The Laird Takes a Bride(89)

The long minutes ticked past, one after the other, just as slowly as they had in the Great Drawing-room.

Eventually, she supposed, they would all add up into an hour. And then another hour. Morning would, whenever it was ready, come.

A deep sigh escaped her.

She turned onto her side.

She wished that rose scent would go away.

Oh, she was weary, so weary. But not the least bit sleepy. Her mind churned uselessly, on and on. Was she right? Was she wrong? Was she greedy and demanding? Was she foolish to have allowed herself to fall in love with Alasdair Penhallow? And could these things even be controlled? Her love for Alasdair was like—oh, God, it was like a wild riot in her heart. Unstoppable, as exuberant as wildflowers in the spring. Nothing you could do would ever keep them from blooming in dazzling profusion, as far as the eye could see.

Suddenly her brain served up a new idea: I could try to make him love me.

And just as quickly it was rejected. What, manipulate Alasdair, lie to him, be someone she wasn’t? And what sort of sorry love would that be?

No, he had made it clear what his limits were. And you couldn’t lose what you never had.

People were—what they were. She couldn’t help but feel more than a little foolish for issuing her passionate speech to him about change.

Take her, for example.

She thought back to the second night of her marriage, when Alasdair had come strolling toward the bed, naked, jolting her into awareness of his intense and alluring masculinity. Had your fill? he had said in his deep and equally alluring voice, mocking her, unsettling her. At that moment she had somehow splintered into different Fionas: the cool, efficient, everyday Fiona; a cracklingly angry Fiona; and, surprising her, a Fiona so alive with desire she practically caught on fire with it.

Here in the silence of her dark, dark dressing-room she could almost feel herself reverting to that first, fundamental, reliable Fiona. It was like putting on an old pelisse that you’d had for years. It wasn’t in the best condition, perhaps, and was tight-fitting in certain areas (because you’d outgrown it?). But it was familiar. And with familiarity came a certain comfort. A certain sense of safety, cocooned in which she could acknowledge that a great love was, clearly, to be denied to her. Well, that was life, wasn’t it? And after all, she had a lot to be thankful for.

As if by magic, a sheet of paper presented itself to her mind’s eye.

Good health

Meaningful work

A beautiful house to live in

A library filled with books

Delicious meals

Wonderful rides with Gealag

A husband who doesn’t berate or beat me



This imaginary sheet of paper, only partially filled with her neat, efficient writing, seemed so vivid that Fiona felt she could almost reach out in the darkness to touch it.

And there, you see? she told herself. You’re back to making lists again. How splendid. Congratulations.

If there was a rather sardonic quality to this little interior commentary, well, she could live with that.

And immediately, with a sort of horrible fluency, she turned her mind to the tasks that awaited her tomorrow—no, today, actually, given how late in the night it was. Hand over those old bills to Alasdair (there was no point in hanging on to those, that was plain). Talk to Cook about the dinner party. Visit the heavily pregnant farmer’s wife. Take the lovely, elegant, damaged, celestial-blue evening-gown, cut it into small pieces, and stow them away in her scrap-bag. Oh, and it was brewing day; she must see how the fermentation was coming along. Write letters to her sisters, and to Mother—

Suddenly Fiona knew a sharp, painful stab of homesickness. For soft, sweet Mother. For her old bedchamber, in the high turret room with a view that seemed to go on forever. For Wick Bay. For Mother’s cheerfully messy solarium, the horribly draughty drawing-room, even the interminable parade of mutton dishes. Even—yes—even for Father.

She’d be there right now, if . . .

If Alasdair had married one of the other women.

Bold, vivacious Janet Reid. She would have been a spirited mate for Alasdair. Perhaps, in time, she’d have matured. Mellowed. Possibly she would have been kinder to the servants.

And the dainty, ethereal Mairi MacIntyre? Not a terribly useful sort of girl, but oh so lovely to look at. Some men liked a wife high on a pedestal, as an ornament to admire from afar.

As for the bovine Wynda Ramsay and her obsession with the English ton and her execrable French—well, at least she had a tremendous bosom, which is more than she could say about herself.

Oh, that wretched clan decree! If not for that, she’d never have met Alasdair. Married him. Would never have fallen in love with him. She’d still be home in Wick Bay, no doubt, and wouldn’t that have been better?