The Laird Takes a Bride(24)

“Well, and what of it?”

“You’ve played the sport for a long time?”

“Oh, yes. But you, of course, have the advantage over me in that regard, Miss Douglass.”

With an effort, Fiona kept her voice pleasant. “Inevitably, I fear. Have you lived in the Lowlands all your life?”

“Yes, but I’m looking forward to a change in the very near future.”

Rise above. “Have you brothers and sisters back home, Miss Reid?”

“No, and aren’t I lucky? How tedious it must be.”

“I’ve always felt lucky to have sisters.”

“Well, and there we go—differing yet again.” Janet smiled, showing all her teeth in a grin that struck Fiona as rather feral. “It’s been lovely having this time with you, dear Miss Douglass. But if you’ll excuse me? I’d like to concentrate on choosing my arrows. I intend to win, you see. Win everything, if you know what I mean.”

“Miss Reid, it’s only a silly competition. And I’m not your rival.”

“Well, you’re mine.” And Janet deliberately turned her back to Fiona.

That was that, then. Fiona was very fond of archery, but withdrew from the event and sat on the sidelines to watch, a goblet of cool lemonade in her hand. Looking on the bright side, she’d at least made the attempt. Also, nobody had dropped a bug down her gown.

So far.

Teas, nuncheons, dinners; long, festive evenings in the Great Drawing-room during which the company was treated to performances on the pianoforte by Wynda, whose playing was mediocre despite years of lessons, and also by Janet, who demanded her turn despite very little training, and whose playing was even worse (although glowingly acclaimed by her parents). Mairi sang in her high, sweet, true little voice, and sometimes Alasdair Penhallow joined her, his own deep voice harmonizing very pleasantly.

After one such duet, Alasdair thanked Mairi MacIntyre, smiling, and looked around the room. He’d already spent a half-hour conversing—if one could call it that—with Wynda Ramsay, whose mangled French made it sometimes difficult to follow her, and then another half-hour with Janet Reid, who was bubbling over with excitement about tomorrow evening’s ball, and so it would have been less than civil of him to not go and talk with Fiona Douglass. Besides, they’d barely spoken a word since his curt rebuff at the Keep o’ the Mòr.

Looking very self-contained, even rather aloof, she was sitting in an armchair near a window, her head bent over some sewing. She was wearing a white muslin gown, its hem and sleeves embroidered in gold thread, and with the dark green window-hangings behind her creating a vivid contrast, and her pale hair illuminated by flickering candlelight, she reminded him a little of a figure in a painting, perhaps something soft and infinitely subtle by Vermeer.

She looked up as he approached.

“May I join you, Miss Douglass?” he asked, a little warily.

“If you like, laird,” she said politely, and went on sewing.

He sat down, crossed one leg over the other, and watched her needle flashing in and out of a length of soft crimson flannel. Well, now what? What could they talk about? He’d be circumspect, this time, and avoid any mention of age and marriage. There was always the weather. Christ’s blood, not that, he’d already discussed it ad nauseum with a dozen people tonight. What else? Miss Ramsay had, as far as he could tell, been talking about London, unaware of the fact that he’d never been there and would never, ever set foot anywhere in the whole of England, as he despised everything Sassenach. So London as a conversational topic was decidedly out. Miss Reid, for her part, had gone on and on about dancing. He enjoyed dancing, but to listen to someone soliloquizing about steps, and slippers, and all the dancing-masters she’d had, because they’d had to let go one after another—because they all fell hopelessly in love with her—

Alasdair shifted restlessly in his chair. It occurred to him that this extended house party was starting to get on his nerves. He’d initially welcomed having a leisurely thirty-five days, but now they were, frankly, starting to drag. Maybe he should make his decision sooner, rather than later. Wouldn’t it have been nice to have had more than four—no, three—viable candidates?

His mind leaped back to fifteen years ago, to the girl for whom he would have cheerfully moved heaven and earth.

To Mòrag.

But she was dead and gone . . .

With an iron inflexibility Alasdair brought himself back to the present moment. To the here and now, to reality, to the Tome’s decree, and to his own desire to remain in the here and now, alive.

Fiona Douglass said, “That was a charming rendition of ‘Annie Laurie.’”