The Laird Takes a Bride

by Lisa Berne

All the other men had fallen asleep in their dirty blankets, but next to Fiona, Crannog Sutherlainn remained awake, his own filthy blanket draped around him and his thin face drawn, gloomy, as he stared ahead, lost in his own thoughts.

  “Laird,” said Fiona quietly. He started, and whipped his head toward her.

  “What?” he whispered back.

  “Stealing my husband’s cattle wasn’t a wise idea.”

  She watched various expressions flit across his countenance: defensiveness, fear, anguish, then resignation. Finally, he nodded, and hung his head.

  “I know. ’Twas my uncle’s insistence. I didn’t want to offend the mighty Penhallow. But he said it was the only way.”

  “Your people are hungry?”

  He gave a sigh which seemed to emanate from the depths of his being. “Lady, they are starving.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “My father—” Crannog paused as if painfully, swiping his hand across the dank hair plastered to his forehead. “These past three years my father wouldn’t let the farmers tend their fields, he forced them to make war upon the Balfours—the Hearns and the Pòls as well.”

  “Who?”

  “They’re small clans along the Firth of Lorne. They had insulted him, he thought. His mind was unhinged those last years,” Crannog went on, “he feared and reviled everyone, the whole world seemingly.”

  “Including you?” Fiona said, very low.

  He nodded again. “I—I hated him! We all did! I was glad when he died. But the damage was done. We’d so little food! I’ve given the farmers back their fields, but how can we survive until the crops grow? Uncle Faing said the Penhallow wouldn’t miss a few cattle, when our need is so great.” Crannog Sutherlainn sighed again. “I told him I’d rather go to the laird directly, and ask for his help, but he said that begging is worse than death. He said I’m a coward, and womanly in my fear.”

  “He’s a fool. Your instincts were the right ones.”

  He lifted his head. “Think you so, lady?”

  “I know so. My husband is a good man and a generous chieftain.” With wonderment, Fiona heard herself saying these words, saying these words with sincerity.

  For a moment, hope flared in the dark-ringed eyes of Crannog Sutherlainn, but just as quickly faded. “It’s too late now.”

  “It’s not too late. If—when—when my husband’s people come for me, make sure your men lay down their arms.”

  “I—I am not sure they will listen to me.”

  “You must make them do so! Otherwise there will be bloodshed, and things are certain to go very bad for all of us.”

  “But how do I do that, lady?” He looked so young, so anxious, that Fiona couldn’t even find it within her to continue resenting all the misery of this very bad day.

  “It is their duty, their sacred duty, laird, and their honor is at stake. And your duty is to do what is right.”

  “I’m not ready for this,” he said softly, looking so unhappy that had her wrists not been tied together with a length of horribly scratchy rope she might have put an arm around the poor lad. “I am afraid, lady.”

  “It’s all right to be afraid,” she whispered back. “You can be afraid, and still lead your people.”

  He was silent.

  Fiona hoped that what she’d said was making sense to him, because from across the clearing she had seen Gealag move restlessly, lift his great head as if listening, and it seemed possible, just possible, that the Penhallow men were quietly approaching. Very much did she hope so, but at the same time she now felt more fear than she yet had—if Crannog Sutherlainn did not rise to the occasion, there could indeed be bloodshed. Her stomach tightened into a knot. Not just blood, but death, possibly her own or among the Penhallow men. Or poor young Crannog’s. She didn’t wish anyone to die, even that dreadful, stupid Faing.

  She strained to listen, tensed her body to spring up, away, among the trees if she could manage it.

  Yes.

  There it was.

  A faint sound of boots on sodden leaves, a twig giving way, then another.

  She opened her mouth to warn Crannog, but all at once, like ghosts materializing, into the clearing strode—why, there was Alasdair. He had come for her. He had come. And he was flanked by half a dozen of his men, muskets drawn. He himself held extended a long silver-plated pistol, looking so fierce that Fiona almost didn’t recognize him, for in him now was nothing but a cold and deadly intent. No laughter, no playfulness, no fun. His eyes came to her, searchingly, then passed around the scene before him. Even as he did so, Fiona’s captors stirred, roused, grabbed guns and knives, jumped up. Crannog leaped to his feet also, but unarmed. “Weapons down,” he ordered his men, but only a few obeyed.

  “We must fight, you dolt!” exclaimed Faing, and gladly would Fiona have kicked him, hard (if she weren’t afraid she would startle him into shooting someone). Instead she nudged Crannog with her shoulder, as pointedly as she dared. He didn’t glance down at her, but she saw him pull himself up straighter.

  “Weapons down!” he repeated, shakily, but loudly. “As your laird, I command you! ’Tis your—your sacred duty to obey me!”

  At this, all his men did slowly drop their muskets and knives onto the ground, all except for Faing, who remained belligerently holding his musket, now pointing it directly at Alasdair who, in turn, very steady, aimed his pistol at Faing.

  And then Alasdair lowered it.

  Fiona wanted to scream out her fear.

  In the air itself, like a poisonous mist, seemed to thrum the very real possibility that Faing, now the lone defiant one, desperate, his pride and authority challenged, would do something rash. Her gaze flashing to the Penhallow men, Fiona saw at once that they were very nearly on the brink of all shooting Faing, slaughtering him, in the impetuous hope of killing him before he could do the same to their leader. Only their absolute obedience held them back, but in the meantime Fiona could see Faing, perspiring copiously, tightening his grip on his musket. Her icy terror froze her in place, and she looked with her own desperation at Alasdair.

  He stood there very cool and calm, completely steady and in control, the sheer force of his own personality seeming to Fiona the only thing keeping this awful situation in check. Horrifying her by not even acknowledging Faing, he flicked his gaze to Crannog and said, with a civility that in other circumstances she would have found amusing:

  “Laird Sutherlainn, I believe?”

  Crannog dipped his head awkwardly. “Aye. You are Laird Penhallow?”

  “Aye. Your men follow your orders save for one. What is your clan’s punishment for such behavior?”

  “Dishonor, banishment, death, should I so desire it,” slowly answered the younger man.

  “You wouldn’t dare!” growled Faing. “You stripling! You callow beardless wonder! You—”

  “Be—be quiet, Uncle,” interrupted Crannog, very pale. To Fiona it seemed as if he was somehow drawing strength from Alasdair’s powerful presence. “You are not laird,” Crannog went on. “I am. Put down your musket, or you’ll face my judgment.”

  Looking comically astonished, Faing slowly laid his musket on the ground.

  Relieved, relieved beyond measure, Fiona felt like applauding. Which reminded her. She nudged Crannog again, and quickly he bent down to help her to her feet. She was stiff, cramped; she staggered a little, and then to her pleased surprise Alasdair was there, his arm around her, supporting her, and gratefully she leaned against him, his solid warmth, as together they made their way across the clearing, where they were flanked by the Penhallow men.

  “Are you hurt, Fiona?” he said quietly.

  “Nay, laird.”

  “I’m thankful to hear it.” With swift efficiency he pulled a knife from his boot and cut through the rope that bound her wrists. She rubbed at them, thinking ruefully that she was going to bear the marks for some days to come. Much better to enjoy the marvelous feeling of Alasdair’s strong arm around her again, and to lean i
nto him. It was only now that she fully realized just how tired, how cold, how hungry she was. She shivered and burrowed a little closer, and with pleasure flickering through her felt his arm tighten. Goodness, but he had a lot of muscles. How very nice they felt.

  “What now, laird?” said Crannog. “I—I deeply regret the theft of your cattle. ’Twas wrong. But I take full responsibility. Your punishment should be directed only at me, not my men.” His voice trembled a little, but he squarely faced Alasdair with such desperate courage that suddenly Fiona wanted to cry. Instead she tugged at Alasdair’s jacket and whispered:

  “Laird, have you any food?”

  He smiled a little (giving her just enough opportunity to admire those lines bracketing that very attractive mouth of his). “You’re hungry, lass, of course. Aye, we’ve enough for an army. Begbie insisted on filling up our saddlebags before we left. Can you wait just a little?”

  “No, laird, it’s for them. Only see them, Alasdair.”

  He did look. Then, in a quiet voice, to one of his men: “Marston, the food Begbie had you stow—you and Waldroup place it before Laird Sutherlainn.”

  They moved quickly to comply. Dried beef, oatcakes, apples, neatly wrapped hunks of cheese, small brown loaves of bread. Crannog stared at Alasdair with wide eyes.

  “For us, laird?” he asked tremulously. “After the harm we’ve done to you?”

  “It is yours,” responded Alasdair, as one chieftain to another, and Crannog nodded to his men, who—his uncle Faing among them—fell ravenously upon the food. With newfound dignity Crannog took for himself an apple and some dried beef, and ate more temperately, although his hands were, very obviously, shaking from hunger and, perhaps, with relief.

  To Marston Alasdair now said, “Bring me one of the flasks, please, opened.”

  Marston reached into a saddlebag and brought to Alasdair a small silver flask, which he then placed in Fiona’s hand. “Drink, lass,” he ordered softly.

  “What is it?” she asked, looking up at him.

  “Brandy. ’Twill warm you till I can get you home.”

  “I don’t—” she began, but broke off when, gently, he put his hand on hers, brought it and the flask to her lips, and tipped her hand just enough to allow some of the brandy to flow. Pungent and slightly sweet, with a tang of old wood, it burned a little in her mouth and down her throat, and then, as she accepted more at his urging, and then a little more after that, a welcome warmth seeped languorously through her limbs, bringing with it also a calm, hazy relaxation, very pleasant after those many long hours of tension.

  “Better?”

  She smiled. “Better.”

  “Good.” To Crannog he said: “Are all your people in a similar state?”

  “Aye, laird,” replied the younger man, a healthier color in his emaciated face, and briefly explained just how his clan had fallen into such desperate straits.

  Alasdair listened, nodded, then said: “We will leave you now. I’ll not give you the cattle, for they belong to my farmers. But tomorrow I’ll send several wagons with food. Write to me with a list of the supplies you need. Dispatch your bailiff here if you like, to confer with mine. We’ll ensure your survival through autumn and winter, and assist you in the spring as you need us, so that your clan may thrive again.” He held out his hand, which Crannog, tears in his eyes, came forward to clasp.

  “I thank you, laird,” he said. “And you as well, gracious lady.”

  Fiona smiled at him, and Alasdair replied, “Farewell. You’ve made a good beginning as chieftain.”

  Much later, Fiona would only fuzzily recall being placed before Alasdair on his big bay horse. “I can ride on my own,” she protested, vaguely surprised to hear the words running together a little.

  “And likely fall off,” said Alasdair, his breath warm at her ear. “You wouldn’t want to do that to Gealag, would you?”

  “No,” she answered, allowing him to wrap a clean dry blanket around her, allowing his arm to come firmly about her middle, and watching as Crannog’s shabby mantle was given back to him.

  Goodbye, smelly thing, she thought. Hello, lovely strong chest. Out loud, she said:

  “Laird.”

  “Aye, Fiona?”

  “I’m worried.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about anymore. You’re safe.”

  “I know that.”

  “Well then?”

  “I’m worried that I smell like that nasty bundle of furs. Or worse.”

  He laughed. “If it’s a comfort to you, I’ve been riding all day and I doubt that I smell much better.”

  “It is a comfort to me,” she replied, quite seriously, leaning back against him, and it occurred to her then that she was, perhaps, more than a little drunk. She listened contentedly as Alasdair gave orders to his men, and watched as their party broke up into different groups: one man sent ahead to the castle, riding fast; another to accompany Alasdair and herself and to lead Gealag; the others to bring the cattle back at their slower pace.

  He clicked his tongue and his horse began to move.

  “We’ve a few hours’ ride,” he said. “Will you be all right?”

  “Yes.” Fiona could feel her body relax, almost as if it were melting against the solid muscled hardness of Alasdair’s, both of them perfectly in tune with the steady rhythmic movement of his big bay. Suddenly, something funny floated up in her mind and she laughed. Actually, she giggled. Which was very uncharacteristic of her. But what a cheerful sound it made.

  “What is it, Fiona?”

  “Oh, Alasdair, I’m angry at you,” she answered, smiling, a little loopily, at his arm draped firmly around her. “Don’t you remember that terrible fight we had the other night? I’ve been angry at you ever since. So angry. Not,” she added punctiliously, “that I wanted Faing to harm you.”

  “That’s nice to know. Are you still angry at me, lass?”

  She thought about it. “I should be. My head says I am. But I don’t feel it, really.”

  “That’s nice, too. How do you feel?”

  She thought some more. “I feel … happy. Happy that everyone’s all right.”

  “Happy is good.”

  “Yes. Were you worried about me, before?”

  He brought his arm yet more snugly around her. “Aye,” he said, and she heard in his deep voice the unmistakable ring of truth.

  She smiled again, and he went on:

  “I was so worried, lass, that it was impossible to stay angry. You were very brave and stalwart, you know.”

  “So were you. When you lowered your pistol!”

  She felt him shrug, casually. “I had the uncle’s measure,” he said. “That type tends to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  “He said he wanted to have a bit of me,” remarked Fiona.

  “What? Did that bastard so much as touch you? I swear to God I’ll go after him right now, and—”

  Fiona interrupted him with another slightly loopy giggle. “No, he didn’t, Alasdair. Dear me, how fierce you sound. He also said I was a rare beauty.”

  His arm, which had tightened at her mention of Faing, loosened a little. But—thank goodness—not too much. “I wouldn’t have credited him with that much perceptiveness.”

  “My head feels all swimmy,” Fiona said, “but I think I just heard a compliment.”

  She wasn’t sure, but he might have dropped the lightest of kisses onto her hair.

  “Aye,” he answered, “you did.”

  “How nice.” Fiona sighed, feeling very warm and comfortable, which was funny, what with her wet gown and soggy boots, and being filthy and exhausted, but there it was. She drifted into a kind of waking dream, in which everything was easy, in which everything was possible. It was even possible, in fact, to rest her head on Alasdair’s shoulder, on his strong, lovely, muscled shoulder, and to slide her hand along that firm, heavy arm around her waist.

  And so when finally they stopped at the wide stone steps of Castle Tadgh, Fiona was, al
most, sorry.

  Even more was she surprised to see so many people there to greet and receive them despite the outrageously late hour, their voices warmly hailing the safe return of their lady, congratulating Alasdair and his men, inquiring as to their respective well-being, and did they wish for anything to eat or drink?

  Fiona was helped down by someone, but before she could take a step forward, Alasdair had dismounted and lifted her into his arms, as easily as he would cradle a babe, and bore her up the steps. Once inside, in the Great Hall, she saw that there was Mrs. Allen alongside them, smiling, and to her Alasdair said: “Is the mistress’s bath prepared? And a tray ready for her? Thank you, Mrs. Allen. We’ll go up directly.”

  “I can walk,” said Fiona, although secretly she was glad when Alasdair only said firmly:

  “I’ll carry you.”

  “Thank you, Alasdair.”

  “You’re welcome, lass.”

  As they went up the staircase she said, “Alasdair.”

  “Yes, Fiona?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired before.”

  “It’s understandable, under the circumstances.”

  “I suppose so. I feel rather fuzzy.” Fiona felt her head lolling back against him. After a few minutes she said thoughtfully, “This is very luxurious, being carried. One feels a little like Cleopatra, although of course without the carpet. Gracious, I’ve never looked at ceilings quite this way before. Did you say my bath will be ready?”

  “Aye.”

  “Oh, good. Are you sure I’m not too heavy for you?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You’re very strong. Oh, Alasdair, look, there’s something painted on the ceiling in this gallery. I never noticed it before. What is it?”

  “It’s a bad reproduction of some of the frescoes from the Sistine Chapel. See? There’s the Creation … Noah and the Flood … the Twelve Prophetic Figures …”

  “Oh my. They are bad.”

  “An enthusiasm of my great-grandfather, apparently. He brought in an artist from Italy, who swore he was a direct descendant of Michelangelo himself.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Alasdair laughed. “So do I. My mother always meant to have them painted over, but never got around to it.”