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 is English. But she’s been out a fair few seasons now, too, and shouldn’t be too picky at this point.”

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.”

Lady Cecily seemed about to reply when Robin edged Byron aside, taking her hand and bowing. “Oh, I don’t think I can apologize,” he said. “No one’s ever kidnapped a lady on my behalf before. But then,” he continued, grinning wolfishly, “no one has ever had to.”

The girl’s eyes widened again, and even in the fitful torchlight one could see her cheeks turn rosy. For a second, Robin froze, staring down at her. Then he abruptly looked away, releasing her hand, and stepped past her, craning his neck to peer into the carriage. “Who else is left in there, Uncle? One of George’s girls? I always fancied marrying into royalty.”

“This is a serious business!” their uncle said with a scowl. “Only one left, I think. Fiona’s sister.”

His ancient lieutenant nodded gravely.

Byron ground his teeth. “Robin, please escort Miss Burns, Miss Chisholm, and Lady Cecily into the castle. It’s freezing, and they aren’t wearing cloaks.”

“Didn’t have time for that,” Taran said cheerfully. “I snatched them straight out of the ballroom. Marilla Chisholm, there’s no hiding in that carriage,” he bellowed.

The last young lady appeared, pausing dramatically at the top of the carriage’s steps. She was very young, very blond, and very beautiful, and she swayed gently. “What is happening?” she cried, her voice wavering. “Oh, what is to become of us?”

“You are perfectly safe, Miss Marilla.” Byron held out a hand to support her as she stepped down. “I am Lord Oakley. I offer our deepest apologies, and my assurance as a gentleman that you will be speedily returned to your family.”

“No, she won’t,” Taran said. “Snow’s already closed the pass. Should be two to three days before anyone makes it through.” He pushed the carriage door shut. “Let’s get inside. It’s as cold as a witch’s teat out here, and we’re done.”

The carriage door slammed open again and an exquisite Hoby boot landed decisively on the ground. A deep, irritated voice said, “Not quite!”

Byron’s jaw dropped.

Robin turned around. “Holy hell, Uncle, you’ve kidnapped the Duke of Bretton!”







Chapter 2

Catriona Burns was a practical girl. One had to be, living as she did in the Highlands of Scotland. When it was December the seventeenth, and the sun rose for barely six hours per day, and the temperature hovered somewhere between freezing and dead, one had to be prepared for anything.

But not this.

It was two in the miserable morning, she’d lost feeling in at least eight of her toes, and she was standing outside in three inches of snow. With an earl. And a French comte. And a duke. Who’d been kidnapped.

“Taran Ferguson, you insufferable miscreant,” she practically yelled. “What do you think you are doing?”

“Aye, well, y’see . . .” He scratched his head, glanced at the carriage as if it might offer advice, and then shrugged.

“You’re drunk,” she accused.

His mouth twisted so far to the right it seemed to turn his head. “Just a wee bit.”

“You kidnapped the Duke of Bretton!”

“Well now, that was a mistake . . .” He frowned, turning to his loyal retainers. “How did we end up with him?”

“Indeed,” bit off the duke. Normally speaking, Catriona would not have found him terribly fearsome. He was a rather good-looking fellow, with thick, dark hair, and deep-set eyes, but there was nothing wild or untamed about him.

That said, when the Duke of Bretton speared Taran Ferguson with a furious stare, even Catriona took a step back.

“What were you doing in the carriage?” Taran demanded.

“It was my carriage!” roared the duke.

There was a moment of silence—well, except for the French comte, who wouldn’t stop laughing—and then Taran finally said, “Oh.”

“Who,” the duke demanded, “are you?”

“Taran Ferguson. I do apologize for the error.” He motioned toward Lady Cecily, then waved his hand past both Chisholm sisters. “We only meant to snatch the women.”

Marilla Chisholm let out a delicate cry of distress, leading Catriona to let out an indelicate grunt of annoyance. She’d known Marilla for every one of her twenty-one years, and there was no way she was the least bit distressed. She’d been trapped in a carriage with a duke, only to be deposited at the feet of two other titled gentlemen.

Please. This was Marilla’s wildest dream come true, and then inflicted upon the rest of them. Catriona looked over at Marilla’s older sister, Fiona, but whatever she was thinking, it was well hidden behind her spectacles.

“Bret,” said one of the men—the stiff and serious one who had already apologized six times.

The duke’s head snapped around, and Catriona saw his eyes widen. “Oakley?” he asked, sounding well and truly shocked.

Lord Oakley jerked his head toward Taran and said, “He’s our uncle.”

“Our?” the duke echoed.

Lord Rocheforte—or was it Mr. Rocheforte? Catriona didn’t know, he was French, for heaven’s sake, for all that he sounded British. Whoever he was, he clearly saw no gravity in the situation, for he just grinned and held up his hand. “Hallo, Bret,” he said in a jolly voice.

“Good God,” the duke swore. “You too?”

Catriona looked back and forth between the trio of men. They had that air about them—five hundred years of breeding and a membership to White’s. One didn’t have to venture far beyond the Highlands of Scotland to know that once one reached a certain social level, everyone knew everyone. These three had probably shared a room at Eton.

“Didn’t realize you were in Scotland,” Mr. Lord Rocheforte said to the duke.

The duke cursed under his breath, following that up with: “Forgot the two of you were related.”

“It still quite frequently comes as a shock to me, too,” Lord Oakley said in a dry voice. Then he cleared his throat and added, “I must apologize on behalf of my uncle.” He jerked his head furiously toward Taran. “Apparently, he—”