Her thoughts turned to Isobel. Poor Isobel. How strange: never had she thought she’d feel for her the slightest pang of sympathy. Maybe she wouldn’t have, if Isobel had cried without abandon, as she had yesterday, but there was something about that one tear, slowly making its lonely way down that white, lightly powdered cheek.
She’d been so used to viewing Isobel as a nuisance. Almost an enemy.
This small, soft, vulnerable person—without a home, without money, without prospects—her enemy?
Was it possible she had been carrying her old grudge beyond what was reasonable, what was fair?
Was it possible that she had, over the years, become so hard, so cynical?
These were troubling ideas.
She had long prided herself on her good judgment.
A different perception of Isobel somehow altered her perception of herself. She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that.
Fiona’s thoughts, inevitably it seemed, now turned to her husband.
There was still so much she didn’t know about Alasdair, but she had learned that his parents, his brother had died. How dreadful for him and how sad. She could only imagine what that might feel like, especially the loss of a sibling—but she didn’t want to, for dearly did she love her sisters, had adored and protected them all her life. Nonetheless, it was an unexpected glimpse of Alasdair. He would have been twenty years old at the time. Would he have looked very different then? Fiona wondered. At thirty-five, there wasn’t a trace of gray in his hair, and he moved with effortless vigor.
Really, the only thing she could think of were those lightly grooved lines that bracketed his mouth, but they didn’t suggest diminishment, but rather authority . . . laughter . . . sensuality.
In fact, they were the sort of lines over which one might want to run one’s finger, tracing them, teasingly.
If one were an idiot, Fiona told herself caustically.
If one were that soft, yielding, vulnerable, foolish Fiona.
She snatched at the covers and bundled herself tightly within them. Stubbornly she closed her eyes, made her breathing regular, relaxed her tense limbs.
A log collapsed within the fireplace.
A gust of wind rattled the panes of the windows.
Somewhere, a dog barked.
It occurred to her, then, just how big the bed was. It was ridiculous, it was bizarre, but after only two nights of being married, after two nights of coldness and bristling hostility between them, she—well—she actually missed having him there with her.
Not if one were an idiot, she told herself.
She was an idiot.
Chapter 7
“Slow down, lad, slow down,” pitifully groaned Uncle Duff, “your footfalls are making my head pound.”
Alasdair adjusted his pace and with a listing Duff at his side went up the broad stone steps at the entrance to Castle Tadgh. The week in Crieff had been very productive—during the days, at least. The nights had been devoted to other pursuits. And now his uncle was paying the price. Glancing at his haggard face (even that immense beard looked wan), Alasdair was conscious of a twinge of impatience. He shook it off, though, and stepped warily into the Great Hall, wondering what bad things might have happened in his absence. And where was Cuilean, who usually bounded out to greet him?
Mellow early-afternoon sunlight illuminated the long tables which lay in the tidy geometrical lines of their new formation. Was it his imagination, or did the suits of armor flanking the great fireplace seem shinier? And were the colors of the enormous fifteenth-century tapestry hung on the wall behind the laird and lady’s chairs looking a little more vivid?
Over by one of the tables was Lister, a reassuring sight at least. He was talking with a middle-aged woman in an immaculately clean gown and ruffled cap, whom Alasdair didn’t know. They turned as he came forward, and advanced to meet him.
“Laird,” said Lister, “may I introduce to you our new housekeeper, Mrs. Allen of Aberfeldy. She is,” he added with his air of scrupulous correctness, “a cousin of mine.”
Mrs. Allen dipped a respectful curtsy, and Alasdair nodded. Of course she was a cousin, everyone in Scotland had a cornucopia of cousins, but—“I hadn’t realized,” he said carefully, “that we required the services of a housekeeper.”
“The mistress asked me, laird, if I might know of any suitable candidates, and at once I thought of Eliza Jane, whose elderly master had recently died.”
“Yes, I see,” answered Alasdair, and he really did see. The officious hand of his wife, yet again! “Where is the mistress?” he inquired grimly.
“When last I saw her, laird,” said Mrs. Allen, her expression now a little anxious, “she was in her morning-room.”