Page 42 of To Serve a Laird
“Slàinte mhath!” he said, trying to appear cheerful.
“Slàinte mhath, my Laird!” Morag repeated with a wide smile before taking a delicate sip of the wine.
It seemed very strange to Iain suddenly to hear the Gaelic greeting spoken in an accent that was just the same as his, and he almost laughed, but again he restrained himself.
He thought about the way Claire said it, with her long English vowels that his staff sometimes had to struggle to understand.
He must have shown some reaction to the thought on his face, for Morag raised her eyebrows.
“Is something funny?” Her voice was not unpleasant, but it was slightly higher-pitched than Claire’s, which Iain had always thought sultry and sensual.
He was lost for words for a moment. “No, I was just distracted. I’m sorry, my lady, but your unexpected arrival has thrown us all into a bit of a spin.”
Morag shook her head and sighed, then reached to cover his hand with hers. Iain had been about to snatch it back, but realised at the last moment that this was not a good idea.
Whether he liked it or not, he had to accustom himself to Morag and her ways; hopefully she would improve upon acquaintance.
Her hand was soft and warm, and the thought briefly of the roughness of Claire’s and its effect on him. Somehow, though, he managed to drag himself back to the present moment and listen to his betrothed.
“I am so sorry, my Laird,” she said regretfully. “Blame my father. Dougal McMahon informed my father that there was an urgent council meeting, and he suddenly told me to have my possessions packed up to come here. I only had a few hours’ notice myself.”
Iain looked into Morag’s dark grey eyes and saw not a trace of insincerity or deceit in them. There had been a council meeting—without him, and no doubt that gathering had decided his fate because if he had been there things would have been very different. He could hardly believe the amount of sheer underhandedness and deceit that had led to this moment.
He looked up, at the exact moment when Dougal was passing by. He nodded and gave Iain a smug, triumphant smile, which almost made him jump out of his chair and attack the older man.
However, all he could do now was watch impotently as his erstwhile friend disappeared into a crowd of men who were milling around in the corridor outside.
Iain’s feelings for Dougal McMahon rapidly changed from fondness to hatred. The man whom he had always treated as a favourite uncle was no more. He was a slave to those in the clan whom he thought could advance his prospects and those of his son. Iain had no way of dealing with his anger at that moment, and that was likely a good thing; otherwise all hell might have broken loose.
Now, however, he had to do his duty and converse with the woman who would be his wife, no matter how much it pained him.
“Tell me, Iain,” Morag said. “What do you do when you have time to yourself?”
Iain was surprised to see that she was really interested. “I read,” he replied.
Morag’s eyes lit up. “Really?” she asked. “I love reading! What kinds of stories interest you?”
He shrugged. “Everything,” he replied. “And you?”
“Love stories,” Morag replied, just as Iain had known she would.
This was the start of a long monologue about her favourite authors and the plots of all their books, and after ten minutes Iain felt like screaming at her to shut up because he was bored witless. All he could do, however, was say “um” and “ah” in the right places and smile dutifully.
He poured Morag another glass of wine, and she looked at him again, puzzled.
“Why do you not have one of your servants do that?” she asked.
Iain shrugged. “Because they are all busy,” he replied. “And I am perfectly capable of doing it by myself.” He held his hands up and flexed his fingers. “That is what these are for,” he told her, smiling and expecting her to laugh, as he was sure Claire would have done.
Morag still looked a little confused, and sipped her wine without looking at him. Iain sighed inwardly, wondering how he was going to cope with years and years of this. She obviously had no sense of humour, or at least, not one that he could relate to.
“About the wedding,” she said, smiling eagerly. She put down her wine glass and leaned towards him to catch both his hands in hers. “My father says it will be in two weeks, but I have to sayit leaves me very little time to prepare, and I have to bring all four of my maids and a seamstress to make my dress. Two weeks is not enough time. Will you speak to him for me, my Laird? He will not listen to me.”
“How much time do you need?” he asked.
This was good news, he thought. Perhaps if he had enough time, he could think of a way of getting out of it altogether.
“At least a month,” she replied, looking at him pleadingly.
