The invalidation of a wedding ceremony performed when the presiding minister is observed to be in an obvious state of intoxication.
The punishment for arson.
The formalities of becoming a guardian of orphaned children.
The sale of personal possessions acquired in a state of summer madness.
The resolution of violent disputes among elderly siblings.
The proclamation that any calf born an albino automatically belongs to the chieftain or his designated successor.
Isobel sat back on her knees, her brain whirling. The Tome was simply stuffed with rules, procedures, and ordinances, as well as the occasional retraction or clarification, as in the archaic material about witches, demons, and spells. She felt a delightful shudder ripple up her spine. How confusing it all was, yet so endlessly fascinating. And she was only up to page 418.
She glanced at the elaborate ormolu clock set on the fireplace mantel and gasped. The breakfast hour had already commenced, and she was going to be late again. She didn’t want that. Mealtimes had become so pleasant; she’d had such nice conversations with Duff lately. It had been a long, long time since a gentleman had taken such an interest in her, and she in him. He was so intelligent, and so handsome. At first, it had been difficult to notice these attributes, but it was as if her perception had somehow, mysteriously, begun to sharpen.
Quickly Isobel closed the Tome and put it back into the cabinet, pleased to notice that it was getting easier and easier to move it.
Sheila lifted her head from the sampler on which she was laboriously sewing a simple floral border. “Granny,” she said suddenly, “are you always right?”
Old Dame Margery glanced at her over the shift she was mending. “Nay, child, only the Lord above is always right. Why do you ask?”
“Oh,” replied Sheila vaguely, “I was just wondering. Granny, Granny, your hands are better, aren’t they? The lady’s magic salve worked, didn’t it? And Granny, only see! I’ve finished one side entirely, isn’t it pretty?”
“Very pretty, child, very pretty indeed.” Margery smiled at her grandchild, and watched as that strange, opaque look passed from her eyes and she turned them once more to her sampler.
“Do it, man!” Duff said, with a certain urgency, to Grahame, Alasdair’s manservant whom he’d summoned to his own rooms.
“All of it, sir?” asked Grahame, sounding more than a little astonished.
“Aye. Now! Before I lose my courage.”
“Very well, sir.” Grahame took his shears, drew a deep breath, and clipped off Duff’s long beard. Snip snip snip. And it was done. Slowly Duff turned to look at himself in his mirror. After a minute inspection, he said:
“Shows off my jaw. Excellent. Now for a shave. And while you’re at it, you may as well trim my hair.”
“And eyebrows, sir?”
“Why not?” replied Duff, recklessly. “If a man’s got a good face, there’s no point hiding it.”
“Very well, sir,” Grahame repeated, and obediently set to his work.
Fiona sat at her desk, looking not at her notes and lists and letters, but out the window. It was a golden September day, breezy and mild, with perfect weather for the harvesting that had already begun. The sky was vast and so beautiful a blue it almost made her heart ache to see it.
Movement, somber color, caught her eye, and she saw Monty the gardener stumping past in his dark jacket and somehow managing to carry as if it were weightless the longest ladder she had ever seen. Curiosity, and the temptation of a golden morning, decided her.
In a flash Fiona was up and on her way outside.
Chapter 12
Alasdair had talked with the Smiths, seen for himself the damage to their barn, made arrangements for help. Now he sat astride his horse, aware that within him were competing desires.
A part of him wanted to hurry back to the castle, find Fiona and sweep her up to their bedchamber. Lose himself within her. And make her cry out, again and again, with pleasure, as she had done last night.
Yet another part resisted—stubbornly, very stubbornly.
It was this hard, seemingly intractable part of him that won out, and so he dismissed Shaw and rode, alone, to the shore of Loch Sgàthan, the site of that epic disaster fifteen years ago, today as smooth and as placid as if it had never—would never —roil up in a storm and swallow a handsome new boat and all its occupants.
He dismounted, flung the reins of his bay over its neck, allowed him to wander, knowing a single whistle would bring him back. He walked slowly to the rocky stretch of shore which met up with gently lapping water, that liminal space between solid earth and infinitely yielding water. He picked up a stone, expertly sent it skipping along the blue surface, and smiled a little, remembering Gavin’s annoyance when here was something his little brother could do better.