Free Captured by a Laird by Margaret Mallory Page B

there after his death because she could not bear to sleep in their marriage bed without him?
    God help him, he was insanely jealous of a dead man. This was not like him, but then, he had never had a wife before.
    “Perhaps you’ll want to see the laird’s chamber first?” the servant asked, interrupting his black thoughts.
    “Aye,” he said. “I’ll have a bath and dress there for the ceremony.”
    He followed the servant back up the stairs to the floor just above the hall.
    “Here it is,” the servant said in a cracked voice. He pushed open the door and stepped back quickly.
    David’s boots echoed as he entered the room. Rich tapestries covered the walls, and the furniture included a chest, a small round table with two chairs, a bench, and a narrow table with a pitcher and bowl on it. David stood in the middle of the room and turned in a slow circle where the bed should have been.
    “Where is it?”
    The servant had gone pale and sweat glistened on his forehead. “The lady burned it.”
    “She did what?”
    The man sidestepped to the arrow-slit window, keeping his eyes on David, and pointed. “There.”
    David joined him at the window and looked down into the courtyard. The fellow appeared to be pointing at the charred rectangle David had wondered about earlier. When he realized what it was, he burst out laughing. Apparently, Alison shared his low opinion of her former husband.
    “The lass has spirit, aye?” he said, slapping the man on the back. “Shame Blackadder wasn’t in it at the time.”
    He was still chuckling to himself after he shooed away the servants who prepared his bath.
    But as he soaked in the steaming tub in his bed-less bedchamber, his amusement faded. What had Blackadder done to make Alison so angry that she would burn his bed? Such strong emotion suggested a fiery passion gone bad.
     
    ***
    Pride made Alison put on her best gown, a midnight-blue velvet that matched her eyes and showed off her fair skin. Beatrix knelt on the bed behind her to fasten the hooks in the back, a task that had become too difficult for Flora due to her failing eyesight and painfully swollen knuckles. Despite Flora’s shortcomings, Alison had not allowed any other servant to help her dress since the first year of her marriage.
    When she first arrived as a new bride of thirteen, the servants tested their new mistress and took advantage of her inexperience. Blackadder turned a deaf ear to her complaints, and once the servants saw how little power she held, their lack of respect grew more blatant.
    Alison was never sure which of them terrorized her with pranks and worse, safe in the knowledge that her husband would blame her for the loose hem that caused her to trip, the ring from her father that went missing, and the poor dead cat she found beneath her favorite gown in the chest. After that first terrible year, Alison was harder to frighten, and the malicious pranks were replaced by a lazy disregard.
    Without a competent maid, an elaborate coif and headdress were a challenge, and Alison did not have enough time in any case. She decided to wear her hair simply, in a single braid with a silver ribbon woven through it. Blackadder had laughed at the makeshift headdress she had made from a piece of the leftover blue velvet and embroidered with silver thread, but it would have to do. She held it in place with a silver circlet.
    “Ye look lovely,” Flora said, blinking her filmy eyes.
    Not very reassuring, coming from a nearly blind woman. But why should she care? She did not want this marriage, and Wedderburn would wed her if she looked like old Flora.
    “Why did ye change your gown and fix your hair?” Beatrix asked.
    Alison sat on the bench and patted the smooth wood surface on either side of her. When the girls clambered up beside her, she put her arms around them. If she wanted to tell them before Wedderburn came pounding on the door, she must do it now.
    “Unless your uncles arrive quite soon,” she said,