The Laird Takes a Bride(99)

“With me, do you mean? I couldn’t care less. I’m too big to be left on the shores of the bay to die, after all, and if he sends me off to a hut on the marsh I’ll have a very nice time there, away from his moods and his tempers. Well,” Fiona added politely, “good day to you, gentlemen,” and briskly she left the Great Hall, an agitated Isobel following behind, doing her best to keep up on her shorter legs.

Alone in the Hall, Alasdair looked at Duff, who had slumped, miserable, in his chair.

“I’m sorry, Uncle,” he said at last, his voice low and rough.

“I’m sorry too, lad,” answered Duff.

In a minute, Alasdair thought, he’d go off to the stables and find Begbie. Do everything that was needful to ensure a safe, comfortable journey for Fiona and Isobel.

He’d go in a minute.

Just until he could process the fact that his life had, in the blink of an eye, come crashing down around him, with an irrevocability that seemed to turn his insides to a solid block of ice.





Chapter 15




The next morning, under a bright blue sky filled with white, hurrying clouds, it seemed as if every able-bodied member of clan Penhallow had gathered in the courtyard to say farewell. Fiona couldn’t help but be touched, and although it took everything she had to remain cool and calm amidst such a large crowd—A chieftain’s daughter doesn’t cry in front of people, she kept reminding herself—there was something to be said for a public goodbye to her former husband.

Duff had already, with exquisite care, handed a white and trembling Isobel into the carriage.

Now he came to Fiona. “Well, lass,” he said, and paused, awkward. Then, as if language failed him, swiftly he hugged her, and stepped back, his gaze going to Isobel whose face was framed, as if in a portrait he would never forget, in the carriage window.

“Goodbye, Uncle,” Fiona said. Uncle-that-was, actually, but why bring it up now? Behind her, held by his leading rein by Begbie, Gealag snorted, and she could hear the cheerful jingle of his harness as he tossed his great head, as if he were impatient to be off and on their way.

Then Alasdair was there, tall, grave, regal, his dark-red hair glinting in the sun, his eyes pure amber and citrine. How odd it was, Fiona thought, that when she first met him, and for some time thereafter, she had not found him particularly attractive.

Now it occurred to her that she must have been blind.

You look but you do not see.

So she studied his face, allowed her gaze to sweep up and down the entire muscular length of him, memorizing every detail, for it would have to last her a long time. Forever: yes, a very long time indeed.

“Mar sin leat,” Alasdair said to her. “Slàn leibh.”

Goodbye. May you be well.

“You also.” She was glad her voice was so steady, for in reality she didn’t feel very sturdy. No, her legs felt a little shaky and she could have sworn the ground beneath her feet was tilting ever so slightly.

“May I?” asked Alasdair, as Begbie brought Gealag forward.

“I—yes.”

And for the last time Alasdair was intimately close to her, for the last time he was touching her, his big hands about her waist; with his immense strength he lifted her without apparent effort onto the saddle.

He stepped back.

“Thank you,” Fiona said quietly, and just as quietly he said:

“You’re welcome.”

She gathered Gealag’s reins in her gloved hands; gloved because today there was a distinct chill in the air. Summer was gone. Fiona looked at Alasdair for the very last time, looked down upon him where he stood in the courtyard, very still, very straight, his arms at his side. Into her mind came Juliet’s anguished words to her Romeo when they parted for—as it would turn out for them also—for ever.

Methinks I see thee now, thou art so low as one dead in the bottom of a tomb. Either my eyesight fails, or thou look’st pale.

And trust me, love, in my eye so do you, answers Romeo. Dry sorrow drinks our blood.

Fiona shuddered. She clicked her tongue to Gealag and at once he broke into a playful trot. Together they led the way out of the courtyard, followed by the large handsome coach in which Isobel rode, and the dozen armed men who would bring her safely home.

She did not look back.



When the cavalcade had disappeared from sight, Alasdair went out beyond the kitchen garden and chopped wood for Cook’s fires, did it until blisters, angry and painful, had sprung up on both hands, until Duff came, until Duff came and with the soft voice of one approaching a vicious and unpredictable beast, finally managed to coax him away from the towering pile of wood which might well last Cook into, and through, a long, harsh winter.