The Laird Takes a Bride(91)

Fiona wasn’t cold, wasn’t furious. Those luminous eyes weren’t blazing with passionate emotion. Yet it was as if he could gain no purchase on her; she was in some fundamental way inaccessible.

“Well,” she said at last, “if that’s all, laird?”

“Yes—no.” He groped for her hand, held it gently. She did not resist, but there was about her the slightly distracted air of a busy person who was mentally already somewhere else.

“How sweet,” Fiona said, and with equal gentleness withdrew her hand. “I do hope you have a nice day.”

And she turned and walked away from him.



Although he had long finished his breakfast, Duff lingered at the table while Isobel poked at a strawberry tart, picking away at the buttery crust until a pile of golden crumbs had accumulated on her plate and the sweet red interior lay exposed but uneaten. Her white brow was wrinkled and her lips pursed distractedly, her eyes downcast. She wore this morning a high-necked gown of soft violet, trimmed at the neckline and sleeves with a modest fall of white ruffled lace, and it came to Duff, as he observed her, that she rather resembled a pansy.

He liked pansies.

One of his favorite flowers, now he came to think on it.

He said, unconsciously echoing Alasdair, “Is your tart not to your liking, madam?”

She started. “Oh! Only look what I’ve done. How wasteful of me! I’m sure it’s delicious, sir, but—”

“Call me Duff, won’t you?”

“Oh! Ought I? I should hate to appear forward.”

He observed with pleasure the pretty blush on her plump cheeks. “Not a bit of it,” he declared. “And might I have the privilege of calling you by your Christian name? I’ve always thought ‘Isobel’ to be a lovely name. That’s what I called a terrier bitch I had when I was just a lad. What a hunter! She must’ve killed a hundred badgers if she killed a one.” Nostalgically Duff added, “Had bright eyes like little shiny buttons, just like yours.”

“How sweet of you . . . Duff,” answered Isobel, fluttering a little at the compliment, and he felt in the region between his stomach and his shoulders an unfamiliar, but agreeable sensation. In his lungs? What else was in there? Kidneys, liver? Yes, and also one’s heart. He smiled and said:

“Now then! What’s had you so preoccupied that you’ve torn that pastry to bits?”

At once Isobel looked worried again. “I was just thinking about what happened last night in the Great Drawing-room. Such a fierce quarrel! And it was so tense just now between dear Fiona and the laird. Underneath, if you know what I mean? It’s dreadful! I can’t help but be upset.”

“Yes, well . . . But . . . Oughtn’t to dwell on . . . I mean—” Fumblingly Duff struggled to think of something consoling to say. It didn’t come easy; he hadn’t been in the habit of paying much attention to the feelings of others. But there was something about Isobel that made him want to try. And then, in a stunning bolt of inspiration, it came to him. “Did you notice how—well—snappish Fiona was last night? They say that in a certain—ah—delicate state, ladies can be peevish—and consider how she didn’t eat her breakfast this morning. Maybe she’s . . . you know . . .”

Isobel’s eyes were round. “Goodness! Why, yes! Of course, it would be early days yet, but still . . . It certainly would explain . . . How terribly clever of you to think of it!”

“It’s nothing, really,” he said modestly. God’s eyeteeth, but it was nice to bask in some womanly admiration, and from a lady, too, none of your silly little tavern wenches either. To be sure, Isobel’s face did have some lines upon it, but so did his, truth be told, and conferred upon them both, he thought, a fine sort of shared dignity. He was especially glad, now, that he’d lopped off that unruly beard of his, and that today he’d put on one of his better shirts.

Which reminded him. He called to one of the servants: “There’s a basket of mine out in the hall—bring it in.”

When the servant returned bearing the basket, he said, “Place it by Dame Isobel.” And added, as if the words came to him a little rustily, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” said the servant, and Duff realized that it didn’t feel so bad to acknowledge when people did you a service, either.

Isobel was staring in bewilderment at the brilliantly colored heap of garments before her. Bright yellow. Loud green. Vibrant chartreuse. Blazing red. “Your—your waistcoats, Duff? Shall I mend them for you, as I did your shirt?”