Alexander opened his eyes very reluctantly, then squeezed them shut again as daylight found its way through the curtains, blinding him for a moment. He groaned. The ceilidh the previous night had been hard and vigorous, and although he was an expert dancer, he had had his toes trodden on a few times and almost lost his kilt once. Then there was the brawl on the floor with Donald MacDonald. He knew he had come off better, but the stupid fool should never have challenged him in the first place.
He could not even remember the reason for the fight now, but it was bound to have been about a woman. It usually was.
Alexander always slept naked, and once or twice, when he stepped out of bed only semi-conscious to relieve himself, he had been caught short by maidservants delivering his breakfast. They always knocked, but the couple of occasions that they happened to see him were enough to make the maids talk about his unusual habit.
He was awake now, though. He had an appointment to keep with the parents of his future bride. He did not want to marry, but he had to do his duty and keep the Lindsay name alive, since he was the only one left in the direct line of succession.
He sighed. His last marriage had been a disaster. His wife Ellen, having been unfaithful, had become ill and died. And he had always wondered what quality he lacked that she had found in another man.
They had no children; his only family consisted of a few cousins who lived in the Hebrides, the islands which ran along the northwest coast of Scotland.
He was not close to them; indeed, he had never met most of them, so he was completely alone in the world. Ellen’s parents wanted nothing to do with him, since they blamed him for their daughter’s death. He had no idea why; it was a very common disease, but now he had no reason to stay in the magnificent castle he had inherited since he was all alone in the world. There was no one to share it with unless he married again, and he could think of no woman he wanted to marry, even if anyone would have him.
Accordingly, since he had given up all hope of a better life after Ellen’s death, he willed his fortune to the village of Glengour with orders to do with it as they saw fit if he did not come back from the war. He was secretly hoping that he would not, but he did, scarred both on the outside and the inside, plagued by nightmares.
The last thing he felt like doing was taking another wife, but he reasoned that perhaps it was time he did something with his life since it seemed that he was destined to live it.
They could still live separate lives. He did not have to sleep in the same bedroom. He would be perfectly content to continue his night’s rest in the bedroom where he had always slept, and only come together for the act that was necessary for the conception of a child. In that way he could live with her and live apart at the same time. He hoped she would not demand love, for he had none left to give.
Presently, his manservant came in with his breakfast. He had always liked Peter. He was a small but sturdy man, with gray eyes and gray hair—a lifelong bachelor who would never marry, and who asked little and did as he was told without question. They had been together for two years, since he had come back from his last battle, and they understood each other very well without any extraneous conversation between them, which was just how Alex liked it.
He took all his meals alone in his bedroom, which was the only place in the castle he could really relax. It was a masculine room, Spartan in the extreme, with polished dark ebony floors and wall panels, plain silver candle sconces, and furniture that was devoid of any carving. There were no pictures on the wall save one portrait of his mother, whom he had adored. No carpets adorned the floor, and only plain white hangings decorated the bed. The only touch of color was the bedspread, a woolen coverlet fashioned with the bright red and green checks of the Lindsay tartan.
Alex loved this room, with its view across the valley to the winding river Tay and the fir and pine trees sparsely dotted around it. This land was not like many parts of the Highlands, which was bleak, windswept, and covered in weathered gray rocks that looked like the protruding bones of the earth. Around the Tay the earth was green and benevolent, supporting fruit trees and cattle, and the river itself provided salmon in their thousands, giving a livelihood to many local people. Alex loved to look out at the soft greens of the rolling hills and meadows, and the river that was sometimes blue, emerald, or gray according to its mood.
He finished his breakfast and pushed his tray away, then hurriedly washed and dressed. His visitors would be here soon, and although he did not relish speaking to them, he was vain enough to want to make a good impression.
He was downstairs and waiting for them a few moments before they arrived, and his first impression was that they were typical of their kind: well-fed, comfortable-looking, and a little condescending. She was pretty, he was handsome, and apart from that they were unremarkable and typical products of their class.
But they saw something quite different. Laird Alexander James Lindsay looked like a Norseman. He towered over Bearnard, who was quite a tall man compared to most others, and was built of solid muscle. His abundant fair hair flowed down to his shoulders and his eyes were a dazzling bright blue. Donna was mesmerized by them.
“Milady Forsyth.” He came forward, bowed, and kissed her hand. “I trust you are well?”
Donna murmured something incomprehensible, and Alex greeted Bearnard with a low bow.
“Come and have some refreshments,” Alex invited, smiling.
He led them inside to the dining room, a large, mahogany-paneled hall with a long table covered by a snow-white cloth. It was hung with tapestries depicting hunting scenes and was another masculine room, but not severely so. Donna thought it would have been charming with a few crystal vases of flowers.
Wine and biscuits were served, then Alex decided to get down to the business they had come to do. He did not believe in small talk, and was often straightforward to the point of being brutal.
“I believe you need a husband for your daughter, Milady, M'laird,” Alex began. “What makes you think I can make her happy?”
“She is a beautiful and loving girl,” Bearnard answered. “You need an heir and we need a grandchild. Since our son David lives in France, we never see him, and he looks highly unlikely to marry anyway. The question of happiness...she asks only a husband who will treat her kindly.”
“That is really what most women want,” Donna supplied, smiling at him. The blue eyes smiled back at her, but she wondered what he was thinking. He seemed to be one of those people who gave very little away. “It matters not whether you are handsome or ugly, rich or poor, as long as you treat us well.”
“And will she treat me well?” Alex asked, surprising them.
Donna looked at Bearnard, who was staring at Alex. “I suppose she will,” he replied. “I have never thought of it, to be honest. I always thought that ill-treatment came from the man’s side, and in our daughter’s case, it certainly did. She was thrown over by her betrothed two weeks before her wedding.”
Alex frowned, his blue eyes darkening. “How long ago was this?” he asked suspiciously.
“Yesterday,” Donna admitted, looking away guiltily.
Alex bent over the table. “Look at me,” he growled. They both raised their gazes reluctantly. “You mean to say that your daughter was thrown over yesterday and today you are asking me to marry her? It seems to me as though you cannot wait to get rid of her.”
“No!” Bearnard cried indignantly. “It is not like that at all!”
