But not Fiona Douglass.
She sat very still, her eyes gone a wintry slate-blue.
“I too intend to live,” he said slowly. “In that, at least, we are of one mind. You wish for a brilliant wedding, I suppose, as all women seem to do?”
“No. Nor would such a thing be appropriate given the recent deaths here. A small, private ceremony will suffice.”
“At your home?”
“Here.”
“With your family present?”
A shadow crossed her face—was it sorrow, or pain?—and stonily she said:
“No. My cousin will bear witness.”
“Fiona, dear, this must not be!” protested Dame Isobel, who, obviously, had been eavesdropping for all she was worth. “Your family! All your sisters and their husbands! And let us not forget your trousseau! Naturally I am most deeply sensible of the honor you do me, but—oh, dear, I really haven’t anything to wear! What would your mother say? I vow my head is all in a whirl!”
“Be quiet, Cousin, if you please. You must write to my father for his consent, laird, and by express if you like. A formality only, of course, and I’ll write too, and ask for my things to be sent here. You may set the date at your convenience.”
Alasdair felt an odd sort of sympathy for Dame Isobel. He himself was baffled by Fiona’s brusque, businesslike response. It made him feel like—
Like what?
He thought it over.
It made him feel like she’d gotten the upper hand. That things were moving beyond his control. That he wasn’t . . . safe.
It wasn’t a feeling he enjoyed.
So he said, silkily, but with a barb in his voice:
“Since our union is clearly so repugnant to you, Miss Douglass, perhaps you ought to wait and see if I survive my wound? Sepsis might set in, you know, and carry me off.”
“I doubt it. You are clearly very strong, and Dr. Colquhoun takes good care of you.” She paused, drew a breath, for a moment looked uncertain. “I don’t know if I have a dowry to bring to you.”
Alasdair tried to shrug and immediately regretted it. His shoulder pulsed with a searing pain, and he was all at once exhausted to his very bones, and sweating again. “I couldn’t care less,” he responded testily. “I have plenty of money. Stop bothering me with petty details.”
She rose, and to his surprise placed a cool hand on his forehead. “Your fever is rising,” she said matter-of-factly. She poured him out another glass of barley-water, which he refused with a gesture that even he knew was churlish. “Grahame,” she said over her shoulder, “help the laird slide down on his pillows—gently!—and cover him warmly. You must rest,” she told him, “and I’ll bid you good day, now that everything is settled. Come, Cousin.”
And even before Fiona Douglass had left the room, Alasdair, hot, uncomfortable, in pain, was plunged into the welcome abyss of deep, dreamless sleep.
How many guests attending? Ask Lister. Their names?
Write to Father. Mother also
What to wear for ceremony?
Breakfast afterwards—see Lister, Cook
Clothes, etc., to be transferred to new bedchamber; who will do that?
Gealag—more oats in diet. Tell Begbie
Isobel??
Stop thinking about Logan Munro
More candles for chapel
One of Mairi’s trunks left behind, have it sent to her
Is there a dame-school for children here?
STOP THINKING ABOUT LOGAN MUNRO
Ten days after her momentous conversation with Alasdair Penhallow, Fiona stood again in the same bedchamber, only now—why, only now she was his wife. She stood with her back to the closed door, and slowly she looked around the enormous room. A fire had been lit, the covers on the massive four-poster bed carefully, invitingly, turned down, a large candelabra was set on a table near the door and sent out a warm yellow glow of illumination. Giving that bed a wide berth, she went with measured step to the wide bank of windows which overlooked the courtyard below; all were covered with warm, heavy draperies and she pushed one aside to glance out through the window.
A full moon, fat and yellow, shone high in the dark sky. Around it, as if a brilliant setting to a jewel, countless bright stars flickered and twinkled, mysterious, remote.
Fiona let go of the drape and went into the passageway just to her left, which led to her dressing-room. She put her hand on its doorknob, then looked at the four other doors in the dim, high-ceilinged corridor. One led to the laird’s dressing-room, she knew, and two others provided storage for furs and winter wraps and so on.
The fourth door was locked. Earlier today, when her things had been brought here, she had tried to open it. She’d asked the maidservant about it, but received only a shake of the head.