The Laird Takes a Bride(93)

“What ails you, Fiona?” he said gravely.

“Nothing, laird, I assure you.”

“You do not eat. ’Tis troubling to me.”

“You needn’t concern yourself. I am well.”

“Shall I ask for something else to be brought?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Fiona—” Then he stopped. And he said, “What happened to your hands?”

“Nothing. A little work in the garden.”

“But—”

He had that baffled look on his face again.

She didn’t care. Wouldn’t care. She was an automaton, good enough to be liked, but not worthy to be loved. Everything was fine. You couldn’t lose what you never had. Time marched on. She smiled pleasantly, looked away, had a sip of wine.

And so the evening meal went by. As did the subsequent interval in the Great Drawing-room. Quietly, with every appearance of placidity, she mended another torn altar cloth, and neither flung it to the floor nor shoved her work-box off the sofa. For the most part she kept her eyes on her stitches, concentrating on making them uniformly tiny and even, one after the other. The tiniest, most even stitches ever sewn. As if she were competing in the world championship for Best Repair of an Altar Cloth (White Linen of Excellent Quality, Origin Likely Dating to Early 1800s, Several Rips in Fabric Due to Unknown Causes, Possibly Aging and/or Neglect). She did not, once, look at those green velvet curtains, not even for a second. For all she cared now, they could stay up forever, or until hell froze over, whichever came first.

Isobel and Duff seemed to be finding a great deal to say to each other, but she paid no attention to them, and very little to Alasdair, either, who was up and down, pacing restlessly around the room, until finally Duff commented jovially:

“Lad, you’re like a prisoner in a cell.”

“Or perhaps an animal in a cage?” put in Isobel, obviously meaning to frame things in a more positive light.

“You ought to get some exercise tomorrow,” Duff added, in a kindly way. “Remember how, when I first came here, you used to go out and chop wood until the axe-head would fly off? I nearly lost an eye one day.” He laughed.

Alasdair did not laugh, or smile, and Duff’s own smile faded. With concern, he asked: “What’s the matter, lad?”

Alasdair finally came to a stop opposite the sofa on which Fiona was sitting. She knew this but did not lift her head from her sewing. After all, she was busy competing for the Best Altar-Cloth Repair Award of 1811.

“I’m waiting for Fiona,” said Alasdair. “It’s time for bed.”

Once, and quite recently, too, Fiona mused, these words would have thrilled her to her very soul. But now they were just that —words. Conveying information but without evoking an answering response within her. “I’m not quite finished, laird.” How affable and polite she sounded! How easy it was to manufacture the tone, too. Dreadfully easy. “You needn’t wait up for me.”

He sat. “I’ll wait,” he replied grimly.

“As you wish.” One stitch, another stitch, and another after that. She could feel him staring at her, but composedly she sewed on. The chatter between Isobel and Duff dried up, and altogether, she supposed, another rather awkward scene was being enacted here in the Great Drawing-room. Oh well. The tea-tray came and went (she had nothing), the moon rose or sank (she hardly cared); one stitch, another stitch, another after that. Then: “Well!” she said brightly. “It’s done, and quite nicely too, if I do say so myself.” She folded the cloth, put away her sewing things, rose, daintily patted back a yawn.

“Good night,” she said pleasantly to Duff and Isobel, whose expressions reminded her a little of blanched almonds, poor dears, and then she turned to Alasdair. “I’m ready, laird.”

He stood. Together, with an odd ceremoniousness, they left the drawing-room and without speaking made their way to their bedchamber. Alasdair ushered her inside, then shut the door behind them.

“Let’s talk.”

“Dear me, how chatty you’ve become,” Fiona said lightly. “In a moment, then, laird,” and she whisked herself off to her dressing-room. When at length she emerged, in one of her ruffled high-necked nightgowns, he was already in the bed. Oh, not for her to run over there and wrench away the covers in a wild rush of passion. No, sedately she went to her side of the bed and got in, plumped up her pillows, pulled the covers snugly around her armpits, fixed her eyes in the dimness on the canopy overhead. Just like old times. Could people die from sadness? she wondered. And just how much would it hurt?

She feared it would hurt very badly indeed.