She turned her attention to Perdita. “I think it best if you prepare yourself to charm Mr. Beebs. Since we won’t have the funds to pay the feu duty, and Cassandra will be occupied with attempting to win away my fiancé, someone has to persuade Mr. Beebs not to demand payment.”

There was a silence.

Everyone knew Perdita couldn’t charm anyone!

Which led to Daisy’s next suggestion: “The other option is for you to give me permission to speak with Lord Lumley in a discreet manner about raising funds. If he’s a peer of the realm, surely he understands estate matters. Perhaps we can produce the feu duty without having to make Perdita work her wiles on Mr. Beebs.”

“Wiles?” Perdita gnashed her teeth. “What are wiles?”

“Charms,” Daisy told her. “You must try. We wouldn’t want to be removed from the castle before the viscount has the opportunity to propose to Cassandra.”

She hoped her point would stick.

Cassandra, her eyes wider than usual, grabbed her mother’s arm. “I’ve no time to waste on that little man, and Perdita’s about as charming as an old mare put out to pasture.”

Perdita merely sucked her teeth at the insult.

Mona’s mouth became a stubborn, flat line and her eyes, more beady than ever. She swiveled her square body in Daisy’s direction. “You may speak with the viscount when warranted. But only in a discreet manner.”

The woman’s tone was so threatening and low, Daisy felt the words vibrate in her breastbone.

“Don’t you dare make wedding plans with him,” Cassandra added, then poked Daisy’s arm. “Or kiss him again. That’s the most important thing.”

“It was a shocking display.” Mona shook her head. “Shocking.”

“It was,” Daisy said thoughtfully.

A moment went by in which Cassandra and Perdita hurled the expected infantile insults of her character and kissing performance, but as Daisy was prepared for them, she was completely unmoved. The kisses had been worth it. Nothing her stepsisters said would ever make her regret them.

“All right,” she said quietly, masking her enjoyment at their obvious jealousy. “I’ll do my best to avoid the viscount. Although you know I promised to go fishing with him in the morning. And I can’t exactly avoid him entirely.”

“But watch yourself,” said Mona. “No flirting. No fawning. And find the feu duty without causing hardship to us. Or else.”

Or else.

It was a phrase that Mona often bandied about with Daisy—and followed through upon, too—usually with forays into her bedchamber so she could rifle through her things and toss them out the window or into the fire. Other times, she’d lock her away with no supper. Several times, she’d made Daisy clean all the hearthstones with a tiny brush.

But this time, Mona’s or else carried more weight. This time, Mona was looking out the window at Joe, on his way back from visiting the sow and her piglets. He saw them inside staring at him, and he waved.

Daisy lifted a limp hand.

Poor Joe! And poor Hester!

Daisy would be nervous tonight drinking warm milk and sharing a nibble of shortbread with them near the kitchen fire.

Mona only laughed when she saw Joe.

Which made Daisy cringe. She knew very well what her stepmother’s or else meant this time.

She watched until Joe’s cap disappeared from view and girded herself mentally for the next few weeks. It promised to be a precarious journey.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Pardon my bluntness, but what the deuce is going on in your household?” Charlie asked Miss Montgomery early the next morning. It was cold and damp, the dew still clinging to the heather. They stood at the edge of the swirling burn, their fishing rods in the water. “I feel as if I’ve stepped into some Gothic tale. Your stepmother and stepsisters are … unusual, to say the least.”

Overnight, in the decidedly uncomfortable byre loft—away from the smiling Joe, the cheery Hester, and the mesmerizing force that was Miss Montgomery—he’d had the chance to replenish his waning stores of cynicism. He’d discovered the young miss was entirely kissable, which would have usually pleased him no end, but he couldn’t bear to let this particularly brazen money-seeker know she’d affected him so strongly.

It had been a shock to feel her respond with such passion to their second kiss, but then he’d guessed she was putting on for her stepmother, so he’d put on, and then it had seemed like a competition—

One that he hadn’t wanted to end.

“Of course,” he reminded her now, “your stepmother and stepsisters will find out eventually this engagement of ours is all a ruse.”

“Oh, well.” She blew a curl off her forehead. “We’ll have the money for the castle by then, won’t we? I’ll explain everything when the time is right. Stepmother will attribute the lie to my learning to be wily. Like her.”

“It’s convenient to have a dastardly relative at times, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Terribly.”

“But don’t even think of trapping me into a real marriage—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’d rather live in a hut than stand at the altar with a man who—”

“Won’t allow his wife access to a farthing of his wealth,” he warned her.

“No, whose ilk will get stinking—”

“I know the rest.”

She flushed. “My point being, this is a temporary arrangement we must both endure.” She looked with concern at his black eye. “You definitely need something on that.”

He couldn’t believe she would still consider helping him, after all the barbs they’d exchanged. Unless she were still hoping … hoping he had a secret pocket full of money.

“Women entrap men into marriage all the time,” he reminded her. “And your stepmother is an obvious schemer. Am I supposed to believe you haven’t taken on her tendencies?”

“I’m nothing like her,” she lashed out. “Nor my stepsisters.”

She said it with such passion, he found her nearly pretty again. Funny that, as she was wearing a coarse gray gown, hideous boots, a lumpy wool shawl, and her hair wound in a tight knot at the back of her head.

At dinner last evening, Miss Cassandra had looked breathtakingly lovely in her fashionable gown and her abundance of ebony curls. Yet she excited no interest in him whatsoever.

This woman, in her grim but serviceable attire, somehow did.

She indicated the flannel bag on the ground. “I suspect you need another worm.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. A trout just took yours.”

“I didn’t notice.” It was because he was taking too many glances at her.

“It takes a sensitive hand to pull in a large catch up here,” she said with a chuckle, pulling in a trout even as she spoke. “The fish are wily. They take the bait and swim off.”

He couldn’t help wondering if she were describing what she planned to do in this outlandish scenario.

“I’ll admit I need some practice,” he said, taking the wriggling trout from her and putting it in a bag filled with ferns. “However, don’t rest on your laurels. I still intend to best you.”

“Oh?” She gave him a sideways glance. “Shall we bet on it?”

“I’ve no money to wager,” he said.

“That shouldn’t stop us,” she insisted.

“I agree.” He raised a brow. “I’ve the perfect bet.”

“What is it?” Her wide blue eyes were full of excitement.

“A kiss,” he said. “Whoever loses must bestow one on the other party.”

She took a step away from him. “Lord Lumley,” she said in the same cool, confident tone she’d employed the day before when she’d reminded him of his duty to help her. “I’m not in the market for flirtation. And you know that a wager like that is not only inappropriate but ridiculous. No matter what, both of us will be involved in the kiss. So there is no incentive to win.”

“Yes,” he said, “but initiating it will be awkward for the loser, don’t you think?”

“I suspect you wouldn’t feel awkward in the least. You’re a rogue. You’ve said so yourself.”

“I suppose I am,” he said, tugging on his line. He’d caught his first trout. “But I can’t help wanting to foist that awkwardness upon you. I’d quite like to see how you’d handle the matter.”

She pursed her lips. “I don’t approve of this wager. Move on to the next idea, please.”

“I dare you,” he said.

She kept ignoring him. In fact, she pulled in another fish. “I’m going to win, no matter what.”

He liked how she wouldn’t meet his gaze yet didn’t seem coy in the least.

“You only think you will,” he said back.

Another minute went by.

“I thought you Highland girls had more spunk.” He yanked in another trout and put it in the bag. “Although who can blame you for backing down? I’m winning, after all.”

“It’s a go,” she finally said, her profile stern, her brow furrowed. “And only because you can’t challenge a Highland girl’s spunk. When the sun rises over that branch”—she pointed to a beech tree—“the contest is over. But the kiss will be brief, and no one shall ever know.”

“Done,” he said.

Not a word passed between them as they cast their lines. She was concentrating. He could tell. She was anxious to best him.

He pulled in another fish.

She got two.

Within a half hour, they were neck and neck.

She sighed. “I suppose you can’t fish and contemplate ideas for raising four hundred pounds, all at the same time?”

She looked at him with a spark of challenge in her eyes.

“You supposed wrong,” he answered. “It’s been on my mind since the first moment you mentioned it. It’s why I’m here, after all.”