The duke gave a little tug, but Marilla had no intention of releasing her prey, and he gave up. Catriona could only think that he’d decided the heat of her hand was worth the annoyance.
Catriona couldn’t fault him for that. She’d have cuddled up to Marilla just then if it meant raising her temperature a few degrees. The only people who didn’t seem to be shivering madly were Taran’s two nephews, who, it had to be said, were almost as pleasing to the eye as the duke, and not the sort of men one would think would need to have women snatched from a party.
Then again, Taran Ferguson was as eccentric as the summer day was long. And the last time she’d seen him he’d been going on about the fate of Finovair after he was dead and in the ground, so she supposed she shouldn’t be too surprised that he’d go to such lengths to secure brides for his nephews.
Lord Oakley led the entire crowd into a small sitting room off the great hall. It was shabby but clean, just like most of Finovair, and most importantly, there was a fire in the grate. Everyone rushed forward, desperate to warm his limbs.
“We’ll need blankets,” Oakley directed.
“Got some in that trunk,” Taran replied, jerking his head toward an ancient chest near the wall. His nephews went to retrieve them, and soon they were passing the blankets along like a chain until everyone had one draped across his shoulders. The wool was rough and scratchy, and Catriona wouldn’t have been surprised if a flotilla of moths had come spewing forth, but she didn’t care. She would have donned a hair shirt for warmth at that point.
“Once again,” Lord Oakley said to the ladies, “I must apologize on behalf of my uncle. I can’t even begin to imagine what he might have been thinking—”
“You know what I was thinking,” Taran cut in. “Robin’s dragging his feet, pussyfooting around—”
“Uncle,” Oakley said warningly.
“As no one is going anywhere tonight,” Mr. Rocheforte said, “we might as well get some sleep.”
“Oh, but we must all be introduced,” Marilla said grandly.
“Of course,” Taran said, with great enthusiasm. “Where are my manners?”
“There are so many possible replies I can hardly bring myself to choose,” the duke said.
“I am, as you all know, the laird of Finovair,” Taran announced. “And these are my two nephews, Oakley and Rocheforte, but I call them Byron and Robin.”
“Byron?” Fiona Chisholm murmured.
Lord Oakley glared at her.
“You seem to be the Duke of Bretton,” Taran continued, “although I don’t know why you’re here.”
“It was my carriage,” Bretton growled.
Taran looked back at his men, one of whom was still toting his claymore. “That’s what I don’t understand. Didn’t we bring a carriage of our own?”
“Uncle,” Rocheforte reminded him, “the introductions?”
“Right. Maycott’s probably busted it up for kindling by now, anyway.” Taran let out a sorrowful sigh. “Speaking of Maycott, though, this one is his daughter Cecilia.”
“Cecily,” Lady Cecily corrected. It was the first word she had spoken since their arrival.
Taran blinked in surprise. “Really?”
“Really,” Lady Cecily confirmed, one of her brows lifting in a delicately wry arch.
“Hmmph. So sorry about that. It’s a lovely name.”
“Thank you,” she replied, with a gracious tilt of her head. She was remarkably pretty, Catriona thought, although not in a flashy, intimidating way like Marilla, whose blond curls and sparkling blue eyes were the stuff of legend.
“These two are the Chisholm sisters,” Taran continued, motioning to Fiona and Marilla. “Fiona’s the elder and Marilla’s the younger. They’re good Scottish ladies, but they have been down to London. Got a little polish, I hear. And that’s about it.”
Catriona cleared her throat.
“Oh, right!” Taran exclaimed. “So sorry. This one is Catriona Burns. We took her by mistake.”
“Ye said the one in the blue dress,” one of Taran’s men protested. Catriona had met him before. She was fairly certain his name was Hamish.
Taran jabbed a finger toward Lady Cecily. “That one’s wearing a blue dress.”
Hamish shrugged and jerked his head toward Catriona. “So is Miss Burns. And they have the same coloring.”
It was true. Brown hair, dark eyes. But while Lady Cecily was delicate, and moved with an ethereal grace, Catriona was . . . Well, she didn’t know what she was. But she wasn’t delicate. And she probably wasn’t graceful, either. She generally tried not to dance for long enough to know for sure.
Taran looked back and forth between the two brunettes for a comically long few seconds. “Right, well, the problem is,” he finally said to Catriona, “I wasn’t expecting you. I don’t have a room ready.”
“You will give her my room,” the duke commanded.
“I don’t have a room for you, either,” Taran said.
Lord Oakley groaned.
“It’s very kind of you to have rooms prepared,” Marilla said prettily.
Catriona could only gape. Taran Ferguson had kidnapped her and she was thanking him?
“I’m not really sure where to put you,” Taran said slowly. He looked over at the sofa, frowning thoughtfully.
That was it. “Taran Ferguson,” Catriona fumed. “I am not going to sleep on the sitting room sofa!”
He scratched his head. “Well, now, it’d be a sight more comfortable than the floor.”
“And I am not going to sleep on the floor!”
The duke stepped forward, his eyes deadly. “Mr. Ferguson, I suggest you find a chamber for the lady.”
“I don’t really—”
“Or you will answer to me.”
Silence fell. Catriona looked over at the duke, stunned that he would come so fiercely to her defense.
“Miss Burns may share a room with me,” Lady Cecily said. Catriona shot her a look of gratitude.
“Can’t do,” Taran said. “There’s only the one small bed.”
“Put the sisters together,” the duke suggested imperiously.
“Already have,” Taran replied. “You’ll be sharing a bed, lassies,” he said to the Chisholm sisters, “but it’s comfortable enough. Never had any royal visits here, so no need to get any of our extra bedrooms fancied up.”
“We have two very nice guest rooms at our home,” Marilla said. “We once hosted the Earl of Mayne.”
“In 1726,” Fiona muttered.
“Well, it’s still the Mayne room,” Marilla said with a sniff, “and if any of you came to visit, that is where we would put you. Well, except maybe you,” she said, blinking in Catriona’s direction.
“Marilla!” Fiona gasped.
“She lives just five miles away,” Marilla protested. “She would hardly need a guest room.”
“One apparently never knows when one might need an extra guest room,” the duke said dryly.
“So true,” Marilla said. “So very, very true.” She looked over at him with that annoyingly catlike tilt of her head and batted her eyelashes. “Are you always so very, very wise?”
Bretton, apparently at the end of his rope, just looked at her and said baldly, “Yes.”