Dr. Colquhoun had come and gone, telling Alasdair he must remain in bed for several days longer, for though the wound in his shoulder was healing well enough, infection remained a danger, movement could set him to bleeding again, and the fever still flared from time to time.

“You’ve lost enough blood as it is, laird,” the doctor had sternly said, “and if you don’t eat more of that good bone broth, I’ll come and feed you myself.”

With his sound arm Alasdair now waved away the bowl his manservant Grahame was proffering. “What day is it?”

“It’s Wednesday, laird,” answered Grahame.

“No. How many days is it since I was injured?”

“It’s been a week, laird. Laird, may I not give you just a wee bit of broth?”

“No.” Alasdair did the sum in his head. He was nowhere near the deadline of thirty-five days. Still, he’d had the news from Grahame, and there was no point in putting off the inevitable. “Send for Miss Douglass and her chaperone.”

“Aye, laird.”

While he waited, Alasdair hitched himself up on his pillows, ignoring the stab of pain this induced, and ran a hand along his jaw, bristly with beard. He looked at Cuilean, who lay in a large shaggy ball near his feet.

“Well, sir?” he said, in a rough voice which imperfectly concealed his affection. “No gestures of condolence from you?”

Cuilean only thumped his tail agreeably, not lifting his head from the bedcovers.

Alasdair smiled faintly. But his smile faded as the minutes passed and it felt as if the waiting was interminable. Where in the devil’s name was she? Was she defying his order—defying him—already? This, he thought morosely, was a bad omen, a bad start to things.

A wave of heat swept over him and he shoved the blankets down to his waist. To his left was a pitcher of cool barley-water but he didn’t dare reach for it; his shoulder was still throbbing ominously, as if warning him. He ground his teeth, felt himself sweat, and irritably wiped at his face.

At last there was a tap on the door.

“Enter,” he said curtly.

The door opened and Grahame came in, stepping aside to admit Fiona Douglass and her plump middle-aged companion. He then placed a chair by the fire and conducted Dame Isobel to it, while Fiona came toward him, very pale and grave, wearing a high-necked gown of brown figured muslin, her hair in a simple knot at the nape of her neck.

To Alasdair’s annoyed surprise, Cuilean jumped from the bed and went to greet her, tail wagging. So big a dog was he that he nearly reached her hip. Without fear she held out a slim hand, and he very affably licked it.

Traitor, thought Alasdair, and snapped, “Come!”

They both looked over at him.

“Which of us do you mean?” said Fiona coolly.

“Both of you, damn it!”

Without the slightest air of guilt, Cuilean bounded back to the bed and leaped up on it. Fiona remained where she was. Dispassionately she gazed at him, her gray eyes flicking from his face to his bare chest, and to the silver pitcher on the table. Then she advanced, until she was some two feet from his bedside. She poured some barley-water into a glass and held it out to him.

Without moving he said, unpleasantly, “What took you so long?”

“I was in the kitchen garden, gathering herbs.”

“What for?”

“To make a salve. Your cook scalded her arm yesterday, and I thought it might help.”

“That’s the business of Dr. Colquhoun.”

“I was the one who sent for him. He agrees that a lavender salve can be very soothing.”

“And what were you doing in the kitchen, may I ask?”

“Asking your cook about some recipes.”

“I hardly expect my guests to be wandering into the kitchen.”

She only shrugged, and ungraciously Alasdair took the glass from her. Already he was losing control over his life, and he hadn’t even yet told her what was on his mind! He gulped down the barley-water— not for the world would he have admitted how refreshing it was—and handed back the glass. “Grahame! Bring a chair for Miss Douglass.”

Grahame hastened to obey, then just as promptly retreated.

“Sit down,” Alasdair said to her.

“I’m not your dog.”

He curled his lip. “Please.”

“As you will.” Without haste she complied. She sat very straight, and folded her hands in her lap.

Frowning, restlessly he plucked at his blankets. He supposed it was highly improper for her to be seeing him like this, but as the view of his exposed torso didn’t seem to be sending her into a spate of missish blushes (or a raging torrent of lust), evidently it didn’t really matter.

“I understand,” he finally said, “that Janet Reid is dead.”

For a moment, just a moment, he would have sworn that Fiona’s eyes filled with tears. But steadily she answered:

“Yes. Her parents have left, and taken her body with them.”

“I blame myself,” he said harshly.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Anger, hot as the fever, surged through him, and he spoke even more harshly. “She’s dead, don’t you understand that? Or are you stupid?”

From across the room came an indignant twitter and Dame Isobel said, as if directing her remark to the leaping fire, “Well! A fine way to treat the person who’s saved your life!”

Fiona paid no attention to her companion and replied to him with that same steadiness, “I’m not stupid. It’s a tragedy, laird. How could it not be? And oh, such a sad, sad one. But I don’t see how you could have prevented it. No rational person would have felt the need to lock people in their rooms. Janet’s parents were berating themselves for not having kept a better watch on her.” Fiona looked down, though whether or not she actually saw her hands, clasped loosely in her lap, was unclear. And then she looked up and directly at him again. “In the end, Janet brought it on herself, the poor reckless girl. Nor should you forget how her actions resulted in a dreadful injury to yourself—and I saw two of your men killed as a result. That is a tragedy also.”

He stared at her. Noticed again how pale her face was. Saw, now, the dark circles underneath her eyes. “You speak like a chieftain’s daughter,” he said slowly.

“Which is what I am.”

“My men told me how cleanly you made your shot. Your father taught you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He did so when I was twelve, and began riding alone, all across our lands.”

“He allowed you that freedom?”

“He knew I’d do it no matter what.”

“Why?”

She shrugged again.

There was a silence, and finally, as if the words were dragged from him, Alasdair said: “Thank you.”

“There’s no need for that. I’d have done it for anyone. The Dalwhinnies should not have sought to harm you, or steal what is yours.”

God above, she was cold, cold. He pulled his blankets up, hating the wound that rendered him so weak. Still he pressed on. “Wynda Ramsay is gone?”

“Yes, she left after Janet Reid was killed. She took all her mother’s money and jewelry, and one of their horses, and fled in the middle of the night.”

“To her home?”

“Apparently not. If I had to guess,” Fiona added thoughtfully, “I’d say she went to England. I heard her say more than once that Scotland is so coarse and barbaric, so offensive to those of more refined sensibilities. The events of last week finally convinced her, I daresay. I wouldn’t have expected such enterprising behavior from her, but people can surprise one sometimes.”

“Yes, life here is very coarse and barbaric,” he echoed sardonically, glancing around his elegant bedchamber.

“As compared to London,” Fiona explained, in a carefully neutral tone. “Où les rues sont pavées d’or, sur lequel les gens à la mode foulent.”

Where the streets are paved with gold, upon which the fashionable people tread.

He snorted. “You’ll not catch me among all those damned Sassenachs.”

“I believe Wynda finally realized that. Are you sending anyone after her, for her violation of clan law?”

“No. Her parents may if they so choose.”

“I think they desire nothing more than to be allowed to quietly return home.”

“So be it. And Mairi MacIntyre lies ill in her bed, close to death?”

Fiona smiled slightly. “The reports exaggerate. According to your good Dr. Colquhoun, she is in the midst of an extended fit of hysterics.”

“From which she will recover?”

Alasdair watched as Fiona’s smile disappeared. “I expect she’ll make a remarkable recovery as soon as she learns she too can go home.”

“You suggest that her illness is a ruse?”

Fiona was silent, then reluctantly answered: “No. It’s my opinion she truly believes she’s at death’s door. She is very fragile. In another week or two I think she may well somehow persuade herself to die.”

“And the remedy is to tell her she’s not to be my wife?”

“That is, of course, up to you, laird.”

“I’ve no interest in murdering someone by marriage.”

“A commendable attitude.”

“Don’t patronize me, Miss Douglass.” He loathed this feeling of helplessness, of being supine in his bed when she sat so straight, so upright, in her seat. He gave a loud, lengthy, irritable sigh. “It seems there’s only you left.”

Her lips thinned. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“You’ll obey the decree?”

“I must, for I don’t care to die. My father could very well see to that.”

“He’d do that?”

“Quite possibly.”

Alasdair looked hard at her. She puzzled him. Confounded him. Other lasses would be weeping, raging, at having such a parent. Other lasses would be crying with joy at their good fortune in having their hand secured by the laird of Castle Tadgh.

But not Fiona Douglass.

She sat very still, her eyes gone a wintry slate-blue.

“I too intend to live,” he said slowly. “In that, at least, we are of one mind. You wish for a brilliant wedding, I suppose, as all women seem to do?”

“No. Nor would such a thing be appropriate given the recent deaths here. A small, private ceremony will suffice.”

“At your home?”

“Here.”

“With your family present?”

A shadow crossed her face—was it sorrow, or pain?—and stonily she said:

“No. My cousin will bear witness.”

“Fiona, dear, this must not be!” protested Dame Isobel, who, obviously, had been eavesdropping for all she was worth. “Your family! All your sisters and their husbands! And let us not forget your trousseau! Naturally I am most deeply sensible of the honor you do me, but—oh, dear, I really haven’t anything to wear! What would your mother say? I vow my head is all in a whirl!”

“Be quiet, Cousin, if you please. You must write to my father for his consent, laird, and by express if you like. A formality only, of course, and I’ll write too, and ask for my things to be sent here. You may set the date at your convenience.”

Alasdair felt an odd sort of sympathy for Dame Isobel. He himself was baffled by Fiona’s brusque, businesslike response. It made him feel like—

Like what?

He thought it over.

It made him feel like she’d gotten the upper hand. That things were moving beyond his control. That he wasn’t . . . safe.

It wasn’t a feeling he enjoyed.

So he said, silkily, but with a barb in his voice:

“Since our union is clearly so repugnant to you, Miss Douglass, perhaps you ought to wait and see if I survive my wound? Sepsis might set in, you know, and carry me off.”

“I doubt it. You are clearly very strong, and Dr. Colquhoun takes good care of you.” She paused, drew a breath, for a moment looked uncertain. “I don’t know if I have a dowry to bring to you.”

Alasdair tried to shrug and immediately regretted it. His shoulder pulsed with a searing pain, and he was all at once exhausted to his very bones, and sweating again. “I couldn’t care less,” he responded testily. “I have plenty of money. Stop bothering me with petty details.”

She rose, and to his surprise placed a cool hand on his forehead. “Your fever is rising,” she said matter-of-factly. She poured him out another glass of barley-water, which he refused with a gesture that even he knew was churlish. “Grahame,” she said over her shoulder, “help the laird slide down on his pillows—gently!—and cover him warmly. You must rest,” she told him, “and I’ll bid you good day, now that everything is settled. Come, Cousin.”

And even before Fiona Douglass had left the room, Alasdair, hot, uncomfortable, in pain, was plunged into the welcome abyss of deep, dreamless sleep.

• How many guests attending? Ask Lister. Their names?
• Write to Father. Mother also
• What to wear for ceremony?
• Breakfast afterwards—see Lister, Cook
• Clothes, etc., to be transferred to new bedchamber; who will do that?
• Gealag—more oats in diet. Tell Begbie
• Isobel??
• Stop thinking about Logan Munro
• More candles for chapel
• One of Mairi’s trunks left behind, have it sent to her
• Is there a dame-school for children here?
• STOP THINKING ABOUT LOGAN MUNRO

Ten days after her momentous conversation with Alasdair Penhallow, Fiona stood again in the same bedchamber, only now—why, only now she was his wife. She stood with her back to the closed door, and slowly she looked around the enormous room. A fire had been lit, the covers on the massive four-poster bed carefully, invitingly, turned down, a large candelabra was set on a table near the door and sent out a warm yellow glow of illumination. Giving that bed a wide berth, she went with measured step to the wide bank of windows which overlooked the courtyard below; all were covered with warm, heavy draperies and she pushed one aside to glance out through the window.

A full moon, fat and yellow, shone high in the dark sky. Around it, as if a brilliant setting to a jewel, countless bright stars flickered and twinkled, mysterious, remote.

Fiona let go of the drape and went into the passageway just to her left, which led to her dressing-room. She put her hand on its doorknob, then looked at the four other doors in the dim, high-ceilinged corridor. One led to the laird’s dressing-room, she knew, and two others provided storage for furs and winter wraps and so on.

The fourth door was locked. Earlier today, when her things had been brought here, she had tried to open it. She’d asked the maidservant about it, but received only a shake of the head.

“I don’t know what the room contains, mistress,” Edme had replied. “The laird must have the key. Where would you like me to put your brushes?”

Fiona now turned the knob and went into her dressing-room. It was a luxurious suite unto itself, including two large armoires, a full-length cheval mirror, a satinwood dressing-table with all sorts of cunning little drawers, and an even nicer bathtub than the one she’d been enjoying in her previous bedchamber.

She went to the mirror and gazed at her reflection within it. She liked the long-sleeved pale green gown she had chosen, with its white slip and demitrain of soft gossamer satin. (And if she looked like a giant green twig in it, so be it.) Father and Mother had sent a beautiful diamond necklace, with pretty pearl and diamond ear-bobs, a gift that had, for a brief and dangerous moment, brought with it a powerful rush of homesickness.

And—on the fourth finger of her left hand was now a gleaming gold ring, exquisite in its simplicity. As he had placed it there, Alasdair Penhallow had said, in a firm, unhesitating voice:

With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.

His hand on hers had been warm, but it had not lingered, and from behind them in the castle’s chapel Cousin Isobel had sobbed, whether sentimentally or sadly Fiona did not care to know. The other guests—Duff MacDermott, of course, along with the neighborhood gentry and as many of the local folk who could squeeze themselves into the chapel—had been, properly, silent.

Afterwards there was the customary breakfast. Determined to rise above the palpable awkwardness of this odd, this decidedly odd marriage, Fiona had exerted herself to be a pleasant hostess, while Alasdair, sitting at the head of the high table, impressive in his crisp white shirt and tartan kilt, his left arm in its linen sling (Dr. Colquhoun had sternly and publicly ordered him to continue using it, or he would not answer for the consequences), had done the same in his role as host, and together they had, she thought, managed to carry it off reasonably well. After the breakfast, after the guests had left, Duff MacDermott had drawn him off to the billiards room, both of them laughing, and Fiona had not seen her husband since.

Her husband.

Her face in the mirror looked back at her, and all Fiona could see was a ghostly pale complexion, with dark, bruised-looking smudges underneath the eyes.

This was not how, nine years ago, she’d thought her life would turn out. Tears suddenly rose into her eyes, and she fought them back, although for an awful, panicky moment she wanted nothing more than to wrench that gold ring from her finger and throw it out the window. She could almost hear the tiny distant ping it would make. Maybe it would roll into a sewer-hole and disappear forever. Maybe she would go to the window right now—

Instead, with slow, deliberate movements, she put away her necklace and ear-bobs. Undressed, and put on a plain white cambric nightgown. Unpinned her hair, brushed it out, braided it. Isobel had wanted to help her, had even (blushing a vivid scarlet, stammering, almost gasping in embarrassment) tried to lay before her the facts of what the night would bring.

“I’ve seen the animals all my life,” Fiona had interrupted, with a kind of icy bravado, and dismissed Isobel and Edme, too.

Now that the evening was well advanced, and she was all alone in the laird’s great bedchamber, she no longer felt quite so courageous. Still, Isobel had managed to offer what sounded like a useful piece of advice.

All you have to do, Fiona dear, is—well, it sounds terribly crude, but—a wife’s duty is to lie there, and endure what happens. That’s really all there is to it. Not that I myself—but my own dear mother did tell me before—although what happened —but that’s neither here nor there! Keep your eyes closed, if that helps.

Fiona left her dressing-room and went into the bedchamber. She blew out the candles and slid into the unfamiliar bed, on the side furthest from the door, closest to the windows. She lay on her back. Waited and waited, thinking of nothing. It seemed like hours— it may actually have been hours—when, at last, the door opened, and Alasdair Penhallow came inside.

He took ten steps, fifteen, twenty, until he stood at the foot of the bed, looking very tall in the flickering light of the fire, his hair gleaming darkly, the deep red looking nearly black to her. She could see that in one hand he held a small pouch. A gift for her? How thoughtful. Good things, they said, come in small packages.

“Are you awake?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Excuse me for a moment.”

He went away to his dressing-room, and when Fiona heard his steps returning, she lost all interest in the gift and shut her eyes. She lay perfectly still, her fingers laced across her breast, feeling her heart beating steadily, steadily, within its cage of bones and sinew.

Alasdair got into the bed.

There was a silence.

It was a heavy, expectant silence that somehow just seemed loud.

Behind the darkness of her eyelids Fiona thought of a baby, sweet-smelling, with soft pudgy cheeks, a delicious gummy smile, to hold and to care for. To love. Yes. Yes.

“Well,” he said, “let’s to it.”

“Fine.”

“My curst arm won’t support me. You’ll have to ride me.”

“Ride you? What does that mean? You’re not a horse.”

“Come over here and I’ll show you.”

“No. Tell me what you mean.”

He sighed. “I stay like this, on my back, and you go astride me.”

“I still don’t understand you.”

“You sit on my cock, damn it! Is that clear enough?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said coldly.

“Now that you understand, come here. We may as well get it over with.”

“No.”

“Are you worried you’ll crush me? You’re tall but you’re a featherweight.”

“I’m not worried I’ll crush you. I simply won’t do it that way.”

“Why not, for God’s sake?”

“I’m not one of your loose women. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I am all too aware of it,” he answered in an annoyed tone. “All this tedious talking, for one thing.”

“I’m sorry if I’m boring you,” Fiona said, more coldly still.

“I didn’t marry you so we could lie around prattling to each other.”

“Well, if it comes to that, you’re not very interesting either. When you’re prepared to do your husbandly duty properly, let me know.”

With heavy sarcasm he shot back: “I didn’t realize there were rules about the positions.”

Here, Fiona acknowledged, she had stepped onto thin ice. The best defense being a strong offense, she took refuge in primness and promptly said, “For gently born ladies, there ought to be.”

“You refuse, then?”

“Yes.”

“Flouting your wifely obligation on the very first night?”

“Are you going to beat me, as my father so often vowed to do to my mother?” she snapped, then instantly regretted such a personal revelation.

There was another silence.

Fiona opened her eyes and very quietly turned her head on the pillow, to find that he had turned his head to look at her in the warm dimness of the bed.

“I don’t believe in that,” he said, in a low voice. And as if he was sorry for his own admission he added gruffly, “Besides, I couldn’t do a very good job of it with a shoulder that’s yet to fully heal.”

“The luck is with me then.”

He laughed shortly. “Luck. Yes.”

How strange it was, Fiona thought suddenly, having a conversation—tedious or not—in bed with someone who was essentially a stranger to her. Was this how things were going to be between them? With this body I thee worship. Ha. She steeled herself against an unwelcome torrent of sorrow, fixed her mind on other things.

• Isobel. Tell her tomorrow. Wick Bay
• Why is there no housekeeper? Ask Lister
• Linens. Where are they kept?
• Children here inoculated? Ask Dr. Colquhoun
• Cook re meal planning
• Stillroom needs a thorough cleaning—assign a maid
• When is wash day? Baking day? Brewing day?
• Find head gardener (name?)—flowers for my morning-room
• Go riding. Tell Begbie: no groom

Alasdair said something, interrupting her train of thought.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Duff,” he said gloomily, “was right.”

“That you really should have taken Mairi to wife?” she retorted at once. “That way he wouldn’t have lost his bet. How much did he lose, by the way?”

“You knew about that?”

“Yes.”

He paused. She could see him frowning. Stiffly he said: “I only found out about it today. I’m sorry. Had I known I would have forbidden such disrespectful behavior.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

She absorbed this, then asked, “What was he right about?”

“Oh, that tonight would be difficult. He gave me a sporran filled with pig’s blood just in case.”

A lingering feeling of sadness now gave way to fury so strong that Fiona could willingly have leaped out of bed, sought out Duff MacDermott wherever he had lain his scrofulous self, and strangled him with his own beard. And she didn’t even know exactly what bad thing she’d like to do to Alasdair Penhallow. Instead she said, icily, “What a charming wedding gift.”

“It seems, however, he may have spared us both the shame of gossip tomorrow, so that the maidservants don’t see unsullied sheets.”

“Oh, and you’re confident he filled a pouch with pig’s blood in perfect secrecy?”

Alasdair was silent.

Fiona gave a mocking laugh. “Go ahead, laird, spill the blood anywhere you like. Ruin some perfectly good bed linens. And what will happen when finally we do consummate our union?”

She could almost feel, from the five or six feet that separated them, his own surging anger. “May God in His heaven intervene, madam,” he growled, very slow, very deep, “and preserve me from your damned infernal logic!” With his uninjured arm he grabbed one of the pillows and flung it across the room, where it landed with a soft plop on the floor.

Fiona pondered his invocation of both heavenly and demoniac forces, considering whether it was worth another mocking jab at his inconsistency, and in the end decided it wasn’t. She also thought about getting out of bed to retrieve the pillow, as she longed to do, but didn’t care to expose her person (even in her demure high-necked nightgown) to his scrutiny. At least not at this exact moment. What, she wondered, was he wearing? A frisson of shivery alarm overtook her, and sternly she repressed it. Things—it—the act, whatever one wished to euphemistically call the conjugal duty—was (were) going to happen. Maybe Alasdair would tonight, in his wrath, find a way to overcome the limitations of his still-healing arm, and summon her over. She’d just have to grit her teeth and lie there like a wax dummy. It couldn’t last for more than a few minutes, anyway, could it? And what about that loathsome pouch of blood? He’d better dispose of it, or else she’d take it and dump it down the back of Duff MacDermott’s shirt.

At dinner.

In front of everyone.

And laugh, laugh, laugh.

While she was thinking about all this, Fiona gradually, very gradually, became aware that beside her, Alasdair’s breathing had gentled into a soft, steady cadence.

His chest rose and fell, rose and fell.

His eyes were closed.

He was, in fact, asleep.

No doubt he was exhausted from the many hours of roistering with his boon companion Duff.

Fiona looked balefully at his peaceful face in the dim flickering illumination of the fire. His nose, she suddenly noticed, although a well-formed organ, had a slight bump on the bridge, as if, at one time, he had broken it.

It was strange, she now thought, abruptly distracted from her thoughts of vengeance, how sometimes a small imperfection could render an object more pleasing.

Not, she reminded herself, that she cared two hoots for his profile, attractive or otherwise.

She rolled onto her side, her back to him. She didn’t expect sleep to come, but over the years she had become quite expert at waiting, patiently, submissively, for the night to crawl along. If she was fortunate, she might drift into a doze toward dawn.

The luck is with me then, she had said earlier. Oh, for a few hours’ blessed slumber, and she would count herself, despite everything, lucky indeed.

Alasdair woke to the muddled consciousness that although he was in his own big, comfortable bed, something was different.

Oh yes, that.

Yesterday he’d gotten married.

Cautiously he opened his eyes, saw that it would soon be morning, saw that somehow, during the night, he had gotten himself closer to Fiona. Not close enough so that he could reach out and touch any part of her. But closer.

She lay facing him on her side, resting her cheek on the palm of one hand, her thick silvery braid draped across her shoulder. Her lips were slightly parted as she slept, and it struck him that they were—

That they weren’t unattractive.

Really, they were almost kissable.

He hadn’t noticed that before.

How surprising.

And in the wake of this realization, he felt an odd sort of guilt, as if by studying her face while she slept he was doing something wrong. Illicit.

It was time, then, to go.

With nearly superhuman quietness, Alasdair got out of bed, dressed (putting his arm back in the damned sling), picked up the sporran Uncle Duff had given him, and stepped outside into the hallway, softly closing the door behind him.

Curled up there was Cuilean, who immediately leaped up, stretched, dipped an elegant play-bow; and, tail wagging, he sniffed curiously at the sporran in his master’s hand. Alasdair slid it into the pocket of his buckskins, rested his hand for a moment on that shaggy head, and by means of an obscure passageway he made his way outside into the bracing chill of early morning. Unobserved, Cuilean frisking at his side, Alasdair strode into the woods that lay far beyond the beautifully maintained gardens, his boots alternately sinking into damp earth and crunching on twigs and crisp fallen leaves. Here in the light of day, he didn’t know whether to feel he’d had a fortunate reprieve on his wedding night, or whether he had made a complete and utter mull of it.

Had he behaved badly, ordering her around in bed like that?

Of course, she hadn’t exactly been friendly herself, but still . . .

Perhaps he could have shown a little more finesse.

The truth was, he did have a lot to drink with Duff and some of the others who’d wandered into the billiards room, and so by the time he’d arrived at his bedchamber, he’d not been at his best.

And really, she ought to have been softer, more welcoming, more obedient.

Hadn’t she?

Or had he been at fault?

Damn it all to hell, he thought grumpily, his brain was a mad jumble today, looping round and round in this unproductive way. He was glad when, arriving far into the woods, he could stop, could use a stout stick to dig a deep hole. In it he buried the sporran. Most earnestly did he hope that symbolically he was also burying useless thoughts and questions.

He required sons. He had a wife now. They needed to create offspring. Things didn’t need to be any more complicated than that.

Alasdair tamped the dirt firmly beneath his boot.

Threw the stick aside.

Watched Cuilean dash after it.

Contemplated the day’s agenda.

Back to the castle. Breakfast. A long ride. See some of his tenant farmers, visit some pastures, inspect some crops. Meet with his steward Lister. Perhaps a hearty nuncheon in the village—he’d take Duff along. Also, a new crate of books had recently arrived and been placed in the library at home; he could look through them, choose one to read right away (probably that one about sheep breeding he’d been waiting for). And so the day would nicely pass. Filled with a comfortable sense of routine, Alasdair began walking briskly back.