The Laird Takes a Bride(62)

Next she was helped into her nightgown, hustled into bed, propped up with pillows, and the tray, uncovered, placed in front of her. On it was a bowl of rich beef broth, a plate of warm bannocks, all soft and buttery, and a large roasted chicken drumstick. She ate it all, every crumb, every drop of broth. And then, sated, surrendered her tray to Edme, who betook herself to her own bed, and Fiona was alone in the great bedchamber.

She leaned back against her pillows, yawning, but vowed to stay awake until Alasdair came. Within her was a new little glow, unnamable, fragile, yet it seemed to somehow warm her whole self. She hardly knew what she wanted to say to Alasdair; she only knew that she wanted to see him.

Maybe, just maybe, she’d even keep her eyes open when he came out of his dressing-room. She’d just spent several hours snugged up against that magnificent body of his, and had gained a new appreciation for it. In fact, it now occurred to her, she wouldn’t mind getting close to Alasdair again.

Quite a bit closer.

A fiery blush heated up her face, her neck, even her chest, and her hands went to the high soft ruffles around her throat, as if finding them confining, as if wanting to do away with them. Fiona hesitated, then shoved back the covers and hurried into her dressing-room. Quickly she went to the armoire in which her night things were kept, and fishing through a drawer she pulled out a different nightgown, of silk rather than cambric; she swept off the one she had on, and swapped it for the other, then nervously eyed herself in the full-length cheval glass.

Did she look ridiculous with the daringly low neckline, without those concealing ruffles? And heavens, silk seemed to accentuate one’s form, rather than to conceal it as did the more demure cambric. How soft it felt against one’s bare skin . . .

Fiona hesitated again, as if checking within herself.

Yes, that tender little glow was still there, warm and brave.

That decided her. She put the cambric nightgown away. Meticulously cleaned her teeth, smoothed her hair in its long thick braid. Hurried back to bed, plumped up her pillows, lay flat, sat up, then finally settled for something in between. She tucked the bedcovers around her. And waited for Alasdair.

And waited.

And waited.

But he didn’t come.

The little glow flickered. Waned. And, finally, it died out. Toward morning she drifted into a light, restless doze, aware, as she shifted in and out of wakefulness, that she was sad. Painfully sad. And even a little ashamed. When finally she gave up on sleep and pushed herself out of bed, the first thing she did was to rip off the silk nightgown and shove it back into its drawer.

The next thing she did—of course—was to look for a quill and a piece of paper.

Items for Sutherlainns

Stop thinking about Alasdair

Gealag—check hooves. Stones, mud from last night?

My boots. Ruined? Or salvageable? Ask Edme

Write to Father; has he tried those warm oat & burdock poultices for the sheep?

Salve—wrists

Ask Cook: boeuf à la Bourguignonne soon? With bannocks

Kitchen garden. Blackberries. Preserves. Plums?

Any new remedies for insomnia? Research

STOP THINKING ABOUT ALASDAIR





It had been a long night. Alasdair sat at the breakfast-table, tired, but satisfied. He’d come straight from the stables, ravenous, and now was no longer hungry, in itself a pleasant state of affairs, but his cheerful mood was due only in part to that. He felt good—sanguine. The situation with the Sutherlainns had been successfully resolved; most importantly, Fiona was safe.

Thank God, she was safe.

And they seemed to have moved past the cold, icy cold tension of the past few days.

Thank God for that, too.

And today was a new day.

Today, perhaps, they could have peace between them.

Sweet, calm, easy peace.

That wasn’t so much to ask, was it?

“Black pudding! Excellent!”

It was Duff, ambling into the breakfast-room in a distinctly bleary way, and Alasdair searched his memory: had Duff been among those who’d gathered last night to welcome his safe return home with his mysteriously absent wife?

Not that he could recall.

He frowned a little, watching as Duff sat down, called imperiously for ale, filled his plate with black pudding, baked beans, grilled tomatoes, fried mushrooms, buttery toast; he himself waved away the ale a servant proffered, but accepted a second cup of coffee, and nodded his thanks as the servant removed his plate.

“No ale?” inquired Duff, with such concern that Alasdair felt a sharp prickle of—well, there it was again, annoyance. There was no law that said one had to have ale every day, even if, perhaps, it had long been a convivial custom shared with one’s uncle. He answered:

“No.”

“Really? Are you all right, lad?”