The Laird Takes a Bride(90)

Fiona wrestled herself onto her other side, bunching the blanket firmly around her. She tried to tell herself it was true.



When Alasdair entered the breakfast-room that morning, he did so a little warily, not knowing quite what to expect. How would it be between himself and Fiona? Hostile, difficult, peppered with barbed comments, thinly veiled insults? Would there be a loaded question, perhaps, about how well he had slept?

There she was in her place at the foot of the table, wearing a charming long-sleeved day-dress of softest periwinkle, her hair smoothly coiled into a low knot at the nape of her neck. She was her usual elegant self, slim, upright, neat as a pin and pretty as a picture.

She looked up from her teacup as he entered. Pleasantly she said, “Good morning, laird,” and Alasdair was aware of a rush of relief.

“Good morning,” he answered, and nodded at Duff and Isobel, who were, he noticed, eyeing him with trepidation before glancing with the same nervousness at Fiona. Yes, there had been quite a scene last night in the drawing-room, and no doubt they were expecting something of a similar nature.

But Fiona had obviously set the tone, and Alasdair gratefully took his own seat at the head of the table. Today was, after all, a new day. Perhaps they could talk things through. He saw that next to his plate and silverware was a dark red brocaded document folder.

He looked at Fiona.

“The old invoices,” she said calmly, “for your review.” And that was that. A servant offered her more tea, and with that same pleasant manner she accepted.

“Thank you,” Alasdair answered, pushing aside the brocade folder with a sharp repugnance he didn’t, at the moment, care to analyze.

“You’re welcome.”

Silence then filled the breakfast-room, which was illuminated by a particularly beautiful and piercing September sunlight, warm and golden. It wasn’t until halfway through the meal that Alasdair became aware of that silence. Usually Isobel would be chattering about this or that. Duff might be mentioning his plans for the day, and urging Alasdair to join him. Fiona would at least be saying something.

It was then he realized that Duff and Isobel kept glancing between him and Fiona. And that Fiona, usually so hearty in her appetite, had barely touched her food. That underneath her eyes were the heavy dark circles of one who had not slept much the night before, if at all. But to this she had not referred, and had only sipped calmly at her tea.

“Madam,” said Alasdair, “is your breakfast not to your liking?”

She turned her eyes—cool gray today—to him. “I find I’m not very hungry this morning, laird.”

“Ah.” He paused. “Are you unwell?”

“By no means.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Thank you for inquiring.”

“Of course.”

It was all very civil. Her tone was still pleasant. So what exactly was bothering him? It was like having a pebble in your shoe. Such a small thing, yet impossible to ignore. Doggedly he continued:

“My bailiff Shaw says that the bull sent by the Colling brothers has arrived. I know we talked about riding out together to see it. Would you like to do that?”

“How kind of you to ask. But I’m afraid I’ve so many things to do today. Perhaps another time.” Fiona rose to her feet, smoothed out her gown. “In fact, I really ought to get started. If you’ll excuse me?”

Briskly she left the breakfast-room. Baffled, struggling within himself, Alasdair stood and caught up with her in the long high-ceilinged passageway. Servants bustled to and fro, but he had to speak.

“Madam,” he said, “Fiona—”

She turned, her eyebrows lifted inquiringly.

He came close to her, and saw with a certain gladness that she didn’t step away. In a low voice he said, “Would you like to talk?”

And lightly she answered, “About what, laird?”

“About last night.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You were honest with me,” she said, lightly, pleasantly. “I appreciate that. We understand each other now. And when I agreed with you about no more talking, I meant it.”

“Yes,” he said, “but . . .”

She waited. His eyes searched her face. His brain searched for words. Abruptly there flashed into his memory an experience from long ago, when at a dare from Hewie—both of them reckless fifteen-year-olds—he had agreed to climb a sheer rockface on Ben Macdui. Initially he’d done well, and had easily ascended to a point some fifty feet above the ground. And then his fingers could no longer find purchase above him. It had been a sickening sensation. He could go no further.

That’s what it felt like right now.