The Laird Takes a Bride(63)

“Aye.”

“If you say so.” Duff stared at him, looking perplexed, then finally took a long ostentatious draught of his own ale, as if somehow proving a point, and went on with his meal.

Alasdair’s annoyance intensified.

Finally, when Duff reached for his fifth piece of toast, Alasdair said, with deliberate casualness:

“You may remember that my wife went missing yesterday.”

“Did she? Oh—ah—yes, now that you bring it up, lad, I do recall somebody mentioning it. Big castle, this. Off somewhere mending something, I suppose? Never saw such a lass for sewing. Always with a needle in her hand! Hmmm—wonder if she’d fix this shirt of mine? Look at this rip—d’you see it? How it got there I’ve no idea. Might’ve been Hewie jabbing at me with a billiard stick—only in fun, of course. I think it was only in fun. Though he may not have liked it when I kicked him in the seat of his pants. For a lark, you know! Did you try some of that whisky he brought over last night? Only one bottle, but superb! Jameson, 1782! Let’s buy some, lad, what do you say?”

“I wasn’t in the billiards room last night.”

“Oh, weren’t you? Could’ve sworn it was you making that bank shot that put away four balls in a row. Superb!”

“No, I was riding into the Dunstan woods in search of my wife.”

“Why? Ran away, did she?”

“No, she was kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped? Really?” Duff lifted his tankard to wave it in the direction of a servant. “God’s blood, the trouble these women make! Ah! To the brim! That’s the dandy.”

It occurred to Alasdair, then, to think suddenly of Crannog Sutherlainn’s uncle Faing, a man whose guidance of his young nephew was questionable at best.

He’d been twenty years old—just about Crannog’s age, he reckoned—when Duff had come to live at Castle Tadgh. He’d been young, in trouble, desolate with grief. Vulnerable.

Alasdair looked across the table at Duff and with that same deliberate air of relaxation made himself lean back in his chair. It was, he thought, lucky for Duff that he didn’t have a billiard stick in his hand, for he might have been tempted to jab it at him. And not in fun. He said:

“Would you like to know if I found my wife?”

Duff gave a start. “What did you say, lad? I was wondering if we might want to go to Pitlochry for the races. There’s a filly to be running there I’ve had my eye on for many a week. We ought to go today, though, if we wish to find good lodgings.”

“No. I’ve plenty to do here.”

And he did. For one thing, he wanted to confer with his bailiff Shaw about sending the promised supplies to the Sutherlainns, and with Fiona as well, about what they could include in the way of linens, clothing, and household supplies.

From his place at the head of the table, Alasdair glanced over at the foot where the lady of the house would sit. It was empty at the moment, but he realized with a sense of surprise—pleased surprise—how good it felt to know that here in his home was his wife Fiona, and that he could rely absolutely on her capabilities. It was not something he’d known in his fifteen years as chieftain, ruling alone. He really had done just fine on his own. But now he had a helpmeet—a partner.

It felt . . . different.

It felt . . . better.

Because it was better for the clan, of course.

Thoughtfully Alasdair ran a hand across his beard-stubbed cheek, jaw, chin, his thoughts shifting in an entirely different direction. Surely, surely, Fiona did not find him repulsive? Unattractive? Surely it had not been only fatigue—and brandy —that made her relax into his embrace as last night they rode together . . . ? Lord, but he needed a bath, a shave, clean clothes—

Then he heard her voice in the corridor, speaking to a servant, and he glanced toward the doorway with an alacrity that a few days ago, that yesterday, would have been unimaginable to him.

She came into the breakfast-room, wearing a simple and elegant gown of the palest, softest green, a white fringed shawl around her shoulders, and her hair, thick, lustrous, in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Why had he failed to notice, before, just how striking she was?

How bonny.

How unique.

And then he also saw the dark circles of fatigue underneath those long-lashed eyes of cool gray. Her slender face was pale. Had she not slept? he asked himself. How could she not, after such a long and difficult day? It seemed impossible. He had left their bedchamber confident that on this of all nights, she would sleep.

He wished, powerfully, that somehow he could be of service to her. As it was, he could only stand, smile, say pleasantly:

“Good morning, Fiona.”