“Yes,” Logan replied, smiling, “it’s wonderful news, my beautiful one.”
Nairna blushed all over again, then said, “Oh! I have another question for Dallis about the lying-in! Stay, darling, and talk to Fiona! Doesn’t she look lovely in that blue gown?”
“Indeed she does.” Logan watched as his wife hurried away.
With that crest of thick black hair and juttingly straight nose, his profile was magnificent. And how often, how very often, had he called her, Fiona, my beautiful one . . . Fiona tamped down a treacherous rush of sweet memories as Logan turned to her again. Behind them, along the stone corridor, tramped a raucous horde of guests, singing “At the Auld Trysting Tree” at the top of their lungs and banging—God in heaven, where had they gotten pots and pans?—on the walls. Yet Logan never took his eyes from her. It was another one of his attractions: he always made her feel as if she was the only one in any room, at any gathering . . .
Fiona almost felt as if she was melting in the delicious warmth of Logan’s proximity. The years seemed to suddenly dissolve between them—she was once again a romantic, dazzled eighteen-year-old, and she found herself leaning a little closer to him, her lips parting expectantly, her limbs all at once feeling wonderfully heavy. Then, with a kind of inner gasp, she thought in horror: You fool! Nairna! Your sister!
She drew herself up to her full height, said coolly, “My congratulations to you both,” and briskly walked past Logan Munro, away from him, ignoring the fact that in his expression, his half-smile, was a sympathetic sort of understanding, as if a little secret bond, unshakable, unbreakable, drew them together.
A night and a day later, the celebrations were finally over. Her sisters had left with their husbands. Nearly all the guests had gone, too, and the weary servants were hard at work cleaning up the keep—no small task given the broken dishes, the spilled food, the toppled bottles of spirits, the rushes in the common areas sodden and bad-smelling, and everywhere discarded items of clothing which made Fiona frown as she made her way up to the solarium where Mother spent much of her time. Here, at least, was order and cleanliness. Well, actually, to be honest there was more cleanliness than order, for Mother, as dear and delightful as she was, wasn’t known for her organizational abilities.
Still, as afternoon sunlight poured in through the long bank of narrow windows that had once served as arrow-loops, the solarium was a pleasant chamber, with the scattered piles of fabric, the great loom in the corner, Mother’s harp, old copies of La Belle Assemblée, shawls and ribbons and colorful spools of thread all combining in a scene of familiar and cheerful disarray.
“Hello,” said Fiona cautiously, standing at the threshold.
Mother looked up from the escritoire at which she sat and put aside her quill, her face brightening in welcome, then promptly clouding. “Oh, Fiona dear,” she said uneasily.
Fiona came in and threw herself into a chair by the fire, stretching out her long legs to warm her toes in their tall boots. “What’s done is done, Mother,” she replied, unable to keep a slight note of defiance from her voice.
“Yes, but to challenge Niall Birk and Walraig Tevis to an arm-wrestling match?” said Mother with plaintive dismay. “And then to beat them both!”
“I can’t brag about it, Mother, for they were both so drunk they could hardly sit up.”
“Brag about it? Oh my goodness, why would you? So unmaidenly! And then to dare Ross Stratton to compete with you in a footrace!”
“It wasn’t a fair match either. He was drunk and for some reason he had on someone else’s shoes, and they were far too small for him.”
Mother gave a little moan. “Oh, Fiona, this is dreadful!”
“Yes, but Mother, I had to get rid of them, don’t you see? Everyone mocked them so badly that they left before dawn, without trying to propose to me again. And now Father can’t pressure me into accepting them. Wasn’t it clever of me?”
“Well, yes, of course it was, darling, you’ve always been so terribly clever, but now . . .” Mother looked nervously toward the doorway. She lowered her voice and went on: “But now your father is furious with you, and he’s completely taken away your dowry again.”
“I don’t care about the dowry, but—” Fiona felt a frisson of anxiety on Mother’s behalf. “— he’s not angry at you, is he?”
“Oh no, dear, it’s all you, I’m afraid. But without a dowry, and for who knows how long, what is going to happen to you? Who will want to marry you?”