“You can have my room, Bret,” Lord Oakley said.
“And where will you sleep?”
Lord Oakley waved off the question. “Robin will be down in a moment. He’ll show you the way.” He turned back to Catriona. “May I show you to your chamber, Miss Burns? I apologize for the lack of a chaperone, but there isn’t a female available who might take my place. And I assure you, your virtue is safe with me.”
Catriona glanced over at the duke. She trusted him, she realized, although she could not have articulated why. He gave a little nod, so she said, “That will not be a problem, Lord Oakley. Your escort is the least improper event of the evening, I’m sure.”
Lord Oakley gave a tired smile. “This way, if you please.”
She took his arm and headed out of the sitting room. After a few twists and turns, she realized she’d be sleeping in the servants’ quarters. But after all that had happened, she decided that as long as she had a blanket, she didn’t care.
Chapter 4
The following morning
Catriona had always been an early riser and was well used to breaking her fast with only herself for company, but when she walked into the dining room, the Duke of Bretton was already seated at the table, slathering butter on a piece of toast.
“Good morning, Miss Burns,” he said, coming instantly to his feet.
Catriona dipped into a brief curtsy, bowing her head less out of respect than the desire to hide the faint blush that had stolen across her cheeks.
She’d kissed him the night before. She’d kissed a duke. Good heavens, her first kiss and she had to start with a duke?
“Are you enjoying your breakfast?” she asked, turning to the well-laid sideboard. Whatever Taran Ferguson’s faults, he’d provided an excellent morning meal. There were two kinds of meat, eggs prepared three ways, salted herring, and toast and scones. And, of course, homemade butter and jam.
“In all honesty,” the duke said, “I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a breakfast more.”
“Mrs. McVittie is the best housekeeper in the district,” Catriona confirmed, loading her plate with food. “I don’t know why she stays at Finovair. Everyone is always trying to steal her away.”
“I recommend the scones,” Bretton said.
Catriona nodded as she took a seat across from him. “I always recommend Mrs. McVittie’s scones.”
“I wonder why we can’t get them right in England?” he mused.
“I shall not answer that,” Catriona said pertly, “for fear of insulting an entire country.”
He chuckled at that, as she’d hoped he would. She needed to keep this conversation light, her observations wry. If she could manage that, she could forget that less than twelve hours earlier, his lips had been on hers. Or at the very least, make him forget it.
It was going to be a very long few days if he thought she was pining after him. Good heavens, if he so much as thought she might be trying to trap him into marriage, he’d run screaming for the trees.
A distinctly non-noble Scotswoman and an English duke. It was ludicrous.
“You’ll have to pour your own tea,” the duke said with a nod toward the pot. “One of Ferguson’s . . . Well, I don’t know what you’d call him, certainly not a footman . . .”
“Men,” Catriona said.
The duke looked up at her, clearly startled.
“One of his men,” she said quickly. “That’s what he calls them. I don’t think there’s a one below the age of sixty, but they are fiercely loyal.”
“Indeed,” Bretton said in a very dry tone.
“Loyal enough to steal women from a ballroom,” Catriona said for him, for surely that was what he had meant.
Bretton looked to his left and then his right, presumably to make sure none of Taran’s men were in earshot. “Whatever he wishes to call the gentleman who was here earlier, I would not trust his grizzled hands to aim the tea into the cup.”
“I see,” Catriona murmured, and she reached out to pour for herself.
“It is probably no longer hot,” the duke said.
“I shall endure.”
He smiled faintly into his own teacup.
“Would you like some more?” Catriona asked. At his nod, she refilled his cup with the lukewarm tea, then set about spreading jam on her scone.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked.
“No,” she answered, “but I did not expect to.” She would not complain about having been put in a maid’s room. In truth, she’d been grateful just to get a bed; she’d been half expecting Taran to try to stick her out in the stables. Still, the tiny garret room had lacked a fireplace, and although Lord Oakley had handed her three blankets, they were all quite thin.
At least with Mrs. McVittie as the housekeeper, Catriona could be assured that the mattress was aired out and clean. Bedbugs truly would have been the final insult.
“And you, Your Grace? Did you sleep well?” she asked politely. He’d been given Lord Oakley’s room, which had to have been more comfortable than hers. Certainly not up to ducal standards, but still, presumably the best that Finovair had to offer.
“I’m afraid not, but as you said, I shall endure.” The duke cut off a piece of bacon, ate it, and then asked, “Is it always this cold?”
“In December?” Her lips parted with surprise . . . and perhaps a bit of disappointment. Surely he had not just asked her such a stupid question. And here she’d been thinking she rather liked the highborn Englishman. “Er, yes.”
He did not so much roll his eyes as flick them upward in impatience. “No, I meant here. At Finovair. I was shivering all night.”
“Didn’t you have a fire in your room?”
“Yes, but I fear it was a mirage. And it was dead by morning.”
Catriona gave him a sympathetic nod. “My father says it’s why Scots marry young.”
At this, the duke paused. “I beg your pardon?”
“For warmth,” she clarified. “It’s tremendously difficult to heat these old castles. I usually sleep with my dog.”
Bretton nearly spit out his tea.
“Laugh all you want,” Catriona said with an arch little smile, “but Limmerick weighs seven stone. He’s like a giant furry hot water bottle that never goes cold.”
“Limmerick?”
She turned back to her food. “My grandfather was Irish.”
“Since I can only assume Ferguson did not loose the dogs on you,” Bretton said dryly, “were you warm enough last night?”
“Not really.” She shrugged, resigned to her fate. “I’m in a maid’s room. No fireplace, I’m afraid. And, as you surmised, no dog.”
His expression turned ominous. “You were put in the servants’ hall?”
“ ‘Hall’ might be a bit of a stretch,” Catriona demurred.
“Bloody . . . sorry,” the duke apologized, but not before Catriona heard the beginnings of “hell.” “I will speak to Oakley immediately,” he said. “I will not have you insulted by—”
“It’s hardly an insult,” she interrupted. “No more so, at least, than being informed I was kidnapped by accident.” She set down her toast and regarded him with an arched brow. “If I must go through the bother of being kidnapped, I should have liked it to have been deliberate.”
The duke stared at her for a moment, then smiled, almost reluctantly. “I commend you on maintaining your good humor.”
“There is nothing else to do,” she said with a shrug. “We are stuck here for the foreseeable future. It behooves no one to flounce about in hysterics.”
He nodded approvingly, then said, “Still, the arrangement is unacceptable. I told Oakley you could have my room.”
“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Catriona said, trying not to be delighted at his ire on her behalf, “but your room is his room, and the last thing he will wish to do is offend the dignity of a duke.”
“I have been kidnapped by a caber-wielding relic,” Bretton muttered. “My dignity has already
suffered a mortal blow.”
Catriona tried not to laugh; she really did.
“Oh, go ahead,” he told her.
She brought her serviette to her lips, smothered her giggle, then adopted a most serious expression before saying, “It was a claymore, Your Grace, not a caber.”
“There’s a difference?”
“If Hamish had been wielding a caber, you’d hardly be talking about it over breakfast.”
He stared at her blankly.
“It’s a log, Your Grace. A log. And it’s not really used for fighting. We just like to toss them about. Well, the men do.”
A good long moment passed before Bretton said, “You Scots have very strange games.”
Her brows rose daringly, then she turned back to her tea.
“What does that mean?” he demanded.
“I’m sure I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“That look,” he accused.
“Look?” she echoed.
His eyes narrowed. “You don’t think I can toss a caber.”
“Well, I know I can’t toss a caber.”
“You’re a woman,” he sputtered.
“Yes,” she said.
“I can toss a bloody caber.”
She arched a brow. “The question would really be, how far?”
He must have realized he’d begun to resemble a strutting peacock, because he had the grace to look a little bit sheepish. And then he completely surprised her by saying, “A few inches, at the very least.”
Catriona held her supercilious expression for precisely two seconds before she lost control entirely and burst out laughing. “Oh my,” she gasped, wiping her eyes. “Oh my.”
Which was precisely the moment Marilla chose to enter the dining room. Marilla, who Catriona was certain rarely rose before noon. Clearly, someone had tipped her off that the duke was an early riser.
“You’re very jolly, Catriona,” Marilla said. Although from Marilla’s lips, it sounded more like an accusation.
Catriona opened her mouth to reply, but anything that might have resembled an intelligent comment died upon her lips. For Marilla had abandoned her thoroughly impractical evening dress in favor of a heavy brocade gown dating from sometime in the prior century.
Not that that would have given Catriona pause. She was all for making do, and if Taran’s wardrobes contained nothing but leftovers from Georgian times, then so be it. But Marilla had chosen a dress of the deepest, darkest, most sensual red, with a tightly corseted waist and a square-cut neckline that dipped far lower than it ought.
“Isn’t it lovely?” Marilla said, smoothing her hand along the skirt. “There was an entire trunk full of gowns in the attic. One of Taran’s men brought it down.”
Catriona just stared, speechless. As for the duke, he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Marilla’s breasts, which trembled like barely set custard with every movement. Catriona would have been irritated, except that she couldn’t take her eyes off them, either. They had been pushed up so high the tops had gone completely flat. She could have balanced a dinner plate on them without losing a crumb.
“Marilla,” Catriona suggested, “perhaps you should . . . er . . .”
“I couldn’t possibly wear the same gown two days in a row,” Marilla remarked.
Catriona, clad in the same green velvet she’d been wearing the night before, decided to refrain from comment.
“It’s a bit like a masquerade,” Marilla said with a jaunty little flick of her wrist.
Catriona and the duke gasped in unison, as Marilla very nearly tumbled free. But Marilla must not have noticed, because she kept jaunting about, chattering on about her room, her sister, her dress . . . and with every movement, Catriona flinched, terrified that Marilla’s breasts were going to burst forth and pummel them all.
“Miss Marilla,” the duke said, finally rising to his feet. He cleared his throat. Twice. “I hope you’re hungry. Mr. Ferguson’s housekeeper has outdone herself.”
“Oh, I rarely eat more than a square of toast in the morning,” Marilla replied. She looked down at the feast before her, then added, “With jam, of course.”
“You might wish to make an exception for this morning,” Catriona said as the duke sat back down. “You will need your strength. His Grace has expressed an interest in caber tossing.”
“Caber tossing?” Marilla echoed. “How very, very noble you are to take an interest in our Scottish customs, Your Grace.”
Catriona wasn’t sure how this made him noble, much less very, very noble, but she decided to let that point pass in favor of: “I think it will be great fun. As long as the duke is here in Scotland, he may as well learn some of our traditions.”
“It will be cold,” Marilla pointed out.
Marilla was right, of course. It would be viciously cold, and were Catriona arguing the point with anyone else, she would have abandoned the suggestion in favor of a hot toddy by the fire. But Marilla had always been a thorn in her side, and more to the point, she kept jiggling herself at the duke.
“It will be invigorating,” Catriona said. Then added, “Of course we will have to cover up.”
“I think it’s a grand idea,” the duke said.
“You do?” Catriona asked.
“You do?” Marilla echoed, followed by: “Of course you do. You have such a very fine sense of sportsmanship, Your Grace.”
“Very, very fine,” Catriona muttered.
“Although we might want to wait until the snow lets up,” he said.
Marilla placed a fluttery hand on her heart. “Is it still snowing, then?”
Catriona motioned to the window. “The window is right in front of you.”
Marilla ignored her. “Oh, what will become of us?”
“I recommend bacon,” Catriona said flatly. “Surely we will need reserves to keep ourselves going for the duration.”
The duke made a choking sort of sound.
“Well,” Marilla said, “perhaps just a piece.”
Or three, apparently.
Marilla came over to the table with her toast, jam, and bacon and sat at the duke’s right, her chair somehow sliding to within inches of his. She smiled prettily at him as her breasts very nearly poked into his arm.
Catriona could only stare in wonderment. Surely those old-fashioned corsets could not have been comfortable. Marilla’s chest preceded the rest of her by at least six inches.
“Did you sleep well?” the duke asked, valiantly trying to keep his eyes aloft.
“Oh heavens, no,” Marilla replied, laying a hand on his arm. “I was frightfully cold.”
“Perhaps Mr. Ferguson might lend you a dog,” he murmured.
Marilla blinked her pretty blue eyes.
Catriona, on the other hand, choked on her tea.
“And my bed was frightfully stiff and hard,” Marilla continued, sighing tremulously. She turned to the duke with melting eyes. “What about yours?”
“My . . . er . . . what?”
“Your bed, Your Grace,” Marilla murmured. “Was it stiff and hard?”
Catriona thought Bretton might expire on the spot. And what was that . . . a blush? He was blushing! He was!
“But the pillows were nice,” Marilla continued. “I do love a soft pillow, don’t you?”
The duke’s eyes immediately fell to Marilla’s soft pillows. Catriona couldn’t fault him for that; so did hers. It was rather like Taran’s scrawny arse when he’d run through the village trying to shock the vicar’s wife. It was impossible not to look.
“Ehrm . . . I . . . ehrm . . .” The duke picked up his teacup and drained the dregs.
“How long do you think it will be before someone saves us?” Marilla said in a breathy voice.
“We are hardly in danger, Miss Marilla,” Bretton replied.
“Still.” She sighed dramatically. “Ripped from our homes.”
“From Lady Cecily’s home,” Catriona corrected, still focusing on her food. She couldn’t look
up. She really couldn’t. The way Marilla was shaking about, she was terrified by what she might see.
“Still,” Marilla said, with a touch less sweetness and light than the “still” she’d directed at the duke. “Whatever shall we do to occupy ourselves?” she continued.
“I believe Miss Burns suggested tossing a caber,” Bretton remarked.
Marilla blinked. “Oh, but you cannot be serious.”
Catriona looked up just in time to see him give a falsely modest shrug. “I don’t see why I couldn’t give it a try,” he murmured. “Besides, did you not just praise my fine sense of sportsmanship?”
“But Your Grace,” Marilla said. “Have you ever seen a caber?”
“Miss Burns tells me it’s a log.”
“Yes, but it’s— Oh!”
“Oh my heavens, I’m so sorry,” Catriona said. “I have no idea how my jam flew off my spoon like that.”
Marilla’s eyes narrowed to slits, but she said nothing as she picked up her serviette and wiped the red blob off her chest before it slid into the deep, dark crevasse between her breasts.
If the duke thought that a caber was a simple little log, Catriona wasn’t going to let Marilla tell him otherwise.
“Oh dear me,” Marilla said, leaning toward the duke. “I can’t reach the butter.”
Bretton dutifully reached out for the butter, which was to his right, and Catriona watched with amazement as Marilla scooted even closer to him while he wasn’t looking at her. When he turned around, she was just a few inches away, batting her lashes like butterfly wings.
If Catriona hadn’t disliked Marilla for so many years, she would have been impressed. Really, one had to give the girl credit for persistence.
The duke shot Catriona a look that said clearly, Save me, and she was trying to figure out precisely how she might accomplish this when they all heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Lord Oakley arrived on the scene, and Bretton shot to his feet to greet his friend.
“Oakley!” he said, with enough enthusiasm that Lord Oakley’s expression took on a vague tinge of alarm.
“Bret,” Lord Oakley said slowly, glancing about the room as if waiting for someone to jump out and yell, “Surprise!”
“Join us,” the duke ordered. “Now.”
The Lady Most Willing Page 4
