Fergus knew that something was wrong as soon as he walked into the room. Robert was not sitting at his desk with his account books in front of him, but standing by the window, with a tumbler of whisky in his hands. He looked as if he was absent, dreaming about something.
Fergus frowned at the whisky. “Is it not just a wee bit early for that, Rob?” he asked, concerned. “We usually wait till the evening, after supper.”
“Sit down Fergus,” Robert said. “You’re right. We don’t normally drink at this time in the morning, but I have something very important to tell you and I needed some Dutch courage.”
“You’re scaring me,” Fergus said as he sat down. He watched his brother carefully as they both sat down facing each other. “What is it?”
Robert gave an almighty sigh and drained his glass, then looked Fergus squarely in the eyes. “I’m sorry, Fergus, but I am afraid you will not be marrying Grace,” he announced heavily.
Fergus stared at him. He felt as though a stone had just dropped into his stomach, and then he frowned at his brother. Was this a joke? Robert had always been a prankster, but this time Fergus found his jest distinctly unfunny. In fact, it was hurtful and downright cruel. But soon, he realized that Robert was not joking; he was dead serious.
“Why can I not marry her?” he demanded. “We have been promised to each other for years!” He was unaware that his hands had clenched into fists on the table, and that he was staring at his brother with such ferocity, that Robert was beginning to cower in his chair.
“Because she is marrying me,” Robert replied, as calmly as he could. He tried to keep his gaze on Fergus, but his brother’s frown was so intense that he dropped his eyes to the polished wood of the table. He jumped as he heard a loud bang.
Fergus slammed his big fists down on the table so hard, that it made the dishes on the desk rattle. He stood up and leaned across the desk so that he and Robert were almost nose to nose. “I am marrying Grace,” he growled. “You have a betrothed, and you will not steal mine.”
“Not anymore,” Robert replied, sighing. He launched into the story of Ailsa, his betrothed, and her betrayal of him. Finally, he looked up. “That is the story,” he concluded.
For a moment, Fergus felt genuinely sorry for his brother. It was true, he had been promised to the young woman for a long time, and it was evident that his feelings for Ailsa were genuine. However, that was not his problem. Grace was his, and Robert could not simply waltz into her life and declare that she now belonged to him.
“I am sorry for you, brother,” he said sincerely, “but Grace is promised to me. She has been ever since we were children! There are any number of other personable young women out there who would jump at the chance of marrying you. Why does it have to be the woman I love?” He was annoyed to find that he was almost begging.
Robert sighed in exasperation. “Because we need an alliance with the Gibson Clan, and since I no longer have one with the Ballantynes, Grace Gibson must marry me—in fact, it is the only thing we can do, because if she marries the Laird, it will make our alliance that much stronger.”
“Do you think Grace is just an object?” Fergus asked in disbelief. “A thing that you can pick up and put down at will when it suits you? Have you asked her how she feels about all this?”
“We will tell her when she arrives,” Robert said. He sighed. “Believe me when I say that I did not want this either, Fergus, and I know how you feel about her, but it has to be done. We are weak on our own, and we need allies. You know that the best way of doing this is through marriage, and we have no time to wait. The Patterson clan is almost knocking on our door, and they are not going to wait and see whether I marry Grace or not.”
Fergus’s heart sank. He knew that, from a practical point of view, this was the right decision to make, but it did not make him feel any better. He nodded slowly in agreement. “I will do as you please, Robert,” he said grimly, “but what if Grace refuses your offer?”
“She will not.” Robert’s voice was firm. “She knows what is at stake.”
“My, my,” Fergus drawled. “You are confident, Robert. I wish I was as certain as you are.” Then he stood up and left, without another word to his brother.
He walked along the hallway in a daze, wondering how he was to cope. Grace had been his whole life; he had woven all his hopes and dreams around her. As soon as he met her, he had abandoned all his dalliances with other young women. He had not lain with a woman since the day he met her. Now that those dreams had been shattered, how was he going to live without her?
Moreover, therein lay another problem. He was going to have to live within the same walls as Grace; how on earth was he going to do that? He would likely see her every day, and walk past the bedroom she would share with his brother. How could he possibly bear it?
He went downstairs and saddled his big horse, Sandy, then went to visit some of his tenants. Perhaps a bit of hard work and the warm company of some of the ordinary folk of the estate would cheer him up. He had to try. He could not sit around, moping all day.
* * *
Fergus helped to patch a roof, held a horse while the farmer took out a little piece of rotten flesh inside its hoof, and hammered in some new fence posts for the same tenant. Working on the fence posts was hot work, and he had to take off his shirt because he was sweating so much.
This saw a good few young ladies gathering around since word had circulated that the Laird’s brother was in the vicinity, and they loved to giggle and admire his torso. Fergus was not vain, but this always cheered him; they were so frank in their girlish, innocent appreciation, so different from the sophisticated women in his social circle. In fact, they reminded him very much of Grace. His heart sank again at the thought of her.
Presently, one of them approached him timidly with a cup of ale. “My da an’ I thought ye might be dry,” she said shyly, blushing fiercely.
“Thank you,” Fergus said appreciatively. “I was very thirsty.”
He drank the ale in one draught and looked at the girl. She was about fourteen, with blue eyes and long fair hair. She was the same height as Grace had been the first time he saw her. Damn! Was every young woman going to remind him of her?
He stayed out of the castle for as long as he could, but eventually, he had to go back. It was late in the evening and he had eaten nothing but a few slices of bread since breakfast time.
When he arrived back at the castle, he wolfed down his supper, then found a bottle of whisky and took it to his room. He was not a drinker as a rule, and he looked at the bottle for a long time before he opened it.
‘Damn you, Grace,’he thought viciously.‘Why did I have to love you so much?’