The Laird Takes a Bride(85)

Twisting her hands together, Isobel stood uncertainly. She looked from Fiona to Duff, whose expression was as taken aback as her own. “I’m—I’m not hungry,” Isobel said softly, apologetically. “Can’t I at least pick up something?”

“No.”

In Fiona’s voice was nothing but steel, and Isobel’s eyes began to fill with tears.

“I think I’ll—I think I’ll go to bed then, Cousin. If you’ll excuse me?”

“By all means.” Fiona did not look up.

Duff hastily rose to his feet. “I think I’ll do the same,” he said. At the doorway he paused, with a discombobulated Isobel at his side, and added awkwardly: “Well—good night, lass.”

“And to you,” Fiona responded mechanically, not lifting her eyes from the seemingly impossible snarl of colorful thread. And she too added something, only with terrible irony.

“Sweet dreams.”





Chapter 13




Fiona could not have said how long it took for her to pick up everything from the carpet as well as from the polished wood floor beyond—how many minutes (hours?) it took to neatly separate the spools of thread. Her legs hurt from kneeling, and behind her eyes there developed a painful ache from the strain of peering so minutely in the flickering light of the candles. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized she didn’t have to restore the thread to its usual tidy state. So what if she missed a pin or two? She knew it wasn’t of any real consequence. But still she persisted, her fingers moving without conscious volition as the great violent storm of rage and frustration within her slowly receded, leaving her awash in a dreadful all-encompassing state of—

Fear.

A cold, nasty, desperate sort of fear.

What if Alasdair hated her now?

After their inauspicious beginning, things had been going so well between them. Better than well.

Yes, swimmingly, said a cruel little voice inside her brain, forcing her to think of the loch, a sinking boat, the loss of life and hope.

Her eyes caught a tiny glimmer underneath a large wing chair and grimly she inched toward it, still on her knees. Yes, another pin. God, God, had there been millions inside her work basket? She picked it up and knew a brief temptation to stab herself with it as she realized she had gradually crept all the way across the drawing-room to the green velvet curtains—curtains she now hated with a vehemence she knew wasn’t rational. But still. Was she really going to have them taken away tomorrow?

She had no answer.

The thought of tomorrow only made her feel anxious, weak, alone.

Quick, make a list, she told herself hastily. Order out of chaos. Her old standby. It had never failed her. Do this, then this, and after that, do this.

For years, making lists and keeping busy had allowed her to move on reasonably well from her . . . disappointment. It had saved her from falling into despair. Hers had not been a perfect life, of course, but it had been a useful one, a productive one. How many items had she crossed off her lists? Hundreds. Thousands. There was something to be said for that.

Making lists had proved to be an excellent coping method.

But it failed her tonight.

Like a magician whose tricks failed to materialize, her mind felt undone; she couldn’t think of a single comforting task that called out to her.

Tomorrow was only blank slate, frightening in its abject emptiness.

A creeping panic came upon Fiona now, and even though she wasn’t actually cold, she shuddered as if with a chill. Her chest felt tight, and it was hard to draw a complete breath. Quickly she stood, her eyes searching the room for—what?

For help.

For Alasdair.

She had enough presence of mind to drop the miscreant pin into her work basket, but that was all. Then she was hurrying to her bedchamber. Their bedchamber. She wanted to run, but it was only not running that kept her from giving way to true hysteria, especially since traversing the labyrinth of stairs and passageways in the dead of night was bad enough. She half-expected doors to fly open and monsters to leap out at her, or to feel an icy hand grabbing at her skirts from behind. Oh, the Sack Man, the Sack Man, her old nurse would say with gloomy relish, he’ll put you in his nasty sack and there’s nothing you can do to stop him. He’ll eat you alive, and laugh at your screams . . .

Fiona’s heart pounded hard, frantically, as if trying to escape the confines of her chest. There’s no such thing as a Sack Man, she told herself, I am safe, I am real, slow down, just put one foot in front of the other, BREATHE—

Nonetheless it still seemed like years, agonizing years, before she finally found herself in the long high corridor of the laird’s great suite. There was faithful Cuilean, who promptly rose to greet her, tail wagging, then subsided into a large furry ball at her soft command.