Alasdair nodded. “Even if I thought the Elders were tryin’ to ensnare me, I cannae think of a way around their edict so…”
“So…” Lady Branwen drew out the word slowly like she was pulling a single thread through an embroidery hoop.
“So, we…me and Miss Graham must proceed with this arrangement and marry soon.”
“Precisely.” Granny drummed her knobby fingertips on the edge of the desk. “I have already decided to befriend yer bride.”
“Aye?” Alasdair was not surprised to hear that his grandmother had acted on her own accord and made such a decision without consulting him first, but he was interested to hear how she had gone about becoming friends with Miss Graham.
“I walked the gardens with yer future wife this mornin’.”
“And?”
“She’s nae what ye expected.” Lady Branwen said it as a statement, not a question.
“I didnae have expectations.”
“Everyone has expectations.” Lady Branwen blew out a mild snort of annoyance. “Ye expected a frightened Lowland girl who’d spend her first months quietly making the best of things.”
” “No,” Alasdair countered, with a touch of impishness. “That’s what ye expected, Granny.”
His grandmother lifted her chin and sniffed daintily. “I willnae pretend that I was filled with glad tidings upon first hearin’ of the decree. I questioned the Elders and their interference. And I doubted that yer bride would ever find her place in our world. But…she has astonished me.” Her eyes widened faintly as her tone became more serious. “She listens, Alasdair. Properly listens, nae just waitin’ for her turn to speak. That’s rarer than it ought to be.”
“I’m aware of her qualities,” Alasdair said softly. His eyes touched on the bouquet of flowers, and he once again pictured how Miss Graham would react when he finally had the time to give them to her.
His grandmother’s gaze flicked to the bouquet as well and her smile returned. “I’m glad ye recognize what lives inside that lass. But I think…if ye search yer memory, ye might realize why her spirit calls out to yers.”
Alasdair gave his grandmother a mocking grin. “I didnae say her spirit called to mine. Ye are intentionally twisting me words.”
She brushed aside the comment with a dismissive wave of her hand, then fingered the petals of a purple wildflower. “Do ye remember those summers before the rebellion? Ye, tearin’ through these same gardens from first light. Racin’ to the rowan tree and back, shoutin’ at each other the entire time?”
“Vaguely.”
“There was a lass one summer.” Lady Branwen’s voice softened as if it took effort to dip into her memories and pull this recollection forward. “Quick feet. Dark hair. She outran ye and all the other lads. The lass won the foot race and ye spent the rest of the day by her side.”
Alasdair concentrated, allowing his memory to somersault back across the years.
It should be easy to remember those lazy summer days. Yet…
His life had changed so drastically since he attended festivals with his parents, raced through the forests with his friends, and stole sips of mead from goblets that were left unattended by carousing adults.. “I daenae recall,” he said after considering for a beat.
“Nay.” Lady Branwen rose from the chair, reaching for her walking stick. “I imagine ye wouldnae.” She moved toward the door and paused, then jerked her chin at the bouquet. “Take those posies to that bonnie lass upstairs. Ask her about the time she spent in the Highlands.”
“Lochton,” Alasdair rasped, remembering clearly what she had told the council earlier in the week. “She said her family spent time in the village.”
“Aye.” His grandmother nodded. “Ye met the girl when she came to Lochton and now…now she has finally returned home.”
Chapter Ten
Afull day elapsed in which Isobel did not see or speak to her betrothed. She worried slightly about the Laird and asked after him often. But with each fresh attempt to understand what preoccupied his time, she was told that the Laird was attending to business and should not be distracted.
Having enjoyed her walk through the gardens with Lady Branwen so tremendously the day before, Isobel decided to dress warmly, and once again head out of doors.
She followed the outer path as Lady Branwen had instructed, staying on the stones where they were lying and skirting the muddier patches between them. The air was cold, clean, and carried the scent of wet earth.
The outer ring of the gardens curved east along the wall of the castle, and she followed it until she spotted a tabby cat. It was perched on the roof of a low outbuilding, hunched against thecold with its tail wrapped tightly around its feet, its expression showing deep personal grievance.
“Oh,” Isobel said. “Good day to you, little one.”