The Lady Most Willing

But Marilla, who had no patience with, well, anything, burst out with obvious glee, “I am wed, too, Father! I won’t have to leave Scotland and I shall have my very own castle!” She grabbed Taran’s arm. “So come and kiss your new son,” she crowed.

Chisholm’s eyes grew as wide as saucers, and all about the room, everyone fell dead silent. Then, with a roar such as hadn’t been heard since Braveheart’s time, Chisholm launched himself at Taran, going straight through the laird’s nephews—well, not truly through, as both men stepped neatly aside—aiming for Taran’s neck and . . .

. . . And all merry hell broke loose.

Witnesses at the pub that night all agreed that Taran made a fair show and acquitted himself well for a man of his years. The laird wasn’t there to dispute it, since he was dancing the bedtime waltz with the prettiest girl in the county, even as her da sat gazing into a glass of whiskey and shaking his head.

Those who believed in fairies and suchlike—and since the Scots aren’t fools, they know right well that magic has its place—well, those folks said later that a strange moon shone over Finovair Castle that December, a lovers’ moon, a blue moon, a spoonin’ moon. Other said the Seelie Court had come riding in on that winter storm, their steeds as white as snow itself, and their laughter falling like blessings down Finovair’s old chimneys and turrets.

Whatever magic took hold of Finovair castle that December of 1819, the four couples who fell in love there never thought of that storm without a leap of the heart.

More to the point—and sure evidence of the magic if ever there was—some nine months later five new bairns squalled their way into the light of day. That would be one each for the noble parents, and a set of red-faced, lusty twins for the laird.

Beautiful, those babes were. And strong. And—or so their parents said—canny. And—so the Ferguson oft proudly said—loud.

But mostly, they were blessed . . . as is every child born to a couple who love each other with the kind of passion that only grows deeper with time. Neither the laird nor his male guests were the sort to babble much poetry, but there wasn’t a one of them that didn’t, now and then, drop a kiss on his wife’s sweet mouth and make her a promise: “And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a’ the seas gang dry.”

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o’ life shall run.

About the Authors

A New York Times bestselling author of twenty-two novels for Avon Books, JULIA QUINN is a graduate of Harvard and Radcliffe Colleges and lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest. She can be found on the web at www.juliaquinn.com.

New York Times bestselling author ELOISA JAMES is a professor of English literature who lives with her family in New York but can sometimes be found in Italy. Please visit her at www.eloisajames.com.

CONNIE BROCKWAY, the New York Times bestselling author of twenty-two books, is an eight-time finalist and two-time winner of the RITA® Award. She lives in Minnesota with her husband and two spoiled mutts. Her website is www.conniebrockway.com.

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Praise

Julia Quinn is

“Smart, funny.”

Time Magazine

“Delightful.”

Nora Roberts

Eloisa James is

“Extraordinary.”

Lisa Kleypas

“Romance writing does not get much better than this.”

People

Connie Brockway is

“Delightfully witty and dazzlingly imaginative.”

Booklist

“Simply the best.”