The Laird Takes a Bride(29)

“No. How many days is it since I was injured?”

“It’s been a week, laird. Laird, may I not give you just a wee bit of broth?”

“No.” Alasdair did the sum in his head. He was nowhere near the deadline of thirty-five days. Still, he’d had the news from Grahame, and there was no point in putting off the inevitable. “Send for Miss Douglass and her chaperone.”

“Aye, laird.”

While he waited, Alasdair hitched himself up on his pillows, ignoring the stab of pain this induced, and ran a hand along his jaw, bristly with beard. He looked at Cuilean, who lay in a large shaggy ball near his feet.

“Well, sir?” he said, in a rough voice which imperfectly concealed his affection. “No gestures of condolence from you?”

Cuilean only thumped his tail agreeably, not lifting his head from the bedcovers.

Alasdair smiled faintly. But his smile faded as the minutes passed and it felt as if the waiting was interminable. Where in the devil’s name was she? Was she defying his order—defying him—already? This, he thought morosely, was a bad omen, a bad start to things.

A wave of heat swept over him and he shoved the blankets down to his waist. To his left was a pitcher of cool barley-water but he didn’t dare reach for it; his shoulder was still throbbing ominously, as if warning him. He ground his teeth, felt himself sweat, and irritably wiped at his face.

At last there was a tap on the door.

“Enter,” he said curtly.

The door opened and Grahame came in, stepping aside to admit Fiona Douglass and her plump middle-aged companion. He then placed a chair by the fire and conducted Dame Isobel to it, while Fiona came toward him, very pale and grave, wearing a high-necked gown of brown figured muslin, her hair in a simple knot at the nape of her neck.

To Alasdair’s annoyed surprise, Cuilean jumped from the bed and went to greet her, tail wagging. So big a dog was he that he nearly reached her hip. Without fear she held out a slim hand, and he very affably licked it.

Traitor, thought Alasdair, and snapped, “Come!”

They both looked over at him.

“Which of us do you mean?” said Fiona coolly.

“Both of you, damn it!”

Without the slightest air of guilt, Cuilean bounded back to the bed and leaped up on it. Fiona remained where she was. Dispassionately she gazed at him, her gray eyes flicking from his face to his bare chest, and to the silver pitcher on the table. Then she advanced, until she was some two feet from his bedside. She poured some barley-water into a glass and held it out to him.

Without moving he said, unpleasantly, “What took you so long?”

“I was in the kitchen garden, gathering herbs.”

“What for?”

“To make a salve. Your cook scalded her arm yesterday, and I thought it might help.”

“That’s the business of Dr. Colquhoun.”

“I was the one who sent for him. He agrees that a lavender salve can be very soothing.”

“And what were you doing in the kitchen, may I ask?”

“Asking your cook about some recipes.”

“I hardly expect my guests to be wandering into the kitchen.”

She only shrugged, and ungraciously Alasdair took the glass from her. Already he was losing control over his life, and he hadn’t even yet told her what was on his mind! He gulped down the barley-water— not for the world would he have admitted how refreshing it was—and handed back the glass. “Grahame! Bring a chair for Miss Douglass.”

Grahame hastened to obey, then just as promptly retreated.

“Sit down,” Alasdair said to her.

“I’m not your dog.”

He curled his lip. “Please.”

“As you will.” Without haste she complied. She sat very straight, and folded her hands in her lap.

Frowning, restlessly he plucked at his blankets. He supposed it was highly improper for her to be seeing him like this, but as the view of his exposed torso didn’t seem to be sending her into a spate of missish blushes (or a raging torrent of lust), evidently it didn’t really matter.

“I understand,” he finally said, “that Janet Reid is dead.”

For a moment, just a moment, he would have sworn that Fiona’s eyes filled with tears. But steadily she answered:

“Yes. Her parents have left, and taken her body with them.”

“I blame myself,” he said harshly.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Anger, hot as the fever, surged through him, and he spoke even more harshly. “She’s dead, don’t you understand that? Or are you stupid?”

From across the room came an indignant twitter and Dame Isobel said, as if directing her remark to the leaping fire, “Well! A fine way to treat the person who’s saved your life!”