When, near the end, Marilla bid a kiss to retrieve her hank of hair and Taran was the only man who took her up on it, she was a good enough sport not to pout but to give as good as she got—and Cecily was surprised at how good what she got looked to be.

Finally, only Cecily’s shawl remained on the table.

“Do tell us what wondrous thing you have there, Comte,” Miss Burns encouraged.

“This?” Robin said softly. For a moment he simply ran a finger along the velvet nape, his expression softening. He lifted it up, swishing it lightly in the air. “This is most rare, indeed. A relic, in fact.”

“But what is it?” Fiona asked, dimpling.

“I believe this once cloaked the form of a creature as rare in these parts as hen’s teeth.”

Cecily’s heart began beating faster. His voice was warm and sad, wry and bittersweet.

“What creature is that?” Marilla asked.

“Why the Angliae optimatium heres.”

“What’s that?” Taran demanded.

“The English heiress,” Fiona translated with a laugh.

Cecily felt warmth rise in her cheeks and looked away.

“Rob!” Oakley said in a low voice. “You’ve embarrassed Lady Cecily with your reference to her wealth.”

The smile stiffened on Robin’s dark, handsome countenance. “That was never my aim,” he said. His gaze caught Cecily’s and he inclined his head. “My pardon, Lady Cecily. But you must certainly know that your value far exceeds anything that can be counted in coin.”

“Fine,” Marilla broke in abruptly, “Robin’s made a pretty apology. Now who is going to bid on that?”

“I’ll kiss Miss Marilla Chisholm for it,” Taran offered.

Marilla giggled.

Catriona raised her voice and said, “What of you, Rocheforte? I heard no rule against the auctioneer bidding, and you have yet to do so. Surely you must want to possess so rare a relic?”

She caught Cecily’s eye, her own shining with a teasing light.

Cecily’s heart trip-hammered in her chest and she found herself holding her breath, waiting for Robin’s reply.

He had gone very still at Catriona’s words, staring at the tawdry piece of cloth he held as though it were gossamer that might dissolve before his eyes. Carefully, almost reverently, he replaced it on the table, smoothing a fold away. He looked up.

“I am afraid I have nothing of value with which to barter, Miss Burns. Neither goods nor talents.”

Cecily’s heartbeat slowed to a dull, heavy thud as her throat constricted with tears she refused to shed.

Catriona frowned, her expression uncertain. “Surely there is something . . .”

He shook his head. “Nothing. Besides, the point is moot. I would never aspire to something so far above my touch.”

So that was it, then. He could not be more clear: she’d receive no offer of marriage from Robin.

She didn’t even realize she had stood until the book she’d won dropped from her lap. And then she was running out the door, Catriona Burns calling after her.

Catriona.

But not Robin.







Chapter 27

Cecily avoided the stairs; she couldn’t go to her room. Kindhearted Catriona Burns was bound to look for her there, and Cecily did not think she could face the other girl’s pity. Better to be unavailable until she could mask her heartbreak.

Instead, she headed for the small family chapel next to the great hall, one of the few other public rooms still in use in this part of the castle, though gauging from the dust on the pew cushions, “use” was a relative word. Like many castle chapels, it rose two stories tall, its height divided horizontally by a small second-floor balcony that overlooked the altar so that the lord and lady could attend daily services directly from their chambers. A wooden staircase led to the balcony so Cecily climbed it, not wanting to be seen by anyone passing the door opening onto the corridor.

The dust lay even thicker above than below, coating a pair of wingback chairs set well back from the wooden rail and a bench that might have served the lord’s children, which now lay toppled on its side. Cecily sought refuge in one of the oversized chairs, curling her feet beneath her and huddling deep into the corner.

What was she to do now? How was she to return to her former life and go about the business of choosing a husband, when the only husband she wanted would not court her? She had done everything she could to charm, beguile, and befriend Robin. Nothing remained in her arsenal of feminine weapons.

Since birth, she’d been taught that whatever a lady wanted, she must wait until it was given, be it a pony, a dress, a party, or a husband . . .

Not that a lady need be entirely passive. But Cecily hadn’t been. She had followed Robin, kissed him, worn boy’s clothing, tried to rouse his jealousy in her pursuit of him. What more could she do?

And why would he not propose? Because she was too rich, too English? Because he was too poor, his title too French? Because she was a virgin, or because he was so patently not a virgin . . . None of that mattered. The only reason she would accept was that he did not love her. But he did! She knew it. Her heart could not be so blind, her soul so deaf. When he had looked at her this evening across the room, the pitiful shawl in his hands, she had been as certain of his feelings as she was of her own . . .

“No! I’ll not be quiet!”

Cecily lifted her head from her arms. The voice from directly below her had been Taran’s.

“Then at least do me the courtesy of coming in here and not shouting so that all the world might hear you!”

Cecily froze. Robin.

“Why should you care?” Taran demanded, his voice growing louder as he entered the chapel. “The world already knows you’re a heartless bastard. Nothing I can say will surprise a one of them.”

Robin’s reply was terse and unintelligible.

“I know you and Byron think I’m nothing but a half savage,” Taran went on, “but at least I don’t reduce lassies to tears.”

“Do you think I enjoyed that?” Robin ground out.

“How could a man tell with you? Always ready with a quip and a laugh, and all the while the lassie looking as pale as the survivor of a massacre.”

“You overstate the case.” His tone was thick with emotion.

“The hell I do!” Taran shouted. “That she has feelings for you is as clear as fresh blood on new snow . . .” He trailed off and when he spoke again, his tone had changed from bombast to true shock. “Dear God, laddie, ye dinna actually seduce the poor wee creature? I know I encouraged you to do so, but only if you had honorable intentions. If you dinna plan to marry the girl, then you are a bloodier blackguard than I—”

“Stop! I did not seduce her!” Robin thundered. “For the love of all that’s holy, what do you take me for?’

“Who you are,” Taran snapped in reply. “What you are.”

For a moment Robin was absolutely silent. Carefully, Cecily shifted in the chair, craning toward the rail to hear better.

“My past has nothing to do with Cecily and myself,” Robin said. “I would never do anything to harm her. Never.”

Cecily’s heart began to beat faster. She slipped from the chair to her hands and knees and crept to the rail to look down. Below, she could see Taran standing halfway down the short aisle leading to the altar. Before him, black curls gleaming in the afternoon light streaming through the chapel’s rose window, Robin paced like a caged beast.

“Cecily, is it?’ Taran asked musingly. “Well, it looks like for all your proposed good intentions, you’ve mucked up a grand bit, laddie, for the lady is heartsore and that’s a surety.”

“No,” Robin said emphatically. “She’s not.”

What did he mean? How could he make such an assumption?

“You’re wrong,” Taran said flatly. “I saw her watching you this afternoon. She could fain take her eyes from you.”

“No.” Robin stopped pacing, raking his hair back with his hand. The very set of his shoulders suggested resignation and weariness. “This afternoon I asked her to pretend that she loved a man like me and tell me how her father would react if that man asked for her hand.”

“And?” Taran prompted.

“She said the point was moot, because she would never ask her father to approve someone like me.”

What? No. No. She hadn’t! Cecily’s brows furrowed, thinking back fiercely, trying to recall her exact words before Marilla, with her impeccable sense of timing, had interrupted them. Robin had just said, “Let us say you are in love with someone of my ilk,” and she had agreed, and then he had asked how her father would react and . . .

Her eyes flew wide. She had said the point was moot, and been about to say she would not ask her father’s permission because the only thing that mattered was if he loved her. But those words were not what Robin’s imagination had supplied. He had heard what he thought he deserved to hear.