kilt and a close-fitting black jacket, he led the group riding his big handsome bay, with pretty Janet Reid alongside him perched on a horse she had chosen from the Penhallow stables. To Fiona’s experienced eye it did not seem that Janet had full control over her spirited mount, but there was no doubt that Alasdair Penhallow could very quickly assist her should she require it. Seldom had Fiona seen a more capable horseman, even among her own North Highlanders who were justly renowned for their equestrian skills.

Wynda and Mairi, as did the other women, traveled up the winding path in carts drawn by sturdy donkeys, with servants sitting on a high bench at the front guiding them. Wynda seemed bored, and Mairi, wrapped in an amethyst velvet cloak whose hood she had drawn about her golden head (creating a fetching halo-like effect), clutched her little dog to her and stared fearfully at the precipitous drop that loomed to one side, a scrubby sloping expanse littered with rocks large and small, as if carelessly tossed in a giant’s game of chance.

At length their party came around a bend in the path, and gathered on the broad, level crest which housed the old monastery. Despite her sardonic reply to Cousin Isobel last night, Fiona was, in fact, impressed by the Keep o’ the Mòr—by its sheer size, the looming immensity of its crenellated towers, its brooding splendor. The countless gray, rough-hewn bricks were very faded now, many of its windows only gaping holes, yet still it was impossible not to be struck by a powerful sense of its former dignity, solemn and grand.