The Lady Most Willing

Prologue

Some said the legendary storm of 1819 that screamed down from the north pushed madness ahead of it. Others said the only madness exhibited that night was born inside a bottle of contraband whiskey. And then there were those who claimed that magic rode vanguard to the snow, sweeping the halls of Finovair Castle and inspiring its laird to heights of greatness . . .

Or something along those lines.

All that’s known for certain is that it was a chilly December day when Taran Ferguson led his clansmen to the brow of a hill from which they could see Bellemere Castle glowing like a jewel in the dark Highland night. As his men told the story later, the wind whipped Taran’s tartan back from his shoulders as he forced his steed to paw the air, then brought the magnificent beast back down to earth.

Nearly disbalanced, ’tis true, but that was part of the miracle: he’d drunk a bottle of whiskey and kept his seat.

“A glorious and sacred task lays ahead of us this night,” he bellowed. “Our cause is just, our purpose noble! Down yonder sits the Earl of Maycott . . . The English Earl of Maycott!”

This brought forth a roar from his men. And perhaps a belch or two.

“He sits amongst his gold cups and fine china,” Taran continued grandiosely, “seeking to worm his way into our good graces by bidding the finest Highland families to dine and dance with him.”

His clansmen glowered back at him: none of them, including Taran, had been invited. Not that they’d wanted to be. Or so they told themselves.

“No English interloper will seduce a Scottish lassie on my watch,” Taran shouted. “Scotland is for the Scots!”

There was another obligatory roar of approval from his men.

“Ye ken full well that I have been sowing wild oats since my dear wife died, some twenty years ago,” Taran continued. “But sadly, laddies, ye also know that none of those seeds bore fruit, for it takes a rich field indeed to nourish a seed as mighty as that of the Ferguson.” Taran had the good sense not to wait to see how this was received. “My line is threatened with extinction. Aye. Extinction! And where, I ask you, will you all be then? Where will your children be without a Ferguson laird to see to their well-being?”

“A better place than we are now,” one of the men muttered, pulling his tartan closer against the screaming wind.

Taran ignored him. “Yet all is not lost! You ken I have two nephews by my younger sisters.”

Unhappy mutters met this statement. One of Ferguson’s sisters had married a refugee from the French Revolution, a penniless comte. The other had wed an English earl who turned out to be as disagreeable as he was English.

Taran raised his hand, quieting the grumblers. “It’s the half-French one, Rocheforte, who’ll inherit my castle.” He paused dramatically. “Think on it, lads. If my Frenchie nephew marries a Scotswoman, his son will be one of us—a true Scotsman!!” He slashed the air with his broadsword so vehemently the momentum nearly carried him off his saddle, but at the last moment he righted himself. “Or mostly. And it’s the same for my English nevvy as well.”

“I’m sorry to tell you but the earl is engaged to an Englishwoman!” one of the men called out. “Me wife’s cousin lives in London and wrote about it to me wife.”

“Oakley was going to be wed,” Taran said briskly, “but he caught his intended practicing steps with her dancing master that were never meant to see a ballroom floor.” He paused dramatically. “Her French dancing master.”

“Didn’t you just say your other nephew is French?” one of his men asked, rubbing his hands on his kilt for warmth.

Taran brushed this aside. “It pains me to say it, but neither lad can be trusted to find a bride worthy of Finovair. And marry they must, or our birthright will crumble to dust.”

“Half there already,” someone muttered.

“It behooves us”—Taran paused, so pleased with the word he thought it bore repeating—“it behooves us, my fine companions, to make sure both my nevvies marry Scotswomen. Or at the very least, someone with enough blunt—”

“Get to the bloody point!” shouted someone with freezing fingers and a wife at home. “What are we doing here?”

No one could fault Taran for missing a good exit line. “What are we doing?” Taran bellowed back. “What are we doing?” He rose in his stirrups and, wielding the great broadsword of the Ferguson over his head, shouted,

“We’re going to get us some brides!”