“What the devil is my wife doing?”
“Goldfinch nest,” said the laconic Monty. “Rare.”
“And you let her go up there?”
He shrugged. “She wanted to see it.”
“It never occurred to you that it might be dangerous?”
“Very sure-footed, the mistress is.”
It was then that Fiona turned her head and smiled down at him, and Alasdair, with the ease of long habit, steeled himself to stay guarded, even as he smiled warmly back. He wasn’t, he told himself firmly, being duplicitous. He hadn’t done anything, or said anything, to deceive Fiona.
He’d simply acknowledged his boundaries.
That’s all.
An understanding achieved within the private depths of a man’s being: how small a thing, impossible to see or touch or quantify, how invisible to all the world. Yet a single silent act can change everything, altering the flow of events, influencing behavior, shaping outcomes. A butterfly in Africa, so it has been said, can—by flapping its wings in a certain way—trigger a hurricane thousands of miles away.
Thus did Alasdair shut a door.
At precisely the same moment that Fiona would, as it were, open a window.
High above, Fiona felt her heart bloom. It would have taken supernatural abilities for anyone to see that in the warmth of Alasdair’s smile, the flash of his white teeth, the glow in his extraordinary eyes, that something was a little lacking, something was held back. Fiona only saw her handsome husband, only thought of last night’s bliss, and felt a rush of fiery anticipation that made her grip a little harder at the ladder’s railing.
Good God, was it possible—she caught her breath in wonderment—that she was falling in love? That such a gift was being given, when she’d thought it denied to her forevermore?
Yes.
Happiness seemed to roar through her, like a cataclysm released.
Yes.
Oh, but life was good! She gave a last quick glance to the little clutch of faintly speckled eggs all clustered together in their cozy nest. The promise of something rare and special; the hope of new life. Perhaps for her, too, and even now within her . . .
Could it be that her dreams were coming true at last?
“Goldfinches, laird!” she called joyfully. “We’ll have goldfinches this autumn!”
“Naturally I am delighted to hear the news, madam,” he responded smilingly, “but won’t you come down? I want to talk to you.”
Her brow furrowed. “Is everything all right with the Smiths?”
“Aye, to be sure.”
“Oh, good,” and Fiona began to descend, moving swiftly and safely to the ground. Not for her the dangerous tumble, the precipitous fall. And there he was, big and solid, strong and handsome, to have and to hold, forever. He took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and Fiona felt her knees go rather rubbery. “Oh, Alasdair,” she murmured; she couldn’t help it. And she didn’t care if she sounded a little breathless, because she was.
“Madam,” he said, and in his deep voice was a caress, and wasn’t it lovely that he didn’t let go of her hand after he had kissed it.
It was only Monty clearing his throat that seemed to break the spell. “I need the ladder elsewhere,” he said dourly. “Could be we’ve worms in the apple grove.”
“Oh no,” replied Fiona, but absently, and Monty shot her a darkling look before reaching for the ladder. He had been planning to let her have some brilliant red and orange helichrysums, but now he changed his mind and grumpily trudged off by himself to see about those worms.
Alone in the garden, Fiona looked up at Alasdair. “What did you wish to talk about?”
“I’ll tell you later,” he said, softly, “tonight.”
He wanted her. He still wanted her. She knew it; could feel it. And she wanted him, too: an answering desire, delicious and sensual, sparked fiercely, flew along her limbs, pooled in the secret juncture between her legs, and Fiona took a step closer to him. How wonderful it was to be married. How marvelous to—yes, to be in love. Why, she almost felt like a giddy girl again, as if the world was made over again, just for her.
“I look forward to that, Alasdair.”
“As do I.” He released her hand, only to offer his arm. “Would you care to stroll through the gardens?”
“I’d like nothing better.”
They began to pace, in a deliciously leisurely way, along the graveled path. They talked about the harvest, and the annual clan celebration that was to come later in the month. They talked about horses, they talked about Fiona’s plans to expand the kitchen garden, and they agreed to host a dinner party next week. Their conversation flowed as if with the sweep of a river, lightly and easily, and Fiona was happy, happy, even if, strangely, at one point her feet seemed to tangle clumsily underneath her, nearly tripping her, and unfortunately Alasdair had just the moment before turned away to look at something, and for a few uncomfortable moments she felt just like she had as a girl long ago, awkward and ungainly.