The Laird Takes a Bride(96)

“You might also try the Little Drawing-room. That’s where she often spends her mornings, I believe. And let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“I will.” Duff stood, and surprised Fiona by briefly placing a hand on her shoulder. “You’re a good girl,” he said, and went away, and Fiona sank again into her abstraction.

More food, more wine and ale, more music, more of everything. Time passed, and passed, and passed, and the cheerful noise levels in the Great Hall went up and up, obviating the need to try and make stilted conversation with Alasdair. He sat next to her at the high table, magnificent in a dark jacket and tartan kilt, his dark-red hair spiked upwards a little above his forehead in a way she loved with ridiculous fervor. She wanted to run her fingers, languorously, through his hair. Wanted to kiss him, for hours on end. There was no denying it: she ached for him, body and soul, but never again would she reveal it, never again risk being hurt that way once more. She would infinitely prefer to be torn apart by wolves. In fact, she’d go out into the woods and look for them if necessary. She smiled at a group of children, pretty flower garlands in their hair, who had joined hands and were spinning in a circle in time to the music.

She had, quite frankly, nearly forgotten about Isobel, and was therefore startled to see her come into the Great Hall looking as if she’d seen a ghost. Duff, his expression as grim as Fiona had ever seen it, had one arm around the tottering Isobel, and in the other he carried the Tome.

Oh, heavens, Fiona thought sardonically, I must have inadvertently violated clan law by allowing marinated asparagus and broad beans to be served at the annual harvest celebration. I suppose they’re here to tell me this dish can only be served in October. Ten lashes with the cat-o’-nine tails for me, no doubt.

When finally they reached the high table, Duff first courteously helped Isobel to sit, pressed on her a glass of wine; then he moved aside a large platter to make room for the Tome, which with a strange precision he set at an equal distance between Alasdair and Fiona.

“What’s this all about?” asked Alasdair, frowning.

Moving with an exaggerated slowness that didn’t disguise the fact that his hands were trembling a little, Duff opened the Tome to a place some three-quarters of the way through, and pointed to a small paragraph of text in the middle of the right-hand folio.

“I’m sorry,” Duff said heavily. “So sorry. For both of you.”

Fiona watched as Alasdair read the text. She watched as he read the paragraph over and over. She watched the muscles in his jaw tighten.

Twenty lashes with the cat-o’-nine tails, she thought flippantly.

Then Alasdair pushed the Tome closer to her.

“Read this,” he said.

He stood up and scanned the Great Hall.

Afterward, everyone agreed that the laird hadn’t shouted or thundered; he had spoken in only a slightly louder voice than usual, yet it was strange, they later commented with awe, how effortlessly it had cut through all the noise and merriment, like a knife slicing through a thread.

“Where is Dame Margery?”

Something about the way he said it made the musicians put down their instruments, the children pause in their games. Servants stopped serving, ferrying dishes, whisking here and there.

“I am here, laird.” Margery got to her feet, stood leaning on her gnarled stick.

“Come here, madam, if you please.”

“Aye, laird.”

Fiona barely noticed all this, for now she was reading the text on page 758 over and over again.

The ancient clan decree specifying that any chieftain of Castle Tadgh who, having entered into his thirty-fifth birthday still in an unmarried state, must, on pain of death, cause to be brought into the castle all eligible maidens of noble birth from among the Eight Clans of Killaly and from among them select a bride within a span of thirty-five days is hereby rendered null and void. Consequently the obligation among such maidens to comply with this decree or else suffer ignominious death by drowning is also declared obsolete. Be it known that should any chieftain and any maiden have unwittingly obeyed said decree, the union   between them is legally invalid and they are to immediately retrogress to their previously unmarried state. Be it also known that no disgrace is to come upon them. The lady is to be granted her original virgin status. All offspring from this specious union   are to have their parentage acknowledged but must formally be known as bastards henceforth.



Fiona felt a crazy desire to laugh. At least I’m not going to be whipped for serving asparagus and broad beans. But instead of giving way to an unseemly bray of laughter, she loosely laced her fingers together in her lap, sat up straighter than ever, and made herself breathe in a steady cadence. She dared not look at Alasdair, who had once again taken his seat but was very still.