But the truth was, Bret had broken it off with “Delicious Delilah” some weeks earlier. It was exhausting keeping company with London’s most renowned opera singer. Forget her temperament, which was full of drama, both on and off the stage. It was the other men who were driving him to the edge. He couldn’t get a quiet drink at White’s without a pack of young bucks edging over to his table with winks and leers and drunken elbows jabbing in his shoulder.

Even at the Icicle Ball he’d been accosted by a pack of young men dying to talk to him about the legendary lady. To say nothing of the rude and raunchy gestures, as if the young dandies could approximate Delilah’s curves by cupping their hands in front of them.

If it was going to be that much work to be with a woman, she ought to be someone whose company he could not live without.

He drew back another inch, and then another, regarding Miss Burns—Catriona—with something approaching wonder. “Was,” he affirmed softly. “I do not have a mistress right now. I could not, I think . . .”

Now that I’ve met you.

But he didn’t say it. How could he say it? It couldn’t possibly be true. A man didn’t fall in love, or like, or anything more than lust in so short a time. It did not happen. And it certainly did not happen to him.

“I think you have bewitched me,” he whispered, because surely that had to be it. It did not matter that he did not believe in fairies or witches or magic of any sort.

He bent down to kiss her again, surrendering himself to the enchantment, but the moment his lips touched hers, they heard a commotion in the great hall, followed by a terrible sound.

Taran Ferguson, bellowing Catriona’s name.







Chapter 6

Catriona supposed she should be thankful. Kissing the duke again was the last thing she should be doing, and it was difficult to imagine anything that might more quickly extinguish her desire than the possibility of Taran Ferguson barging in on them.

“I might have to kill him,” the duke muttered, pulling reluctantly away.

“Catriona Burns!” Taran bellowed.

“I’ve got to go see what he wants,” she said, trying to smooth her skirts. Did she look rumpled? She felt rumpled.

Bretton stepped away with a nod toward the door, but before she could head out into the great hall, Taran burst into the buttery, his eyes narrowing when they settled on its occupants.

“Catriona Burns,” he accused. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“You kidnapped me,” she reminded him.

“Not on purpose!”

Normally, she would have blistered him with a scathing retort, but it was difficult to maintain the moral high ground when Taran had just caught her alone with the Duke of Bretton.

“Ye’re under my roof, lassie,” Taran said sternly, “which means ye’re under my protection.”

“He did not just say that,” the duke remarked, to no one in particular.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Catriona said furiously, jabbing her finger into Taran’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for you. You don’t get to claim dominion—”

“I’ll not return you to your father as damaged goods,” Taran cut in.

“I know you did not just say that,” the duke said in a terrifyingly quiet voice. “Because if you did, I might have to kill you.”

“Eh,” Taran grunted, “you were already planning on that.” He waved an impatiently dismissive hand at the duke and turned back to Catriona. “You cannot be left alone with him.”

“You left me alone with him last night,” Catriona reminded him.

Taran looked at her blankly.

“When you were supposedly trying to find us rooms,” she added.

Taran cleared his throat. “Ach, well. You can’t be alone with him anymore. I have known your father for thirty years. I’ll not dishonor him by leaving you alone in the bloody buttery with the Duke of Breedon.”

“Bretton,” came the duke’s clipped voice.

“He knows your name,” Catriona said to the duke, although she did not take her eyes off Taran. “He’s just being contrary.”

“I don’t care what his name is—”

“You should,” Bretton murmured. “You really should.”

“—he’s not spending another moment alone with you,” Taran finished. His large hand made a circle around Catriona’s wrist. “Come along.”

“Let go of me, Taran,” Catriona retorted, trying to shake him off. Good heavens, if her life grew any more farcical she’d have to take to the stage.

“I suggest you release Miss Burns,” Bretton said, and although his voice was light and conversational, there was no mistaking the edge of steel beneath his words.

Taran stared at him with a shocked expression before making a great show of letting go of her wrist.

“You know, Taran,” Catriona said, shaking out her hand, “while I appreciate your concern for my good name, has it even once occurred to you that the other ladies deserve the same consideration?”

“It’s different,” Taran grunted.

Whatever patience she’d had with the man snapped entirely. “How?”

Taran jerked his head at the duke, who was still regarding him icily. “He’s not going to marry you.”

“I realize that,” Catriona shot back, “but your nephew is hardly going to marry all three of the other young ladies.”

“I have two nephews,” Taran muttered.

“Taran,” Catriona ground out.

But Taran Ferguson had never been one for logic or consistency. He crossed his beefy arms, jutted out his chin, and stared down at her like a hawk.

An infantile hawk.

“Fine,” Catriona said with a sigh. “I’ll come with you, there’s no need to be so dramatic.”

“No!” the duke said suddenly.

Catriona turned. So did Taran.

The duke pointed his index finger at her. “You promised.”

Taran’s head whipped back and forth between the two of them. “What is he talking about?”

Marilla.

“I have to go with him,” Catriona said, tipping her head toward Taran. She had told Bretton that she could not spend the day alone with him. Finovair might be remote, and the circumstances of their gathering might be unusual (to say the least), but the rules of propriety could not be abandoned completely. When all was said and done, the Duke of Bretton was not going to marry Miss Catriona Burns of Kilkarnity. And Marilla Chisholm would still be the biggest gossip north of Dunbar.

Catriona might be headstrong, but she was no rebel, and she did not think she could face a life as a social pariah. More to the point, she did not think her parents could face it.

She would not shame them that way. She could not.

With a weary sigh, she looked at the duke, willing herself not to drown in his blue eyes, and said, “Taran is right.”

Taran uncrossed his arms and let out a sound that would have put a crow to shame.

“Much as it pains me to admit it,” Catriona ground out.

“Then I’m coming with you,” the duke said.

Catriona tried to ignore the warm bubble of pleasure his words brought forth. She liked the Duke of Bretton. It didn’t matter if he sought her company as protection from Marilla. Because somewhere, deep down where she was afraid to acknowledge it, she knew that Marilla wasn’t the only reason he was insisting upon remaining by her side.

He liked her, too.

And even though nothing could ever come of it, Catriona decided that for once she was going to be utterly impractical and seize the day. Well, perhaps not utterly. She had, after all, just agreed with Taran that she should not remain alone in Bretton’s company. But if she was going to be stuck here at Finovair for heaven only knew how long, then by God she was going to enjoy herself.

“Taran,” she said, turning back to the older man with a devilish smile, “do you have a caber?”

“I’m cold,” Marilla whined.

“Stuff it,” Catriona said, without sparing her a glance. The men—Bretton, Oakley, and Rocheforte—were gathered around Taran, who was clearly relishing his role as man-in-charge. Catriona couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he was waving his arms with great vigor.

“Oh, look,” Marilla said, with a decided lack of interest. “Here comes my sister.”

Catriona pulled her attention away from the men to see Fiona Chisholm dashing across the snow-covered lawn, hugging an ancient cloak around her. Catriona could see that she, too, had chosen to wear the same long-sleeved gown she’d had on the night before.

“Have they started yet?” Fiona asked breathlessly.

“I thought you were planning on remaining in your room all day,” Marilla said in a sulky voice.

“I was, but then Mrs. McVittie told me that they were bringing out a caber.” Fiona’s eyes danced merrily behind her spectacles. “There is no way I would miss this.”

“Taran won’t let us get too close,” Marilla complained. “He said the caber field is no place for the sexes to mingle.”

“When did he become such a stickler for propriety?” Fiona asked.

“You’d be surprised,” Catriona muttered.

The three ladies stood in silence for a few moments, instinctively huddling together for warmth as they watched the men from afar. Catriona still couldn’t believe they were going to try to toss a caber, although truth be told, it hadn’t required much prodding on her part. The men had been almost absurdly eager to show off their prowess; truly, the only difficulty had lay in obtaining a caber. And even that hadn’t been that difficult. Taran’s men were presently hauling it up from the west field.

Taran said something that made the men laugh, and then Rocheforte grinned and raised his arms as if to make his muscles bulge. Catriona felt herself grinning along with him. She’d had no cause to speak with him this day, but he certainly did seem an easygoing sort.

“Do you know where Lady Cecily is?” Fiona asked.

“No, I haven’t seen her at all,” Catriona replied. “Of course I’ve been stuck with Taran since breakfast.”

“Except when you ran off with the duke,” Marilla said in a waspish voice.

Fiona turned to Catriona with unconcealed interest.

“I didn’t run off with the duke,” Catriona retorted. “We merely finished breakfast at the same time.”

“And left me alone,” Marilla sniffed.

“With the Earl of Oakley!”

“You had breakfast with Lord Oakley?” Fiona asked her sister.

“I was having breakfast with the Duke of Bretton until Catriona ran off with him,” Marilla said.

Catriona let out an exasperated sigh. There had never been any point in arguing with Marilla. Instead, she turned to Fiona and asked, “What have you been doing all day?”

“Altering dresses,” Fiona told her. “That’s probably what’s caught up Lady Cecily, too. Did no one tell you about the trunks that were brought down from the attic?”

“Not until I saw Marilla at breakfast,” Catriona told her. “My room is in an entirely different part of the castle.”

“The servants’ wing,” Marilla murmured, not taking her eyes off the men. Lord Oakley was laughing at something that his cousin had said. He looked quite different when he smiled. Much more pleasing to the eye, Catriona decided.

Although still nothing compared to the duke.

Fiona gave her sister an annoyed glance before turning back to Catriona. “If you’re comfortable in the dress you came with, you’re not missing out. Most of the gowns in Taran’s attic were for ladies of more ample endowment than we possess.”