Chapter 8
By 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
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
