The Laird Takes a Bride(95)

A fortnight after Sheila had fallen and hurt herself while pursuing an escaped chicken, she sat in a corner of the Great Hall, playing dolls with Lister’s niece Erica. Abruptly she froze, as if hearing a disturbing, far-off sound.

“That’s one,” she said mournfully, and hugged her doll close.



The next afternoon, having been implacably ordered by her grandmother to climb into the wooden tub set before the crackling fire in their cottage, Sheila briefly interrupted her stream of complaints to say, to Dame Margery’s bewilderment:

“That’s two.” And then: “Oh, Granny, I hate taking baths, everybody knows that bathing makes your skin fall off. Do I have to wash my hair? Soap gives you freckles, Granny, and I’ve got too many of those already. Why do I have to be clean for the feast tomorrow? I’ll just get dirty all over again. Oh, Granny, the water’s not hot enough, and also my fingers are getting all wrinkly. If you make me stay in here any longer, they’ll be that way forever.”

While Sheila was taking her bath, Fiona realized that her woman’s time was upon her again. She was not pregnant. And the way things were going between Alasdair and herself, she never would be. Alone in her dressing-room, she thought of the Bonni, or the James, or the Maisie, or the Archibald—such beautiful, beautiful baby names—who would never be, and of the loving family she had once hoped to create with Alasdair.

She was tired. There was a low cramping in her belly. She wanted to lie down, to sleep away the afternoon, forget about her cares for a little while . . .

But there was so much to do.

Cook had asked her to come taste the dishes she had already prepared. Mrs. Allen wanted to go over last-minute arrangements for the decorating of the Great Hall. Lister was waiting for her to review the list of wines he had selected. A man from the village, the leader of the musicians she’d engaged, was downstairs, needing her approval of the songs they were to play tomorrow.

And so on.

And so forth.

Fiona looked absently into her mirror. Gracious, she thought, but I’ve become the skeleton Janet Reid once taunted me about. How she’d laugh to see me now! And those circles under my eyes — I look like some kind of ghastly clown.

She shrugged at her reflection. She left her dressing-room. And she went back to work.



Alasdair walked slowly downstairs toward the Great Hall, alone. Feeling very much alone. He could hear the clatter and bustle from below, servants talking and laughing, musical instruments being tuned up, little snatches of this and that being played. It was all very cheerful, and it only served to highlight the desolation within him. He felt, he imagined, much as a man did who’d been clouted in the head by an oar—vigorously and repeatedly. Such a man would be dazed, befuddled; the world around him might even stop making sense to him.

What had gone wrong between himself and Fiona?

How had things gotten so bad?

If he could have, he’d have left the castle at sunup, and stayed away till late in the night. He was in no mood for a party. For a dirge, yes, or an exhumation. But he was the laird, and nothing short of illness, incapacitation, or actual death would keep him doing his duty, which was to preside over the evening’s festivities.

He walked on, hoping that in his eyes wasn’t the stunned, hopeless look of a man who’d been savagely beaten within an inch of his life.



It was, everybody agreed, the best clan celebration anyone could remember. The food, the drink, the music—all were simply splendid, and the Great Hall had never looked so convivial and inviting. It was a grand thing for the clan, everyone said, when the laird had married the lady. And just see them now, sitting up at the high table—he so tall and handsome, she so lovely and kind. Just like a king and queen. And so happy together! Oh yes, a grand thing for the clan. Here—have another ale, won’t you?



Fiona sincerely hoped her face wouldn’t crack in two from all the smiling she’d been doing. The muscles in her cheeks had begun to pain her. But it was as nothing compared to the hurt in her heart, so she supposed she could keep on looking pleasant and gracious for as long as the celebration went on. In a sense, she mused, it was all a play, and she was merely an actor performing her part. And sufficiently well, too. There would be no applause, no standing ovation, but it was nice, at least, to see everyone enjoying themselves.

Although not quite everyone, she suddenly realized, even as Duff, at her left, leaned toward her and said, “Lass, where’s Isobel? Is she unwell?”

“I’ve no idea, Uncle. She sent no word. I’ll ask for her maid—”

“Nay, lass, you’re needed here, and why call her maid away from the fun? I’ll go tap on her bedchamber door.”