The Laird Takes a Bride(46)

It was the best he could do.

“Very well. While we’re on the subject of household matters, laird, are you aware that in one of the cellars there are a hundred and fourteen cases of Veuve Clicquot?”

Alasdair felt his mouth dropping open. “What?”

“Yes, I went down there in search of some drying racks and there they were. It took me half an hour to count them all. Oh, and after questioning Lister, I’ve also learned that the staff hasn’t had their wages raised in five years.”

“But I—” He stopped. “But I told my uncle to—I distinctly remember—it was, in fact, five years ago—”

She said nothing.

Slowly he rose to his feet. It felt like his familiar world was crumbling all around him, and that nothing would ever be the same again. If, in fact, he were prone to hyperbole, he might even have said that the sky was falling. But he did not give voice to such fancies. Instead, he gave a small, formal bow and said, “If you’ll excuse me, madam?”

“By all means,” she answered coolly. “I have a great deal to do this afternoon.”

Cuilean trotting happily at his side, Alasdair went in search of Duff, and found him in the Great Hall spreading a lavish dollop of strawberry jam on a tattie scone, which very generously he held out to Alasdair. Which Alasdair curtly refused.

The conversation that followed was difficult—for him. Duff cheerfully admitted his mistake, acknowledged he had forgotten to speak to Lister about the wages (for it was, he reminded Alasdair, the morning following their exceptionally convivial Lammas Day celebrations), and also confessed to purchasing all that pricey champagne. One never knew, he added helpfully, what with the tumultuous state of European relations, when the supply would be cut off.

Alasdair held onto his temper with an effort, then went off to find Lister, to whom he gave an order for wages to be immediately increased (and back wages tacked on), and after that he sought out the housekeeper Mrs. Allen and reassured her as to her welcome.

All in all, it was a less than delightful afternoon, and nor was dinner any better. Nobody talked much, although Dame Isobel kept clucking under her breath about aging roués and hoarding French champagne and feckless profligates, looking so much in her red gown like an angry little hen, wanting to peck out Duff’s eyes, that for once Alasdair felt himself to be entirely in charity with her. His uncle, however, oblivious to atmosphere, ate and drank with undiminished cheer.

And what was on his own mind, speaking of things more or less delightful? Progeny. Dynastic imperatives. Responsibility for his clan. All the while sitting next to a wife who was as warm as a block of ice, and about as cordial. He’d never done the deed under such circumstances and he hoped he was—so to speak—up for it. As soon as good manners allowed, Alasdair was up and away, and off to the stables where he surprised Begbie and the grooms by wanting to discuss new tack for the horses, at great length and in considerable detail, long into the evening.



“Are you awake, madam?”

“Yes,” Fiona said with her eyes closed. When she had heard the door to the bedchamber opening, she’d quickly shut her eyes. She wasn’t going to take any chances. She wasn’t going to be confronted by the sight of his naked self (tall, lithe, muscular) strolling with unsettling self-assurance from his dressing-room toward the bed. Especially since the very first thing she had noticed, earlier that day when Alasdair had surprised her in her morning-room, was that his sling was gone.

Tonight was it, then.

She took a deep breath.

Felt, heard him getting into bed. The shifting of the mattress, the rustle of bedclothes.

Here he was.

A tall, lithe, muscular, and (very likely) naked man.

Her husband.

Her life’s partner, supposedly, now and forevermore.

She remembered Isobel’s advice.

All you have to do, Fiona dear, is to lie there, and endure what happens.

She waited.

After what felt like a year of strained silence, very cautiously she opened her eyes and turned her head on the pillow. Alasdair was looking at her and it took all her will to not slam her eyes shut again.

He moved a little, and she felt in her body a kind of instinctive tremor. And then he spoke.

“Are you well, madam?”

His voice was quiet, careful, civil.

“Yes,” Fiona said, just as carefully. It seemed only decent to add: “And yourself, laird?”

“Aye.”

Another year passed.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome.” Time dragged by. Oceans rose and fell, forests grew and withered. Fiona cleared her throat. “So how was the cattle meet in Crieff?”

“It was excellent.”