The Laird Takes a Bride(35)

Had he behaved badly, ordering her around in bed like that?

Of course, she hadn’t exactly been friendly herself, but still . . .

Perhaps he could have shown a little more finesse.

The truth was, he did have a lot to drink with Duff and some of the others who’d wandered into the billiards room, and so by the time he’d arrived at his bedchamber, he’d not been at his best.

And really, she ought to have been softer, more welcoming, more obedient.

Hadn’t she?

Or had he been at fault?

Damn it all to hell, he thought grumpily, his brain was a mad jumble today, looping round and round in this unproductive way. He was glad when, arriving far into the woods, he could stop, could use a stout stick to dig a deep hole. In it he buried the sporran. Most earnestly did he hope that symbolically he was also burying useless thoughts and questions.

He required sons. He had a wife now. They needed to create offspring. Things didn’t need to be any more complicated than that.

Alasdair tamped the dirt firmly beneath his boot.

Threw the stick aside.

Watched Cuilean dash after it.

Contemplated the day’s agenda.

Back to the castle. Breakfast. A long ride. See some of his tenant farmers, visit some pastures, inspect some crops. Meet with his steward Lister. Perhaps a hearty nuncheon in the village—he’d take Duff along. Also, a new crate of books had recently arrived and been placed in the library at home; he could look through them, choose one to read right away (probably that one about sheep breeding he’d been waiting for). And so the day would nicely pass. Filled with a comfortable sense of routine, Alasdair began walking briskly back.





Chapter 6




There was a tentative knock on the door, and Cousin Isobel sidled into the morning-room which Fiona had appropriated for her own use. Repressing an impatient sigh, she glanced up from the sheaves of papers she’d been poring over.

“Yes, Cousin?”

“Good morning! How are you, Fiona dear?” Isobel came up to the desk at which Fiona sat, on her plump face an expression of concerned anxiety which Fiona found almost unbearably irritating. “I mean—that is—how are you really? You do look troubled! Are you—oh dear, are you in pain? That is—”

“I’m fine! I look troubled because I’ve been studying these household receipts. Someone has apparently been spending a shocking amount of money on French champagne.”

Cousin Isobel bridled. “I’m sure we can guess who that is! I don’t even need to say the name—just the initials! D.M.! Do you know what he had the temerity to say to me yesterday? Why, he—mercy me, look at all those china figurines! Why are they all pushed to one side? And who has pulled all the curtains down?”

“I have. They’re too heavy for this room. Besides, I like the view, and sunlight.”

“Oh! And the figurines? How delightful they are! I’m very fond of those pastoral scenes. So picturesque.”

Fiona shrugged. “If I want to be surrounded by shepherdesses and goose girls, I’ll go outside and find some to talk to. Besides, I can’t stand their vacant painted-on eyes—they look so stupid I want to break them in two. Ugh. After I’m done here, servants will take them away, to a different saloon, and move my desk closer to the window.”

“How busy you are, and so terribly brave,” said Isobel, with a sympathetic titter that had Fiona clenching her teeth, “and despite the dreadful circumstances! How I wish we could leave! Of course, we’d have to somehow go back in time, before your marriage! How complicated life is! What was I saying before? Oh! The figurines! If I may be so bold, Fiona dear—since you don’t want them here— they do remind me of—perhaps I might be permitted to dust them, when they’ve found their new home? They are so very, very delicate! I wouldn’t trust even the best housemaid to be careful with them!”

“There’s no need for that, Cousin. Now that the wedding is over, I no longer require a chaperone. It’s time for you to go home.”

Although Fiona had, for many days, been looking forward to Isobel’s departure with enormous pleasure, she took care just now to keep her tone mild. Yet she was unprepared for the way her cousin’s soft round visage seemed to crumple like that of a child who’d just been harshly scolded.

“Home? Oh, Fiona dear! I—I haven’t any home! I had to sell my house in Edinburgh, you know, for though that delightful Mr. Watson —so handsome, so charming!—assured me his investments would yield an enormous return, he took my cheque and I never saw him again. I was never so deceived in all my life! I—I am afraid I am quite penniless now.” Isobel sat abruptly, and wept into the lacy scrap of handkerchief she tugged from her little reticule.