The Lady Most Willing . . . (6 page)

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

C
atriona 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.”

Marilla shot her a supercilious look.

“Well, than some of us possess,” Fiona corrected. “You really should have let me take
your gown out a bit, Marilla.”

Marilla ignored her. Fiona shrugged and turned back to Catriona. “Do you think they
know what a caber is?” she asked, the corners of her lips tilting into a tiny smile.

“His Grace is aware that it is a log,” Catriona replied, biting back a smile of her
own. “Of what length or girth he imagines it, I do not know.”

“The other two are part Scottish,” Fiona mused. “They must be, if they are related
to Taran.”

“I’ve never seen them here before.”

“Nor I.” There was a beat of silence, then Fiona murmured, “It’s possible . . .”

“. . . that they have absolutely no idea what they’re getting into?” Catriona finished
for her.

Fiona grinned in response.

“Well, I think you’re very unwise to have suggested this,” Marilla announced. “When
they see the caber and realize they can’t lift it, they are going to feel like fools.
And men do
not
like being made fun of.”

“That presupposes that none of them are in possession of a sense of humor,” Catriona
responded. She looked over at the men again. Or rather,
still
. She hadn’t taken her eyes off them even once. The duke appeared to be having a grand
time, laughing heartily at something Mr. Rocheforte had said.

Then he turned, and their eyes met.

And he smiled. Grinned, really.

Catriona’s heart stopped. She felt it, thumping loud, then skipping three beats.

“Did you see that?” Marilla said excitedly. “His Grace just smiled at me.”

“I thought he was looking at Catriona,” Fiona said.

“Don’t be silly.”

“Bait to which I shall not rise,” Catriona murmured.

“What did you say?” Marilla demanded.

Catriona didn’t bother to answer.

“Oh, look,” Fiona said. “Here come the men with the caber. I daresay the snow is making
it easier to transport.”

Catriona craned her neck to watch as four of Taran’s men brought the caber into view.
It was an enormous thing, at least fifteen feet long. They’d looped chains around
the enormous log, pulling it along like a sleigh.

“Time to prove your manhood, boys!” Taran announced, loudly enough for the women to
hear. His arm swept through the air in a majestic arc. “The ancient, ceremonial caber.”

It was gloriously massive. At least sixteen stone and thick as a man’s leg.

Catriona felt her lips pressing together, hard, just to keep from laughing. She couldn’t
see the expressions on Lord Oakley’s or Mr. Rocheforte’s faces, but the Duke of Bretton’s
mouth had come positively unhinged.

“Respect the caber!” Taran yelled. “Ye’re going first, Duke!”

Bretton stared at it.

“Now remember,” Taran said loudly, “it doesn’t matter how far you throw it, it’s all
about landing it on its end.”

“You’re joking,” the duke said.

“It’ll balance,” Taran assured him, “if you do it right.”

Catriona tried not to giggle.

“Excuse me,” the duke said.

“Pfft. Brrrght.” All sorts of ungraceful noises were spit forth from Catriona’s mouth
until she finally just gave up and laughed.

“Uh-oh,” Fiona said, but Catriona was laughing too hard to have any idea what she
was talking about.

“Catriona,” Fiona said in a warning voice.

“Oh! Oh!” Catriona yelped, gasping for breath.

“I told you so,” Marilla crowed.

Catriona wiped her eyes and looked up just in time to see the duke barreling toward
her. “Your Grace,” she chirped, the squeaky noise just about all she could manage.

He pointed a finger at her. “You said it was a log.”

“It
is
a log,” she said, not that her words were remotely intelligible through her giggles.

“It’s a bloody maypole!”

“Oh, I think it’s bigger than a maypole.”

His lips clamped together in a straight line, but he couldn’t fool her. The Duke of
Bretton, it seemed, was in possession of an excellent sense of humor. In three seconds,
he’d be laughing just as hard as she was.