The Laird Takes a Bride(27)

This had instant appeal to Cousin Isobel, who at once departed in a hurried bustle, only pausing on the threshold to adjure Fiona, most earnestly, to sleep on her back, by far the best preservative of the female complexion. When Fiona did get into her bed, she blew out her candle and promptly turned onto her side. And stared, without expression, without hope, into the darkness.



The ball was a huge success, and Mairi MacIntyre was indubitably the belle of it, looking so much like a fairy princess in her shimmering white gown that Janet Reid was catapulted into a barely contained fury. From her seat among the matrons and dowagers, Fiona observed with mild interest as Janet threw herself into every dance with a coquettish energy bordering on abandon, and also she noticed that while Alasdair Penhallow danced every dance—although not with her, for she adamantly refused all offers including his—he also was several times in deep discussion with little clusters of the local gentlemen, their voices low and their faces serious.

It was a new glimpse of the great Penhallow: no smile, no laugh, no light riposte or lively flirtation.

What, Fiona wondered, was going on?

Her curiosity was heightened when, the next morning, she went to the stables to have Gealag made ready for a ride and was informed by Begbie with gruff politeness that the laird had forbidden such activities for all his guests.

Not long after that, at breakfast, Duff MacDermott told everyone to remain inside.

“Oh, but why?” said Janet, scowling. “We were to hunt today, and I was so looking forward to it!”

“Laird’s orders.”

“Where is the laird? And if these are his orders, he ought to be telling us himself!”

Looking goaded, Duff said, “There’ve been some problems from the Dalwhinnie clan. They’re notorious horse-thieves—and worse —and in the last day or two have gotten too close to home for the laird’s comfort.”

“What do you mean by ‘worse’?” cried Mairi, her face as white as snow.

Janet laughed scornfully. “How stupid it all is! I’m not afraid in the least! I think it’s terribly exciting!”

“No, it’s dreadful!” worriedly put in the father of Wynda Ramsay. “What is being done?”

“The laird and a goodly number of his men are patrolling as I speak, and he’s set other men to guard the castle and the stables. But as a precaution, he asks that everyone obey him in this matter.”

There were nervous murmurs among the guests, and many went immediately to their own quarters, as if to barricade themselves from harm. An ominous quiet seemed to descend upon the castle, and the air itself to vibrate with unease. Fiona saw Cousin Isobel, anxious and fluttering, to her bedchamber, then went to her own rooms where she changed out of her light morning-gown into a heavier day-dress, fastening underneath it a large pair of heavy cotton pockets. Hardly fashionable, but very practical, especially at a time like this.

Fiona pulled on her tall sturdy boots, braided her hair, and removed from one of her trunks a flat leather case. In it were her pistols. Carefully she checked them, loaded them, slid them into her pockets. Finally she wrapped a large, warm tartan shawl about her shoulders, and made her way downstairs. When she came to a side hallway that led outdoors and to the stables, she encountered Duff MacDermott emerging from stairs that, she assumed, led to the cellars, for in each hand he carried a tall bottle of some spirit or another.

“Here now, lass!” he sputtered. “What’re you about? Can’t leave the castle! Laird’s orders, don’t you know!”

“Stand aside, old man,” answered Fiona coldly. “If you believe I’m going to allow the Douglass horses to be harmed, you’re even stupider than I thought.”

“There are guards, and grooms!”

“Yes. But they’re my horses, and I take care of my own.”

Duff was plainly so astonished—and also, perhaps, already half-drunk—that he made only a feeble resistance as Fiona strode past him.

She met with stouter opposition when she reached the stables, but brushed it aside with such cool implacability that reluctantly, the men allowed her to go inside. She checked on the Douglass’s carriage horses. Satisfied, she found a stool and placed it just outside Gealag’s stall. Softly she spoke to Gealag, who with a troubled whinny had stuck his great white head over the gate; she stroked his velvety ears and forehead, gave him some chunks of sugar, and at length he calmed, relaxed. His head drooped and he seemed almost to lapse into an easy slumber.

Fiona sat on the stool, pulled her shawl tightly around her to ward off the morning chill, and waited. Aside from low-voiced exchanges among the men from time to time, all was quiet. The long hours ticked by, and still Fiona sat, upright, listening.