“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 Ican’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 thatwould 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 jigglingherself 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.”