The Laird Takes a Bride(49)

Now, here, in the warm coziness of her bed at Castle Tadgh, Fiona abruptly felt chilled. She pulled the covers up to her neck.

Baking day. Yeast? Also, new pans needed?

Linen inventory. One hour at least. Check: moths?

Lister’s father— dentures—where is closest dentist (reputable!)

Rumor re bedbugs in servants’ quarters: find out for sure

Sewing scissors need sharpening. Who does that here?

Shaw’s retrievers. Ask Cook to give them meat scraps. Cuilean also?

Talk to Monty about beehives—could foraging ants or toads be the problem? Show him section in Maxwell’s Practical Bee-Master

Dallis birthday next week. Send note

Cow-house. How much milk, cream? Any village families who need some extra?

Go for ride on Gealag. LONG RIDE



Yes indeed, she was going to be busy.

Thank God.



The next morning Alasdair found himself whistling a little as he rode out to take a look at the hay fields. Relief—he was feeling relief. Things had gone all right last night. It had all been accomplished with a minimum of fuss and botheration. Fiona hadn’t been missish, their exchanges had been amiable enough. The pattern had therefore been easily established. They could go on about their business from now on, knowing what to expect during these interludes.

As he rode in the bright sun of late summer, Alasdair observed with pleasure the crisp amber of the hay all around him. The harvest was going to be a good one this year.

Her legs, he suddenly remembered (for no apparent reason), were long, slender, white and soft-skinned, and strong, too. In his determination to get it over with, he hadn’t really paused to notice that.

It was an interesting combination, that soft femininity and supple strength.

Of course, during the days Fiona was active and energetic—that would explain it. He’d caught glimpses of her, up and down the staircase, walking with her brisk step here and there, in and out of the castle, and he knew she rode almost every day.

Last night, though, she had been calm, quiet, remote. What, he now wondered, would it feel like to have those long, strong legs wrapped around him?

An intriguing thought.

But . . .

In its wake came uncertainty.

A certain sense of risk. Of disruption.

And so he dismissed it.

He had carefully shaped his life these past years, to a form and a flow which suited him admirably. To this form, to this pattern, he would adhere. Continue to adhere.

Relief came again in a welcome wave, and he whistled “Bonnie Leslie” from start to finish, three times straight.



While Alasdair was riding, Fiona was in the breakfast-room, eating with enjoyment a freshly baked scone and reading her letters. There was one from Mother, with her flowing, looping writing, which wasted a great deal of space on the page, but was cheerful and affectionate. It had rained on Sunday, wrote Mother, but her charming new kid ankle-boots in the most delicate shade of aquamarine had, most fortunately, not been damaged on the way to and from church. Osla Tod had recovered beautifully from her tooth-pulling; the whitewashing in the Great Hall had gone smoothly (aside from Father twice losing his temper and subjecting the workers to a furious tirade). Oh, and there was interesting news from Henrietta Penhallow in England, Mother added. Her grandson, Gabriel, is engaged to a Miss Livia Stuart from Wiltshire. Wherever that is. English geography is so dreadfully confusing, isn’t it? Do you suppose Miss Stuart is related to our own poor lamented Queen Mary? I can’t image Henrietta settling for anything less than an exceedingly highborn addition to her family.

Also in Fiona’s pile was a letter from Nairna, joyful with reports of her advancing pregnancy, so long desired, a very miracle; the wisewoman Tavia Craig in constant attendance, and oh so kind! There was a letter from Rossalyn, too, happily settling into married life with Jamie MacComhainn.

Fiona put down the letter, and sipped her tea. How nice to hear that everyone—including the workers, she assumed, now the whitewashing was complete—was doing so well.

As for herself, she was doing well also. Of course. Last night had gone very well. Now that she knew what to expect, why, she wouldn’t have to think about it at all anymore.



While Fiona was reading her letters, Isobel was trotting up the stairs to the Little Drawing-room, holding a soft sheepskin shammy Mrs. Allen had kindly found for her. It was perfect for dusting those exquisite figurines she so admired. Her handkerchiefs—made from inexpensive bleached cotton she’d purchased in Edinburgh and hemmed herself—simply weren’t good enough for such an important task.

When she entered the room, she cast an appreciative glance around. All pink and frilly it was, with billowy lace curtains and lovely chairs and sofas upholstered in French toile. And as a centerpiece to it all, there was that enormous cabinet with its leaded glass windows and arched pediment. All told, it was a delightful chamber, and so cozy! It was a mystery as to why dear Fiona seemed to despise it.