“Dinnae fash,” Laird MacRaeh said as he stood, then offered her his hands. “I willnae let ye walk. I intend to carry ye back.”
She knew that she ought to argue or perhaps put up at least a moment of resistance, but Isobel did not balk at this suggestion as she had before. She wanted to snuggle into the Laird’s arms and feel his warm touch surrounding her. She yearned to feel his caress against her ankle as well as the brush of his lips once more. And so, when the moment arrived and the Laird swept Isobel up and into his arms, she settled in and allowed herself to simply enjoy the moment for she knew not how long it would last.
Chapter Eleven
“Me apologies,” Alasdair said. “Continue.”
The council meeting was running long this morning. Alasdair had listened to his clansmen during the early reports and continued listening when Ross delivered his succinct summation of the projected harvest’s yield. But as the hours slipped away, Alasdair could not stop his mind from thinking about Isobel.
After he carried her back to the castle yesterday, they had supped together in the library, at her request, because she confessed that she did not like eating alone. Alasdair had never thought much of dining at his leisure, when hunger gnawed at his insides so that he could no longer ignore his needs, but he saw now that with Isobel in his house, he would need to try to spend more mealtimes with her.
Alasdair was just thinking of the way Isobel had allowed him to prop her small leg on a pillow before they dined so thatshe might be comfortable throughout the meal when Malcolm’s grating voice filled his ears.
“Aye?” Alasdair muttered, which was encouragement enough to prompt the clansman to continue with his diatribe.
Malcolm inclined his head, gracious as always. “I was sayin’ only that the timin’ concerns me. A Lowland bride in the castle, the Elders watchin’, the Crown’s agents still movin’ through the glens…” He paused, letting the words arrange themselves. “It is a great deal of attention, is all. For one household.”
“The marriage was the Elders’ instruction,” Alasdair said. “Nae mine.”
“Of course.” Malcolm spread his hands flat on the table, open and reasonable. “I mean nay criticism of the arrangement itself. Only that the lass’s family history is nae without complication. Her father’s dealings with Jacobite sympathizers are kent. If someone were to use that against the clan, against you, the optics of the situation would be, shall we say, difficult to manage.”
Alasdair looked at him.
Malcolm met the look with perfect steadiness, his blue eyes clear and concerned, nothing in them but good faith. He had always been able to do that, wear concern the way other men wore a plaid, easily and without visible effort.
“She is nae her father,” Alasdair said.
“Nay,” Malcolm agreed, warmly, immediately. “Of course nae. I wouldnae suggest otherwise. She seems…” He tilted his head slightly. “A remarkable young woman, in her way. Intelligent, clearly. Perhaps a little headstrong. One hears things.”
“One does,” Alasdair said.
“I only raise it,” Malcolm continued, unperturbed, “because the clan comes first. It always has. Any distraction from that, however understandable, however… personal, would be somethin’ the Elders would notice. And comment upon.”
“The Elders may do as they please,” Alasdair grunted. “They daenae consult us now and I have no reason to believe they will seek our counsel in the future.”
Malcolm opened his mouth as if to argue, but Alasdair cut him off by raising his hand and calling for silence.
“I will wed Miss Graham soon. And there’s nothin’ any man in this country or in this room may say about the matter. I’m done discussin’ it.” He sent a cool stare at Malcolm, hoping that the clansmen felt the full weight of this proclamation. Malcolm nodded once, then sat back in his seat, crossing arms over his chest.
Alasdair grunted, annoyed by the very sight of his clansman. “We’re done for today,” said he announced. He pushed backfrom the table and stood, and the men around him began gathering their papers and their cups, recognizing the particular finality of his tone.
He picked up the map from the table, rolled it up, and put it back on the shelf where it belonged. He straightened the cups. He moved the candle. He did all the small, ordinary things a man would do at the end of a council meeting. When he ran out of them, he stood in the empty room in the firelight and, with the same grim practicality he applied to all tough problems, acknowledged that his life had changed.
He did not know yet what to do with that fact yet.
He knew only that Malcolm had been talking for an hour, and he had heard maybe a third of what was said, and that the third he heard had slipped off him like rain slides off the courtyard stones. The part of his mind that should have been paying attention was doing something else entirely.
He had been Laird for twelve years. In twelve years, he had not once been distracted in a council chamber.
He blew out the candle and left.
In the corridor, Fergus fell into step beside him without being asked. He said nothing for a while as they walked down a hall and descended one of the winding staircases.
“Council went long,” Fergus said eventually.
“Longer than necessary,” Alasdair grunted.
Fergus said nothing to that. They walked. His boots were loud on the stone, and Alasdair’s were quieter. The corridor was dark at this end, the wall sconces unlit.