Fiona looked at them thoughtfully. She was twenty-seven. Since Logan, she’d never met a man who had caught her interest, or made her laugh, or inspired her blood to run a little hotter.
Perhaps that was all behind her now.
Perhaps she was incapable of falling in love again.
Still, marriage had its benefits, didn’t it? She would be mistress of her own household. Maybe there would be children. And she’d no longer be subject to the unpredictable, tempestuous swings of Father’s moods—that in itself was appealing.
Walraig Tevis, a great lumbering fellow nearly as wide as he was tall, pushed spindly Ross Stratton to one side. “You’re daft, Stratton, to think you’ve got a chance with Fiona,” he said, his heavy face alight with malicious humor. “She’s a full head over you, you wee mousie, you’d be the laughingstock of the clan!” He jabbed a beefy elbow into Ross’s chest with such force that the smaller man reeled backwards and nearly fell over, but with surprising dexterity he whipped from his boot a nasty-looking dagger and only the quick intervention of the scandalized minister prevented what promised to be a vicious altercation, and possibly a murder or two, from occurring a mere twenty paces from the church.
Yes, as a married woman she’d be free of Father, Fiona thought, but she’d also be putting herself in the power of a husband who would have the indisputable right to do anything he liked with her.
To her.
And yet . . . and yet if any of them were to give the slightest sign that they really liked her, she might be tempted to seize the opportunity provided her by Father’s momentary generosity. Niall, for example, wasn’t bad-looking (especially since she liked horses). He wasn’t completely stupid. And he had a decent estate not far from where Rossalyn would be living with her husband Jamie MacComhainn; she could visit them often.
Experimentally, Fiona stepped a little closer to Niall. She caught a whiff of stale sweat, alcohol, onions, and even—her nose wrinkled—a faint, flat, rank scent of blood. She flashed a quick glance over him and saw a reddish clump of matted hair near one temple.
He grinned. “Bad, eh? You should see Dougal Gow. Poor lad couldn’t rise from his bed to come to the wedding. He’ll miss the feast and the dancing. So, you’ll give me the first two reels, lass?”
Fiona had a sudden image of Niall, stinking of blood and onions, saying casually to Rossalyn at some future gathering: Fiona couldn’t come, for the poor lass is in bed— fell down the stairs and she’s all black and blue.
She took a step back, abruptly reminded of something that happened during last year’s sheep-shearing festival, when she had allowed Niall to kiss her behind a shed (she’d had a dowry then). Pressing his mouth on hers, he’d bent her neck back too far, while at the same time he squeezed her breast so roughly she’d thought for a bad, a very bad moment she would pass out.
She answered coolly: “No. I’m not dancing.”
“Your loss.”
“I’ll try to bear it.”
His arm shot out and he took a hard grip on her upper arm. “I don’t care for your tone. You’re to be a good girl and choose a husband from among the three of us. It’s your father’s decree.”
“A fine way to woo, Niall Birk, grabbing at a woman and scowling at her. Let go of me.”
His fingers tightened painfully for a moment before he released her. “You’re thinking I’m a bad bargain, no doubt, but at least I’m not a great lump like Walraig Tevis, who’d crush you under him like a bug, or Ross Stratton, who’d as soon garrote you as kiss you.”
A cold chill shivered up Fiona’s spine, but she only said, lightly, “You may be right. Would you excuse me, please? My mother needs me.” And she flitted off to where Mother did, in fact, require help untangling herself from the enormous plaid shawl she had wound about herself in so convoluted a fashion she was in danger of—curiously enough—falling down the church steps.
“Oh, thank you, dear!” Mother said breathlessly. “It was a lovely ceremony, wasn’t it? I cried just like a baby! But I always do at weddings. I cried at my own! Isn’t our Rossalyn the bonniest bride you’ve ever seen? Although Dallis, of course, was just as pretty, and so was Nairna! Your Aunt Bethia quite agrees with me! And oh! Bethia shared with me the most astounding piece of news! She had it from her sister-in-law Sorcha who is, I’m sure, most reliable. Apparently Alasdair Penhallow has been scandalizing the Eight Clans for years with his disgraceful behavior, and not just on special occasions but every day! Consuming spirits to excess, presiding over debaucheries, and so on! A monster of irresponsibility! And he the great laird of Castle Tadgh!”