Lachlan Ramsay, the Earl of Kildrummond, climbed the steps of the keep. His head was bent, and he was reading a letter that had been sent to him all the way from England. An amused smile was on his lips, and he chuckled softly to himself at the last line on the parchment.
When he reached the solar, he was greeted by the sight of his wife. Moira had her feet up on a cushioned stool as she did her needlework. But she slouched so far in the armchair that he could not see her face. Only the peak of her rounded belly, and the tip of the needle going up and down as she stitched, were visible from his vantage.
“If that isna the most unladylike pose I’ve seen, then I dinna ken what is,” he said laughingly.
The needlework sailed right for his head.
Snickering, he ducked, then approached and gave her an affectionate kiss to the forehead.
“Lachlan, nephew. Ye shouldna jest wi’ the lass,” Lady Glinis chastised from her seat at the window, where she was reading a book.
“Nay, jest away,” Moira clipped, agitated. “Why no’? I havena seen my feet for months, but if I could, I’m sure my ankles must be as large as yer blasted head. I cry at the slightest of things, and my back aches so much that I canna sit at a proper tapestry. Why no’ make me the object of yer japes?”
“Hush now,” Lachlan soothed, stroking her hair. “Ye’re doing beautifully. Any day our wee bairn will be here, and all yer troubles will have been worth it.”
“What troubles are these?” questioned Alex MacByrne, strolling into the solar. In his arms he carried a bundle wrapped in furs, and fine, soft linens.
Glinis smiled warmly at the sight of her husband and her baby daughter, not two months old.
“Ye’re going to have to put her down at some point,” she declared. “People will to start to wonder if ye’re no’ really the mother.”
Alex gave a goofy, smitten smile at the bundle in his arms. “They wouldna dare, would they, wee Glinny? No they wouldna, they wouldna dare.”
Lachlan rolled his eyes at the demeaning and unmanly cooing coming from his best friend.
“What is that ye’ve got?” Moira enquired, having heaved herself up into a sitting position and glancing quizzically at the parchment in Lachlan’s hand.
“’Tis from England. From Dougall MacFadyen.”
“What in the bloody hell is Dougall MacFadyen doing in England?” Glinis demanded.
“Language, my love,” Alex chastised. “We canna be corrupting our precious wee Glinny’s beautiful ears.”
Glinis sighed. “Ye’re too much, d’ye ken that?”
“What is Dougall doing in England?” Moira pressed.
Lachlan waited, taking pleasure in drawing out the suspense. “It would seem that we must find a new captain of the guard for Glendalough. He’ll no’ be returning to Kildrummond.”
“What?” Glinis gasped. “I dinna believe it.”
“But why?” Moira uttered, just as astonished. “Is he all right?”
“He’s more than all right. He’s gotten married.”
“Married? To whom?” When Dougall paused again, she swatted his thigh.
“To Lady Eleanor Douglas.”
At this, even Alex looked up in amazement.
“He never,” he said.
“What does Rosamund say of that?” Glinis wondered.
“It appears she wasna given the chance to object. They married on the way, as soon as they landed in England, and arrived already wed.” For Moira’s benefit he teased, “And the marriage was good and consummated, dinna ye worry about that. Lady Albermarle was quick to put that question to the test, but Lord Albermarle himself confirmed it. As surely as he confirmed that he’d given Dougall his consent.”
“But married?” Moira pressed. “Are they in love?”
Lachlan glanced at her with mock surprise. “Love? Is that why men and women marry?”
Moira scowled playfully at his reference to the circumstances of their first marriage. “Well, perhaps the second time around they do.”
“’Tis the first time around for them, it would seem. Dougall writes that they are very much in love, and are expecting their first child by next autumn.”
Glinis clapped her hands together, beaming. “Oh, that is happy news indeed. I’m sorry to see the lad go, of course. But ’tis wonderful that he’s found such joy.”
“Aye, ’tis,” Lachlan agreed, kissing the top of Moira’s head lovingly.
“Well here’s to them,” he declared. “To Dougall and Eleanor MacFadyen. May they have a long life of happiness and love…even if it is in England. I say we must call for a drink. Does whiskey suit?”
“Whiskey,” Glinis said.
“Aye, whiskey suits just fine,” Alex chimed in.
The drinks were brought, and the merriment of an unexpected celebration drifted from the solar of Glendalough castle and down the corridors. For it was a happy day, indeed!