“To be sure, to be sure!” chimed in Duff MacDermott, chuckling, lifting his brandy glass in salute. “Come hell or high water, a man’s life is his own!” He saw Isobel frowning at him and added facetiously, “Begging your pardon, ma’am, at my rough language!” Then he finished his brandy at a gulp and managed with only partial success to suppress a burp.
It was at this precise moment that Fiona realized she was getting tired of this absurd event at Castle Tadgh. Being around Alasdair Penhallow was getting increasingly less pleasant, for somehow, he seemed to make her question things about herself —her life—in an unsettling way.
Well, so what if she was a dull stick?
It was nobody’s business but hers.
Fiona looked back down again at the crimson flannel she’d selected with such care—its color would set off to great advantage Nairna’s white complexion and dark hair—and felt her heart twist within her. Grimly she went back to her sewing, and was glad, glad, when the evening was over and she could escape to her luxurious bedchamber, shutting the door firmly behind her. But some ten minutes later, as she sat at the dressing-table, brushing out her hair with long strokes of the brush, there was an agitated tap on the door.
“Yes?” Fiona said reluctantly, already knowing who it was.
“My dear, may I come in?”
“Certainly, Cousin.”
Isobel opened the door and hurried inside, very nearly quivering with outrage, and plunked herself in the little chair next to the dressing-table. “You’ll never guess what that awful man told me!”
“Which awful man?”
“Why, Mr. MacDermott, of course!”
“Ah.” Fiona didn’t stop brushing. “Let me guess. He loves you and wants to marry you,” she said flippantly.
“My dear! What in heaven’s name are you saying? If I didn’t know better, I would think you’ve been imbibing! No, Mr. MacDermott—who decidedly had been drinking! Did you see how many brandies he consumed?—told me that the local gentlemen are placing bets among themselves as to whom the laird will choose!”
“Oh, who cares? Some men do that sort of thing all the time. I remember one night Father went outside with his cronies, put down a pan of oatmeal, and they bet each other as to how long it would be before a raccoon would come along and eat it.”
“Really?” inquired Cousin Isobel, diverted. “Who won?”
“Nobody. One of the dogs got out and ate it.”
“Well, that simply proves my point about betting! At any rate, Mr. MacDermott says that Janet Reid—and by the way, I’m nearly positive she cheated during the archery competition!—is the frontrunner, and that you and Wynda Ramsay are tied for last. It’s outrageous, and so I told that man, but he only laughed. I vow I had to stop myself from tweaking that beard of his!” Isobel’s eyes now shone with tears. “Fiona, dear, I’m so sorry we ever came here! I practically forced the girl who brings my chocolate in the mornings to tell me all about Alasdair Penhallow, and the things she said! I absolutely cannot repeat them to you. But the drinking, and the wenching! I’ve never been more horrified in my life. Why, for his birthday celebration last month—no. I cannot repeat it. But the drinking, and the wenching! I know this sounds dreadful, but I’m glad you’re last! I wish we could leave tomorrow!”
Fiona’s hand halted, and, not for the first time, she puzzled over Cousin Isobel’s lightning-fast thought process—if it really could be considered a thought process at all. Were little Sheila standing by, she would in all probability say, You are a leaf in the wind, madam, blown hither and yon, without rudder or sail. Then Fiona went back to brushing her hair, with long, deliberate strokes. “If it’s a comfort to you, Cousin, I couldn’t care less where I’m situated in the rankings. But given that I’m faring so poorly, the odds are good you’ll get your wish.”
Isobel brightened. “That is a comfort to me, dear! Now! What are you going to wear to the ball tomorrow night?”
“Oh, good heavens, what a bother. You know I don’t dance. I’d much rather stay here and have a bath and read a book.”
“But all the local gentry are to come, and there’s to be a full orchestra—and I heard they may play some waltzes! Oh, I’d love to try that. It’s been so long since I’ve danced . . .”
“You have my permission,” said Fiona, bored, and stood up. “Now, may I escort you to the door? I’m to bed, for—” She smiled a little, but very ironically. “For I need my beauty sleep, you know.”