The Laird Takes a Bride(78)

Alasdair’s smile faded as he thought back to the day Mòrag Cray, and all the others, had arrived from Glasgow. She came alone, without parents, the boon companion of one of the other young ladies, and no sooner had he caught sight of her than he’d fallen madly in love.

So too had Gavin.

They’d liked the same girl before, had competed to win the affections of this young woman or that young woman, but it had always, before, been in fun; had never tested the bond between them.

It was different with Mòrag.

For one thing, she was heart-stoppingly beautiful. And even though you could tell that she knew it, you couldn’t bring yourself to hold it against her, for she was, simply, dazzling, with her luscious round figure, her wild black curls, those black eyes that always seemed to gleam as if with a secret you wanted to know.

Easily, effortlessly, she charmed all the young men who had come to Gavin’s house-party—captivating them with her playful, teasing ways, swinging hot one moment and cold the next, flirting with you at breakfast and ignoring you at dinner, then casting warmly provocative glances at you just when you thought you’d give in to despair. She danced, she rode, she played cards to win and threw them down if she didn’t, but in the next moment was laughing again and ready to find something else fun to do.

For a while Mòrag toyed with them all, and finally he himself—impetuous, bewildered, lovesick young fool—had one evening gathered all his courage and invited her for a stroll in the gardens.

There, underneath a golden harvest moon, alone with her for the very first time, he had told her he loved her, asked her to marry him. Had actually gone down on his knees.

And Mòrag laughed.

Don’t be silly, she said. Get up, before someone sees you like this.

But don’t you even like me? he had stammered, clambering to his feet.

Oh, I like you well enough, my boy, she’d replied with a shockingly brutal honesty, but you aren’t the heir to Castle Tadgh and all its holdings, are you?

It was as if she had whipped out a little, sharp knife from her dainty slipper and stabbed him with it. His chest—his heart —literally hurt him.

My God, he had slowly said, I ought to tell Gavin what you really are.

She’d laughed again. Do you think he’ll believe you?

He didn’t know what to say to that.

Then Mòrag had whisked herself away and back inside, and he’d been left alone, his boy’s pride cut to the quick, and wondering what he should do. Things were already strained between Gavin and himself, and if Gavin really cared for her, who was he to stand in his way?

He didn’t know.

And so he did nothing.

His last glimpse of Mòrag had been of her standing on the boat’s beautifully varnished deck, her arm slid possessively through Gavin’s, her black hair, blown free from its demure chignon, blowing wildly in the rising breeze.

Gavin had organized the sailing expedition. He’d laughed at the wind, the clouds massing overhead, the ruffled waters of the loch. And everyone laughed along with him—except for himself. He’d tried to dissuade Gavin from taking out his boat and been kindly patted on his shoulder and dismissed. He’d appealed to their parents: Mother had told him not to be so nervous, and his father had urged him to come along so that he could learn from Gavin’s skill in handling his new boat. In a rage, he’d flung himself away and over to his cousin Hewie’s, and persuaded him to join him in several hard rounds of boxing until his equilibrium had returned and the image of Mòrag’s lovely face had begun to fade from his mind. He’d ignored the wind and the rain, assuming, of course, that they were all back at the castle, safe and sound, and quite possibly primed to make fun of him for his silly caution.

It wasn’t till very late at night, when the storm had finally waned, that some of his father’s men had found him at Hewie’s and told him the news.

They were all dead.

And he was now the laird of Castle Tadgh and all its holdings.

He had fallen again to his knees, only this time he was howling.

If only he had tried harder to dissuade them—

He could have somehow made them stay on land—

Couldn’t he?

Short of knocking them all senseless, what else could he have done?

He didn’t know that, either.

Afterwards, later, when the mourners had come, he had met Mòrag’s dazed parents, who came creeping into the Great Hall like mice, timid and overwhelmed, he a faded, stooping clergyman, she a graying slip of a woman in a cloak that had been repaired many times over. He’d understood at once Mòrag’s determination to have Gavin, to reinvent herself as a nobleman’s wife, a lady of superior social standing, wealthy, privileged, every whim obeyed. There was no way of knowing, then or now, if she’d truly cared for Gavin.