The Laird Takes a Bride(45)

His mood rapidly souring, he couldn’t keep himself from saying: “Do you mean the Green Saloon?”

Mrs. Allen looked nervously to Lister, who answered for her. “Yes, laird. It’s what the mistress calls it, so we’ve fallen into the habit of it.”

A querulous moan issued from a nearby table. “Ale,” demanded Uncle Duff weakly, slumping low in a chair. “Hair of the dog! And some cold meat—scones also. Hot! With jam.”

“Right away, sir,” said Mrs. Allen, and hurried toward the archway that led to the kitchens.

Alasdair registered a flicker of irritation at Duff’s peremptory order—would it kill him to say “Please” or “Thank you”? —but said nothing, only turned and went on to Fiona’s morning-room—to the Green Saloon, damn it. He came to the threshold and stopped short.

On a long chintz-covered sofa lay his wife, on her side, fast asleep, with a big tartan shawl draped over her slender form. And curled up at her feet, in a familiar shaggy ball, was Cuilean, who opened his intelligent dark eyes and thumped his tail, but gently, as if not wanting to disturb his human companion.

Feeling an absurd sense of betrayal, Alasdair frowned at Cuilean, and then at Fiona. No wonder she was sleeping. She was exhausted from interfering where she ought not. He came into the room, exasperated to notice himself lightening his tread, but before he’d taken more than two or three steps Fiona started awake and abruptly sat up, blue eyes wide.

It was then that Cuilean jumped off the sofa and frisked toward him, tail wagging wildly.

“Oh!” Fiona said, reaching up to smooth hair tousled by sleep. “It’s you! Must you creep up on me like that?”

“Must you make off with my dog?”

She frowned back at him. “He’s been following me around since you went away.”

That, he realized, was unanswerable, so he chose another angle of attack. “What the devil do you mean by hiring a housekeeper?”

“Are you going to sit down? You quite tower over one. It’s very unpleasant.”

Reluctantly he did sit, in an attractively upholstered high-backed chair, somewhat mollified when Cuilean soulfully laid his big head on his knee. But he stuck to his guns, albeit with a slightly different tack.

“I don’t recognize this chair. Don’t tell me you’ve been buying new furniture the moment my back was turned.”

“It’s from the attics. I didn’t care for all those Rococo chairs that were in here before.”

“My mother,” he said heavily, stubbornly, “thought them very handsome.”

“It’s stupid to quarrel about taste. I prefer furnishings that are less ornate.” Fiona pulled away the tartan shawl that had remained tucked over her, revealing a simple day-dress made in a singularly beautiful shade of lavender that even in his peppery temper Alasdair had to acknowledge as strikingly flattering to his wife’s pale complexion, dark-lashed blue eyes, silvery-blonde hair, even her slim figure. Why, she almost looked—

She almost looked—

He blinked.

For a moment there, he had thought her lovely.

Attractive.

Desirable.

Don’t be daft, man, he told himself harshly.

Such sentimental thoughts were a trap, the chain around the ankle that jerked and tightened and dragged you down into the depths.

Cuilean lifted his head and fixed those intelligent eyes on him, ears pricked as if questioningly, and Alasdair said shortly to Fiona:

“Is that a new gown, madam?”

“No.”

There was a silence, during which Alasdair fought within himself. Why was he being so churlish? He ought to tell her how bonny a dress it was. But it felt like he would be giving away something he wanted—needed—to hang onto.

Finally he said, all too aware of how awkward he sounded, “I thought you’d been having new dresses made.”

Two bright spots of color burned on her cheeks. “Why would you care?”

“I don’t. But what’s this about hiring a new housekeeper?” Oh, God in heaven, he was only digging himself deeper. Was this really him talking? Needling her about domestic concerns? If he’d taken ten seconds to think about it, it was completely obvious they needed a housekeeper; no doubt Lister and Cook had been bearing the burden for too long. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? He should be thanking her for being astute enough to not only observe the problem, but to have dealt with it so swiftly.

But he just couldn’t force out the words.

He was, in truth, behaving like a complete and total ass.

What was happening to him?

Where was the blithe, light-hearted, easygoing Alasdair?

She was sitting very straight on the sofa, eyes sparkling with anger, and had just opened her mouth to speak when he said coldly, “Never mind!”