Her words were blistering and sharp. If they’d been fencers in a duel, she’d be flying at him, without a fleuret on the tip, lunging to kill. And in this kind of situation, you either retreated, or you parried, just as aggressively.
“Yes, delightful,” he said, with a snarl in his voice. “Didn’t you listen to the marriage vows we made? Our task is that of procreation.”
“Task. It’s very obvious it’s a task.”
“And just how would you be able to make such a judgment, madam?”
“Are you accusing me of being unchaste?” she snapped. “Surely you were aware of the state of things when you first had me? Or was your mind elsewhere?”
Oh God, oh God, he’d backed himself into a corner. How had things gotten so ugly so quickly? And yet, even in the heat of the fight, a little, awful part of him was rejoicing. Safe, safe, safe.
“This,” he said coldly (and yet comfortably), “is a highly indelicate conversation.”
“Indelicate?” She gave a sardonic laugh. “I had no idea your sensibilities were so refined, laird. Do forgive me.”
“And I, madam, had no idea you were capable of such coarseness.” Now he was simply being an ass. He knew it. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself.
“Well, we’ve learned quite a lot about each other tonight, haven’t we?” she said icily.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Very enlightening.”
“And exhausting.” He yawned, loudly and ostentatiously. “Good night then.”
He could hear her scornful huff as she flounced onto her side, with her back to him. “Yes. Good night.”
Alasdair closed his eyes. It was almost as if the angry, ugly words they’d exchanged were still hanging in the air, taking up space in the darkness of the room. He waited, waited, for them to subside. And as he waited, it came to him then—that despite the mechanical nature of their coupling, he’d been assuming she found him attractive, as women generally did. He’d brushed aside her reply to his provocative question in the Great Drawing-room, when he’d said:
You do not find my person comely?
Not particularly, she had coolly answered.
He let this startling possibility sink in.
Yes, he’d been assuming that she wanted him, while he was the one dispensing his—ah—favors at his own convenience. That he had the upper hand, he was in control.
Maybe, maybe, he was wrong.
Then came another unwelcome thought, like an angel (or devil?) perched on his shoulder:
Well, lad, you haven’t exactly done much to excite her passion, have you?
He countered, She’s not my type.
What’s wrong with her?
Too thin, too pale, too blonde.
The angel (or devil) seemed to say, slyly: Have you really looked at her, lad?
Alasdair almost groaned out loud. Here he was, having a dialogue with himself. What the hell was wrong with him?
The sly little voice made itself known again.
Have you, lad? Or have you locked yourself in?
Shut up, he tried to tell the voice. I’ve worked everything out to my satisfaction. Don’t you go—
Rocking the boat? said the voice, a little cruelly.
I’m done with you, Voice.
But you’re not done with Mòrag, are you?
Shut up. Go away.
Never.
Alasdair shifted in the bed, raked a hand through his hair.
Which reminded him. What was so wrong with red hair, by the way?
Not a damn thing.
He had nice, thick hair which he kept clean and well-barbered.
He opened his eyes, turned his head to glare at her back.
Look at her? Locked in?
Damned stupid voice.
And he closed his eyes again, waiting—a little guiltily—for sleep to claim him. His last waking thought was the belated realization that with the advent of her woman’s time, a hope for conception had been dashed.
Well, he’d certainly been the compassionate husband, hadn’t he.
Later, much later that night, Alasdair dreamed he made passionate love to his wife, who sat astride him, her curious silvery hair released at last from its braid. It covered her like a living mantle of silk. And in this dream, her pale, slender body actually glowed, as if she were on fire. It was his touch that ignited her.
A deep coldness lay between the laird and his lady, and little Sheila was overheard saying casually to her playmates a few days later:
“There are ghosts in the castle.”
“We wish,” one of the other children answered, just as casually, tossing out a little piece of crockery for a marker, and they all went on with their lively, occasionally contentious game of hop-scotch.
And a few days later after that, on a beautiful morning that held in it the tiniest hint of autumn, Fiona stood in the warm, clean kitchen conferring with Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, and with Cook. All around her was well-ordered bustle; on a low stool near the hearth sat Sheila, playing with her doll. Isobel had made a white lace wrapper and a wee nightcap for the doll to wear, and Sheila was carefully tying the tiny ribbons, one after another. On her lap was also a big lemony biscuit, sweet with sugar and dotted with caraway seeds.