Page 27 of Eloping with the Laird
‘But ye have done it, sir. She’s lovely and a son ye shall have. Blackmore’s future has been secured. Perhaps knowing that will ease some of yer pain.’ Angus wrapped his arm under Rory’s own, and the two staggered with some effort back to the dark settee that faced a matching pair of windows looking out at the same view as her own.
Rory groaned as he settled into the cushions, allowing his head to fall back.
‘I’ll get yer tonic.’ Angus turned to the door and met Moira’s gaze, but he didn’t falter or acknowledge her presence. ‘For now, get some rest.’
Shame burned Moira’s cheeks. Why had she just stood there and watched rather than announced herself?
She closed the door, swallowed hard and skittered back into her own chamber. Why had she not realised how sick he was? Her heart pounded in her chest. Why had she not seen it?
It seemed she wasn’t the only one keen on keeping secrets.
Chapter Eleven
Every muscle in Rory’s body ached and throbbed as he lay in bed looking out at the moonlit sky in the bay of windows before him.Blazes.He’d never sleep and movement would ease the pain more than resting ever would, a cruel and certain truth about one facing their untimely death. He threw off the bedclothes and shrugged on his trews. He tucked his nightshirt into them and headed for the study that adjoined the library. Perhaps some mind-numbing hours working through the Blackmore ledgers and a walk through the castle would help loosen his mind as well as his taut muscles.
Stepping out of his chamber, he padded barefoot down the maze of halls that led to the library and study. The cool stone on the soles of his feet seeped through him like a balm. He sighed aloud, feeling the tension ease from him with each passing step away from his chamber. The study and library had long served as his refuge, just as it was for Moira at Glenhaven, and she would love Blackmore’s as much as he. The smell of dust, mustiness and leather soothed him down to his toes and the strains of the day fell off him as he crossed the familiar threshold. The fire still blazed in the hearth and the wall sconces flickered as they did each night, as was his wish. He tended to spend more time within these walls than his bedchamber.
He paused in the room and studied it with the new and unfiltered eyes that he believed his betrothed might. His gut tightened. Try as he might, he couldn’t quite get used to the idea that he would be a married man on the morrow, but it had been settled at dinner. Married at midday along one of his favourite meadows by the cliffs with his servants and Uncle in attendance. Moira had seemed eager to settle the matter at dinner, and although he didn’t know if it was out of urgency to move on to another topic where she was not the focus or out of apprehension for her family not being there. He’d tried to enquire once more if there was anyone they could send word to attend on her behalf, but the request had fallen unanswered. He hoped it was merely shyness, as he noted she often steered conversations about her back to others. A quality he’d never known in a woman before, but he’d never known a woman quite like Moira Fraser.
He found himself smiling like a giddy schoolboy and shook his head. Best not be a fool for her. She’d made it clear she preferred their attachment to be transactional and not emotional. Yet, his thoughts drifted to her beauty, her kindness, and her unique intellect and keen interest in learning, and he approached a section of his library he’d never quite explored: horticulture. There were shelves of books on plants, local and otherwise, botany and all sorts of scientists, and he smiled. She would be in heaven, and he made a note to tell her of it.
Then he frowned at himself.
Keeping his distance would be a challenge, but one he also needed to abide by. The woman was warm, endearing and so damned likable. Everyone in the household would soon be under her spell. Uncle was smitten with her as was the rest of the household and they’d known her for but a day.Ack.How did one keep from getting attached to one’s wife?
A sharp pain lanced his stomach and he sucked in a breath, willing it to pass. Well, dying was surely one way to maintain distance. He chuckled at his own macabre humour. Perhaps he could simply enjoy what small happiness they could build together over the coming months and set aside his worry. He was close to achieving his goal: securing an heir to maintain Blackmore’s future and position amongst the Highlands. All he needed to do was focus on that. The cramp relinquished for a moment before striking once more with an intensity that brought him to his knees. He gripped the rug beneath him with one hand and his side with the other and groaned aloud. No matter how he wished to, he couldn’t allow himself to care for her, to love her. She’d been damaged by her first husband somehow and he refused to allow her to be broken by her second.
After the pain finally passed, he gathered his strength and pushed himself up to standing. He made his way to the large chair that sat nested within his desk and pulled it out. Collapsing within it, he sucked in a few breaths to even out his breathing and then opened the large, worn castle ledger with its thick brown leather binding. Work would distract him until sleep claimed him. A stack of correspondence also awaited him. ‘Numbers or words?’ he mumbled to himself.
Recognising the familiar curling script of his solicitor on the first sealed letter, he grabbed it from the pile and broke the wax seal.Correspondence it was, then.Mr Dobbs wasn’t a man who often contacted him, so if he had it must be important. He scanned the document and let it fall back on the desk. It was for the yearly assessment of finances and taxes that needed to be paid to the king. Although it wasn’t a task he looked forward to, at least this year he would have some positive news to discuss: plans for his new bride and heir to be and how to ensure they were properly protected and provided for. A conversation rooted in hope rather than the usual talk of his imminent demise. He could even speak with him about the cost of plans to update the old solarium next to his study until he could build that greenhouse for Moira come spring. If he lived that long.
Once again he steeled himself. Why did his thoughts always shift to her and her happiness so quickly without warning? He set the correspondence aside and looked at the pile of information that needed to be tallied and updated in his ledger. While running Blackmore wasn’t a business, many lives depended on the turnout from the slate mine, the fields and being able to be self-sustaining. It had saved them from ruin a handful of times when the British had pressed closely in upon their land. Continued care and vigilance would keep them safe or at least he hoped it would. The Highlands was a fragile, harsh place given to swift turns in weather and politics. He picked up his quill and ink pot and began filling the blank columns. He’d work until his eyes ached, and then no doubt he’d probably work some more. Sleep was a luxury for the living.
The warmth of the sun on her face woke Moira. Heavens, she’d slept like the dead. She stirred and rubbed her eyes, and then let her gaze scan the chamber, her chamber. It was just as beautiful in the early morning light as it had been yesterday when she’d first laid eyes upon it. She sat up, propped herself up on a few pillows, and stared out at the golden hues of a heady sunrise and the soft rolling blanket of fog that hovered low in the sky above the grassy hills.
In a few hours she’d be a bride...again.
Her stomach churned at the thought of it.Stop it, she chided herself. Rory was not Peter, and she was no blushing bride. She knew what his expectations were, and she was going into this marriage with her eyes wide open and clear parameters. Of course, he was human, and he had flaws and failings as she did. And as far as flaws went, she’d yet to really discover any, which gave her great pause. Well, with the exception of knowing he was hiding his symptoms from her. She wrung her hands in her lap and her heart picked up speed. The sight of him struggling to walk to the settee in his chamber the night before had caught her unawares and stopped her in her tracks. He must have been in agony along their lengthy drive, especially after taking part in the hammer throw and the haste in which they had readied and departed. And the man had only arrived the day before. He’d had two long hard journeys in as many days, but he did not complain. She chided herself for not asking and tending to his welfare.
To her shame, she’d never even thought of it. She was distracted by her own worries of her family and the possibility of losing them. It was also hard to remember he was so ill—dying, in fact—when he seemed so vibrant and full of life in all other accounts. But she understood how pride could seal one’s lips. She’d suffered in silence for years with Peter and told not a soul. Blaming herself had seemed far easier than the truth. Hiding that truth from her family and friends and letting those ties fall away until she was totally isolated had seemed easier than uttering what her life had become: a nightmare. Perhaps he felt the same way about his sickness.
But no matter. She smiled. It was time to rise and shed her Fraser title for a new one. Moira McKenna had quite a lovely ring to it, and she was eager to start a new chapter in this glorious home full of such warm and welcoming people. Despite its name, Blackmore seemed full of light, beauty, promise and hope, unlike the walls of Glenhaven. Today was indeed the first day of the rest of her life, and she was ready to begin it. She rose from the bed, pulled the cord for Tressa and started her daily ablutions.
Before she had even finished, Tressa flew into the room, her arms brimming with gowns. Moira gasped.
‘What are all of those?’ she asked, staring upon the multicoloured gowns the maid spread carefully across the bed.
Tressa curtseyed and blushed. ‘Laird McKenna bid me pull some gowns of his mother’s and others arrived from the village. We have some of the finest seamstresses, and they are so pleased to hear of yer arrival and pending union. They were brought to our doors without even a request. The laird is quite beloved.’
Moira stared at them in awe of their beauty.
Tressa’s brow furrowed, and she worried her hands. ‘While I know they are ready-made and were not designed for ye specifically, Mrs Fraser, he hoped one of them might suit for yer wedding today.’
Moira skimmed her fingers across the beautiful silk and lace gowns. One was blush, another a soft lilac and another a pale green. Two were off-white with beautiful multicoloured beading with flowers trailing along the bodice. ‘They are all absolutely beautiful. How can I possibly select one?’ Her brow wrinkled and worry brewed.Drat.If only Brenna were here. Moira didn’t have the first inkling of an idea as to which one would best suit. ‘Will you help me, Tressa? I find it overwhelming. Without my maid, I’m at thistles with this whole process.’
Tressa’s worry flew away and she smiled, clapping her hands together. ‘Aye. I would love to! Let us try them all on and then decide? Would that do?’
Sighing in relief, Moira nodded. ‘Aye. Thank you.’
