Byron started to comment, but he was cut off by the welcome sound of their uncle, bellowing outside the castle.
“Speak of the devil,” Byron said, with some relief. Their uncle was a bosky nuisance, but neither of them wanted to find him facedown in a snowdrift.
“Best go drag him to the fire and thaw him out,” Robin said, putting down his glass. “Garvie says we’re in for a three-day blow.”
They left the great hall and pushed open the huge front door, where they discovered a small clutch of their uncle’s clansmen milling about the keep, thumping their chests and clapping one another on the back. They wore full Highland kit, kilts and fur cloaks, and the torches they carried sputtered beneath a thickening snowfall. Taran stood at their center, grinning like a madman.
“God, look at all those knees,” Robin murmured.
“Whose carriage is that?” Byron asked, peering at a gleaming black vehicle drawn up just where the torchlight gave way to darkness.
Taran pushed his way through his men. “I’ve brought you brides!” he shouted over his shoulder to his nephews. “Come out here, lasses!” He pulled open the door of the carriage with a flourish.
A fresh, pretty face appeared for a moment, and then a slender hand grasped the inside handle. “There are no brides here,” she said smartly. The door slammed shut.
Byron stared in shock. “Bloody hell!” he breathed. He looked at Robin. Even as his cousin’s brows rose, a smile was growing on his handsome face. “This is not amusing, Rob. That was a
“Damned right that was a lady,” Taran bellowed. “A spirited one, too. I got three of them with money, birth, and looks enough.” He pointed a gnarled finger at Robin. “You’ll pick one of these, nephew, or I’ll do it myself and lock the two of you in a room until you have to get married.” He glanced at Byron. “You might as well take one, too,” he added magnanimously.
Byron started down the steps with a groan.
Taran gave the door a sharp tug and a dark-haired girl tumbled out. “Lads, this first lady be—” He stopped. Stared. “Catriona Burns, what in the devil are you doing here?” he demanded.
“You abducted me!” the dark-haired young lady retorted, hands on her hips.
“Well, if I did it were a mistake,” Taran said. He looked over at Byron and Robin. “Don’t even think about this one, lads. Nice lass, no money.”
Byron heard her outraged gasp even above the sound of Robin’s hopeless laughter.
“Move aside, Catriona. The rest of you lassies get out here,” Taran bellowed, peering into the carriage. “My nephew needs to take a good look before he chooses one of you for his bride.”
“I cannot believe that you visited an outrage of this nature on young ladies,” Byron stated, shooting his uncle a murderous look. Taran was a moth-eaten bear of a man, still more brawn than beef, dark hair shot through with the same silver that colored his beard. He didn’t look cracked, though he obviously was.
Byron reached the carriage just in time to offer an arm to the lady who appeared in the open door. In the light of the torches, snowflakes drifted onto hair the color of dark rubies.
“There’s a good one!” Taran announced. “Fiona Chisholm. She’s a bit long on the shelf, but I brought her younger sister, too, if’n you want a more tender lamb. Each of them has a tidy fortune.”
“I deeply apologize for my uncle’s lunacy,” Byron said, bowing over Miss Chisholm’s hand once she was on the ground. “You must be feeling nearly hysterical with fright.”
There was laughter rather than terror in the young lady’s eyes. “Having long acquaintance with the laird, I am not as frightened as I might be. You have the advantage, sir,” she said, dropping a curtsy.
“Byron Wotton, Earl of Oakley.”
“Lord Oakley, it is a pleasure to meet you.”
“This is my younger nephew. Lives in England,” Taran put in. “Robin there will be inheriting Finovair. He’s the one ye’re here to marry.”
Robin had crossed the courtyard and now moved to stand at Byron’s side. “Robert Parles, Comte de Rocheforte,” he said cheerfully. “Call me Robin. Pleased to meet you, Miss Burns, Miss Chisholm.”
Byron handed Miss Chisholm to him and put his hand out to help yet another lady, this one smaller, with curling toasty brown hair, delicate features, and brilliant, deep-set brown eyes.
“Maycott’s daughter,” Taran said proudly. “Lady Cecily. She’s the best of the bunch: worth a fortune and pretty as a penny. Though”—he lowered his voice—“she
The lady’s eyes grew round.
“Uncle, I implore you to shut your mouth,” Byron said. “Lady Cecily, I can find no words to apologize for the terrible imposition committed against you.”
