The Lady Most Willing

“Really?” Taran said, drawing the word out with great interest.

“Yes,” Lady Cecily replied, dipping her spoon into the soup that had just been placed before her by one of Taran’s ancient retainers. “It’s a little cold, but of course it is December.”

“One doesn’t always get to choose when to live in one’s castle,” Rocheforte said brusquely.

“Robin!” Taran said sternly.

But Rocheforte just shrugged and turned to his soup.

“You seem quite unlike yourself,” Oakley said to his cousin.

Indeed, Bret thought. Rocheforte’s silver tongue and ready smile were legendary. Both seemed to have deserted him.

“It must be the cold,” Rocheforte replied.

“The cold certainly wasn’t bothering you this afternoon,” Marilla said, leaning forward so that she could smile at him. “I was shocked when you removed your coat. But I must confess, it did seem to give you a greater range of movement when you picked up the caber.”

“I’m sorry I missed it,” Lady Cecily said.

Rocheforte flushed.

“I was the only one who landed the bloody thing on its end,” Taran said.

Marilla gave him a placating smile, patted him on the hand, and then returned her attention to Oakley, who appeared to have nudged his chair as far as he could in the opposite direction.

“Have you recovered from your exertions?” Marilla asked.

Oakley cleared his throat, adjusted his cravat, and turned toward his soup. Somewhere in the midst of all that, he muttered, “Yes.”

But Marilla could not be tamed. “I was so very, very grateful that I had a handkerchief with me this afternoon to wipe the perspiration from your brow.”

“It was warm, too,” Taran chortled, motioning to his chest. “Pulled it right out from—”

“Uncle!” Oakley cut in.

“Eh, well, she did. And don’t say you didn’t notice.”

“There isn’t a man alive who could fail to notice her bosom,” Fiona muttered under her breath.

Bret had a feeling he wasn’t supposed to have heard that, but he smiled at her nonetheless.

“What shall we play after supper?” Marilla asked Oakley.

Oakley was speechless.

“Hide-and-seek?” Taran suggested.

“No,” Marilla said, playfully tapping a finger on her chin. “It’s not very sociable. And you did wish to be sociable, did you not?”

“I always wish to be sociable,” Taran replied.

Rocheforte coughed, loudly.

“The problem with hide-and-seek,” Marilla continued, “is that all of the players are separated for the bulk of the game. And we must be so quiet. It’s hardly fun when the aim is to become better acquainted.”

“Quite right,” Taran said vigorously. “What a clever lass you are. I had no idea.” He jerked his head toward one nephew, then another. “Take note of that, boys.”

Oakley smiled tightly. Even Rocheforte could not manage a response.

“Have I mentioned,” Bret murmured to Catriona, “how very grateful I am not to have any blood uncles?”

“You don’t?”

“Not a one. My mother had six sisters. Three older, three younger.”

“And your father?”

“An only child.”

“As am I,” Catriona said.

“Really?” The sane and lucid part of his brain reminded him that he had known her only one day, but still, it seemed incomprehensible that he did not know this.

“My parents had me quite late in life,” she told him. “I was something of a surprise.”

“I am also without siblings,” Bret said.

“Really?” She smiled, and then he smiled, and it was the most ridiculous, lovebird-hearts-and-flowers sort of thing, but he almost sighed, because it felt like such an important connection.