The Lady Most Willing . . . (8 page)

“And the fire’s gone quite low,” Lady Cecily added. “Perhaps I should find someone
to tend to it.”

“Well, I can do that,” Catriona said, coming to her feet. It didn’t matter how gently
bred a woman was. In the Highlands, everyone needed to know how to tend a fire.

“But I think I need a blanket,” Lady Cecily said. “This . . . I mean, it’s not even
really a shawl . . .” She fussed with the piece of fabric draped over her shoulders
and made for the door. “Perhaps if I lie down.”

“That was very odd,” Fiona said, once Lady Cecily had hurried out the door.

Not so odd, Catriona thought fifteen minutes later. It just so happened she had to
walk through the dining room to get back to her own bedchamber. When she inspected
the place settings, she saw that someone had been busy with the name cards. Lady Cecily
and Marilla had exchanged positions.

Catriona shrugged. As long as she remained next to the duke, she didn’t care where
anyone else was sitting.

Chapter 8

Later in the evening

B
y the time Bret came down for supper, he was a changed man.

For one thing, he was talking to himself, something he was not accustomed to doing.

“I have a plan,” he said under his breath as he headed down the stairs. “A plan. I
am a man with a plan.” He paused, letting his eyebrows rise at the sound of that.
A man with a plan. Ridiculous.

And yet rather catchy.

Which might have explained why he was humming. He never hummed. Or did he? Honestly,
he couldn’t recall. If he did hum, no one had ever mentioned it.

Catriona would notice if he hummed. She would even say something. And she would have
plenty of opportunity to do so, because he was going to marry her.

All he needed was a quiet moment away from the motley crew of guests to propose. He
didn’t have a proper ring, but he did have the House of Bretton signet ring. It had
been placed on his thumb as soon as the digit was large enough so it wouldn’t fall
off. The ring had moved from finger to finger as he grew, finally settling on his
pinkie. It had been in his family for generations, the gold forged during the time
of the Plantagenets, the sapphire in the middle scavenged from some Roman ruin. A
face had been etched in the gem, an ancient goddess that some Bretton of old had probably
rechristened the Virgin Mary.

It meant the world to him. It was the symbol of his family, his past, his heritage.
And he wanted to place it on Catriona’s finger. To kiss her hand and ask her to keep
it safe for their son.

He chuckled out loud, barely able to recognize himself in his own thoughts.

When he rounded the corner to the dining room, he saw that Rocheforte was already
there, his eyes narrowed as he examined the place settings at the table.

“Rocheforte,” Bret said in merry greeting.

Rocheforte yanked a hand back. Had he been planning to tamper with the seating arrangements?
Bret didn’t care, just so long as Catriona was by his side.

“Bretton,” Rocheforte said with an uncharacteristically awkward nod.

“Please tell me I’m not next to Miss Marilla,” Bret said, coming to the table to see
for himself.

“Er . . .” Rocheforte arched his neck as he came around to the other side. “No. You’re
between Miss Burns and the other Miss Chisholm. The one with the red hair and spectacles.”

“And you?” Bret returned. “Please feel free to swap the cards if you need to get away
from her. It’d do Oakley good to have to suffer through a meal next to her.”

Rocheforte cleared his throat, then offered a lopsided grin. “Precisely, although
I will confess that my need
not
to sit with her is greater than my desire that my cousin be forced to do so.”

Bret took a moment to follow that statement.

“At any rate,” Rocheforte continued, “Miss Marilla was already ensconced between Byron
and Taran, so we are both of us safe.”

Bret chuckled at that. “You will forgive me if I remain in the dining room until the
appointed hour, then. We wouldn’t want to fall prey to any switching of the place
cards.”

“Of course not,” Rocheforte replied, “although I don’t know that we’re meant to gather
anywhere else prior to the meal.”

“Not in the sitting room?”

“My uncle is hardly that civilized. He’ll wish to eat immediately.”

As if on cue, they heard Taran crashing through the castle, bellowing something about
hunger and nonsense and God only knew what else.

“And there won’t be any port after the meal, either,” Taran was saying as he tramped
into the dining room, followed by an aggrieved Lord Oakley and the four young ladies.
Marilla was first, still clad in the gravity-defying red gown she’d worn to breakfast.
Lady Cecily followed in her delicate blue evening gown, shivering beneath some odd-looking
shawl. Fiona Chisholm and Catriona brought up the rear, both of them wearing the same
clothing in which they’d been kidnapped.

Sensible women, the both of them, Bret decided. Although he supposed Lady Cecily hadn’t
had much choice. She’d been in some wisp of a thing the night before. At least now
she wasn’t going to freeze to death.

“No after-supper port?” Marilla twittered. “Why, Taran, that is positively heathen
of you.”

“There’s no port in this castle,” Taran said proudly. “Not when we can be drinking
whiskey in its stead.”

Bret caught Catriona’s eye. She smiled.

“Eh, and besides,” Taran continued, “I didn’t bring you here to send you off to the
sitting room while the men get drunk.” He grinned over at Lady Cecily. “I’m much more
sociable than that.”

“Of course,” Lady Cecily murmured. “I would be delighted to have the gentlemen join
us in the sitting room after supper.”

“We shall play games,” Marilla announced.

Bret thought he heard Oakley groan.

“It shall be grand,” Marilla continued, clapping her hands together with enough force
to make the ladies gasp and the gentlemen avert their eyes.

Except Taran, who stared at Marilla’s quivering bosom with open fascination.

“Shall we dine?” Lord Oakley said with great haste. “Mrs. McVittie has outdone herself,
I’m sure.”

“Oh look, Lord Oakley,” Marilla cooed. “You’re next to me.” She leaned toward the
earl and murmured something Bret could not hear. Oakley didn’t flinch, so it couldn’t
have been that bad, but his response was a stammered collection of barely intelligible
phrases.

“Miss Burns,” Bret murmured, holding out her chair. “How lovely that we are seated
next to one another.”

He wasn’t positive, but he thought she might have blushed when she said, “It is most
fortuitous, Your Grace.”

Had she tampered with the seating arrangements? He smiled to himself. He was loving
her more by the second.

“Well, this is a boon,” Taran announced, grabbing the hands of the ladies on either
side of him and giving them a squeeze. “The two loveliest lasses in the Highlands,
right here next to me.”

Marilla beamed and Lady Cecily winced, presumably in pain. Taran did not appear to
have modified his grasp for her delicate hand. Bret glanced at Catriona and Fiona,
but neither appeared to have taken any affront at having been excluded from Taran’s
pronouncement. If anything, Fiona looked relieved.

And Catriona amused.

“It is really too bad the rest of you were not able to watch the caber toss,” Marilla
said to the other ladies. “It was marvelous. The men were so very, very strong.”

“Ach, but the point isn’t how far you can throw the thing,” Taran reminded her. “It’s
whether you can land it neatly on its end.”

“Yes, yes,” Marilla said dismissively, “but surely you must agree, sometimes brute
force is preferable to finesse.”

“Oh, Marilla,” Fiona groaned.

“Lord Oakley took my breath away,” Marilla said, laying a hand on the newly horizontal
plane of her bosom. “He was so strong.”

Oakley’s color heightened and Bret almost felt sorry for him . . . but not quite.

“His muscles!” Marilla exclaimed. She laid a hand on Oakley’s upper arm in what might
have been a squeeze. Or a caress. Bret couldn’t tell for sure.

“How are you feeling, Miss Burns?” Oakley asked, politely tugging his arm free of
Marilla’s grasp.

Catriona blinked several times in complete incomprehension.

“You were feeling faint,” Bret reminded her gently.

“Oh! Yes. I’m quite recovered,” she answered. “Thank you so much for your concern.”

Under the table, Bret placed his hand on hers.

“Are you sure you’re well?” Lady Cecily asked with some concern. “Your color is quite
high.”

“I’m fine,” Catriona answered. She tugged on her hand, but Bret held tight, his thumb
making lazy circles on her palm.

“Did you also toss the caber, Mr. Rocheforte?” Lady Cecily asked.

Rocheforte jerked a little and said, “Yes.” And then, while everyone stared at him
for his terse answer, he added, “Thank you for asking.”

“Who threw it the farthest?” Fiona asked.

“Byron,” Taran answered, jerking his head toward Oakley. “But Robin’s attempt wasn’t
anything shabby.” He grinned over at Marilla. “I’m leaving him the castle, you know.”

“Uncle,” Rocheforte said, “don’t.”

“Eh, now,” Taran grunted, “it’s not like anyone thinks ye’ve got two pennies to rub
together. We all know what’s what.”

Rocheforte said nothing, just sat stiffly in his chair.

“I think Finovair is charming,” Lady Cecily said, smiling encouragingly at Rocheforte.
“It is a lovely heritage.”

“Really?” Taran said, drawing the word out with great interest.

“Yes,” Lady Cecily replied, dipping her spoon into the soup that had just been placed
before her by one of Taran’s ancient retainers. “It’s a little cold, but of course
it
is
December.”

“One doesn’t always get to choose
when
to live in one’s castle,” Rocheforte said brusquely.

“Robin!” Taran said sternly.

But Rocheforte just shrugged and turned to his soup.

“You seem quite unlike yourself,” Oakley said to his cousin.

Indeed, Bret thought. Rocheforte’s silver tongue and ready smile were legendary. Both
seemed to have deserted him.

“It must be the cold,” Rocheforte replied.

“The cold certainly wasn’t bothering you this afternoon,” Marilla said, leaning forward
so that she could smile at him. “I was shocked when you removed your coat. But I must
confess, it did seem to give you a greater range of movement when you picked up the
caber.”

“I’m sorry I missed it,” Lady Cecily said.

Rocheforte flushed.

“
I
was the only one who landed the bloody thing on its end,” Taran said.

Marilla gave him a placating smile, patted him on the hand, and then returned her
attention to Oakley, who appeared to have nudged his chair as far as he could in the
opposite direction.

“Have you recovered from your exertions?” Marilla asked.

Oakley cleared his throat, adjusted his cravat, and turned toward his soup. Somewhere
in the midst of all that, he muttered, “Yes.”

But Marilla could not be tamed. “I was so very, very grateful that I had a handkerchief
with me this afternoon to wipe the perspiration from your brow.”

“It was warm, too,” Taran chortled, motioning to his chest. “Pulled it right out from—”

“Uncle!” Oakley cut in.

“Eh, well, she
did
. And don’t say you didn’t notice.”

“There isn’t a man alive who could fail to notice her bosom,” Fiona muttered under
her breath.

Bret had a feeling he wasn’t supposed to have heard that, but he smiled at her nonetheless.

“What shall we play after supper?” Marilla asked Oakley.

Oakley was speechless.

“Hide-and-seek?” Taran suggested.

“No,” Marilla said, playfully tapping a finger on her chin. “It’s not very sociable.
And you did wish to be sociable, did you not?”

“I always wish to be sociable,” Taran replied.

Rocheforte coughed, loudly.

“The problem with hide-and-seek,” Marilla continued, “is that all of the players are
separated for the bulk of the game. And we must be so quiet. It’s hardly fun when
the aim is to become better acquainted.”

“Quite right,” Taran said vigorously. “What a clever lass you are. I had no idea.”
He jerked his head toward one nephew, then another. “Take note of that, boys.”

Oakley smiled tightly. Even Rocheforte could not manage a response.

“Have I mentioned,” Bret murmured to Catriona, “how very grateful I am not to have
any blood uncles?”

“You don’t?”

“Not a one. My mother had six sisters. Three older, three younger.”

“And your father?”

“An only child.”

“As am I,” Catriona said.

“Really?” The sane and lucid part of his brain reminded him that he had known her
only one day, but still, it seemed incomprehensible that he did not know this.

“My parents had me quite late in life,” she told him. “I was something of a surprise.”

“I am also without siblings,” Bret said.

“Really?” She smiled, and then he smiled, and it was the most ridiculous, lovebird-hearts-and-flowers
sort of thing, but he almost sighed, because it felt like such an important connection.

And then Fiona Chisholm snorted.

“Oh, Catriona,” she said, her innocent voice not quite masking a devilish intent,
“do you believe in love at first sight?”

“What?” Catriona asked, dropping her spoon.

“What?” Bret heard himself echo.

“What?” came Lady Cecily’s voice from down the table.

“I was only wondering,” Fiona murmured.

“Do
you
believe in love at first sight?” Catriona countered.

“I don’t think so,” Fiona said thoughtfully. “It does seem quite improbable.”

“Madness,” Rocheforte put in.

“But,” Fiona continued, “I don’t see why one could not fall in love at one’s first
meaningful conversation. Do you?”

Bret turned to Catriona. She was swallowing uncomfortably, and her cheeks had gone
a particularly dusky shade of pink. He knew that Fiona meant no malice, but all the
same, Catriona clearly did not relish having been placed so squarely at the center
of attention.

“I believe,” Bret announced.

Catriona flashed him a grateful glance.

“You believe in what, Your Grace?” Fiona asked.

“In love at first meaningful conversation. Why not?”

“Why not, indeed?” Marilla exclaimed, clapping her hands together. And then she
beamed
at him.

“Oh dear,” Bret whispered.

“Did you say something?” Catriona asked.

He shook his head. But he didn’t let go of her hand.

“Blindman’s buff!” Marilla cried out. “Oh, it will be perfect.”

“Then we must play it,” Taran said, smiling at her the way she was smiling at Bret.

Good God.

“I’ve never been good at games,” Oakley said, in what Bret thought was a phenomenally
lame attempt to escape the oncoming torture.