The Laird Takes a Bride(68)

“I did. It seems a very good idea. What do you think about the suggestion to maintain pasture for three years? With one season of oats after that, and then back to pasture?”

“It might depend on how the winters have been, and the general condition of the sheep and cattle.”

“Aye. And I don’t like to depend too much on turnips and hay for their feed. I always like to have several clover fields in cultivation.”

“Although too much clover can weaken their digestion, don’t you find? I remember once when a flock of Father’s sheep got into a clover field, they got so bloated that we had to treat them with a sour milk and oatmeal mash for a week, which was a great deal of work for everybody.”

They continued in this vein, easily and enjoyably, until the tea-tray was brought in. Fiona realized that all her self-consciousness had dissipated, her confusion, her crazy desire to strip off all her clothing as well. She was back to being steady, practical Fiona.

Which was good.

Wasn’t it?

“Brandy!” said Duff, ambling over. “About time.”

“Tea,” said Fiona, nodding her thanks to the servant who had placed the tray on the low table between herself and Alasdair. “Sandwiches and biscuits and macaroons. No brandy.”

“A frivolous Sassenach custom,” growled Duff, sitting next to Alasdair and giving all the appearance of a long-suffering figure from Biblical times. So might hoary Moses have frowned, gesturing sternly to the stone tablet’s Eleventh Commandment: thou shalt not serve tea in the evenings.

Fiona only shrugged, and passed Alasdair a cup of tea, the way he liked it, with a little cream and no sugar. Isobel came then, and she gave her a cup also. Then, for herself, tea with cream and sugar. Ten minutes later, it was clear that the food was fast disappearing, and Duff said in an offhand manner:

“I’d take a cup of tea, lass, if there’s any left.”

It would have been churlish to grin in a triumphant fashion, and so Fiona only said, politely, “To be sure there is, Uncle. How do you like it?”

“However it is least objectionable.”

She laughed, and handed him a cup with plenty of cream and sugar. “May I give you a plate?”

“Aye,” he replied, and when he received from her a pretty china plate heaped high with delicacies, he added, gruffly, as if trying to remember a word in another language, “Thankee.”

“You’re welcome, Uncle.” Fiona leaned back against the sofa, feeling very mellow. There really was something unifying about good food. Thoughtfully she picked up a macaroon from her plate and bit into it. Sweet, soft, chewy: so delicious she had to keep herself from saying Mmmmmmm in a rather lascivious way. Was it sinful to relish a macaroon with such sensual pleasure? As if of their own volition her eyes strayed to Alasdair. Who sat perfectly at his ease, studying her. Smiling.

A memory flashed through Fiona, back again to their first conversation here. She had thought of a great cat, toying with a mouse. She of course had been the mouse, who had not wanted to be played with. Or eaten.

A shudder rippled along her spine. Not of fear exactly, but something else.

Maybe now she wanted to play.

Just maybe.

And so, when, a little while later, Alasdair stood and stretched and casually announced, “I’m for bed,” she hesitated, heart hammering within her. Then, with extreme care, she put her plate back onto the table, noticing that her hands were shaking again.

She stood up also.

“I’ll come with you,” she said, just as casually.

And together, they left the room.



Fiona was self-conscious again, afraid, more afraid than excited now. She sat before her satinwood dressing-table, eyeing her pale, slender face in the mirror. In a horribly cowardly way, she had changed into a plain white cambric nightgown, with (yes) a high ruffled neckline. Had taken down her hair and quickly braided it. Nervously she plucked at the fabric over her bosom. Why did she have so little substance there? She ran her palms over the flesh of her torso, and even through the nightgown the outline of her ribs was apparent, she was sure of it. There was no getting around it. She was scrawny. No wonder Alasdair could only bring himself to look at her legs.

Although they were skinny too.

Well, there was nothing for it, Fiona thought gloomily, but to go lie down in the bed, and wait for him to ask her to lift up her nightgown. As usual.

She sniffed.

Stared at herself.

And then two large, fat tears rolled down her cheeks.

And then a sob escaped her.

And then there was a knock on her dressing-room door.

Fiona jumped, as might a prisoner summoned to the chopping block. “Yes?”

“You’ve been a long while. Is everything all right?”