The Lady Most Willing

Chapter 1

Finovair Castle

Kilkarnity, Scotland

December 1819

“Remind me again, why are we here?”

Byron Wotton, Earl of Oakley, took a fortifying gulp of his whiskey and nudged his chair closer to the fire. Castles were notoriously difficult to heat, but it was bloody freezing at Finovair. He knew his uncle was short on funds, but surely something could have been done about the arctic breeze that ran like a snake through the sitting room.

“I believe you left a woman at the altar,” his cousin Robin said with an arched brow.

“We were a month away from the wedding,” Byron shot back, perfectly aware that he had risen—or rather, descended—to Robin’s bait. “As well you know.”

He might have pointed out that he’d caught his fiancée in the arms of her dancing master, but really, what was the point? Robin knew the whole story already.

“As for me,” Robin said, leaning forward to rub his hands together near the fire, “I’m here for the food.”

Anyone else might have taken it as the dry riposte Robin had intended it to be, but Byron knew better. With nothing to his name but a defunct French title, Robert Parles (Robin to everyone but his mother), quite likely had come to Finovair for the food.

A rush of cold air hit Byron in the face, and he bit off a curse. “Did someone leave a window open?” he asked, scowling as he glanced around the room. The sun had gone down hours before, taking with it its pathetic delusion of warmth.

Byron stomped to his feet and crossed the room to inspect the windows. Several were cracked. He peered out, into the worsening storm. Was someone out there? No, no one would be so mad as to—

“What happened to Uncle Taran?” Byron asked suddenly.

“Hmmm?” Robin had let his head loll against the back of his chair. He did not open his eyes.

“I haven’t seen him since supper. Have you?”

Robin snorted and sat up straighter. “You missed the show. After you went off to God knows where—”

“The library,” Byron muttered.

“—Taran got up on the table in his kilt. And let me tell you”—Robin gave a shudder—“that is not a kilt one cares to peer under.”

“He got up on the table?” Byron could not help but echo. It was outlandish, even for Uncle Taran.

Robin gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Some of his liegemen came to drink with him after supper, and the next thing I knew, he was on the table, thumping his chest and raving about the glories of the past, when men were men and Scottish men were thrice as manly. Then he called for his claymore and the whole lot of them disappeared.”

“You didn’t think to ask them where they were going?” Because that was the first thing Byron would have demanded.

Robin eyes met his with the barest hint of amusement. “No.”

Byron started to comment, but he was cut off by the welcome sound of their uncle, bellowing outside the castle.

“Speak of the devil,” Byron said, with some relief. Their uncle was a bosky nuisance, but neither of them wanted to find him facedown in a snowdrift.

“Best go drag him to the fire and thaw him out,” Robin said, putting down his glass. “Garvie says we’re in for a three-day blow.”

They left the great hall and pushed open the huge front door, where they discovered a small clutch of their uncle’s clansmen milling about the keep, thumping their chests and clapping one another on the back. They wore full Highland kit, kilts and fur cloaks, and the torches they carried sputtered beneath a thickening snowfall. Taran stood at their center, grinning like a madman.

“God, look at all those knees,” Robin murmured.

“Whose carriage is that?” Byron asked, peering at a gleaming black vehicle drawn up just where the torchlight gave way to darkness.

Taran pushed his way through his men. “I’ve brought you brides!” he shouted over his shoulder to his nephews. “Come out here, lasses!” He pulled open the door of the carriage with a flourish.

A fresh, pretty face appeared for a moment, and then a slender hand grasped the inside handle. “There are no brides here,” she said smartly. The door slammed shut.

Byron stared in shock. “Bloody hell!” he breathed. He looked at Robin. Even as his cousin’s brows rose, a smile was growing on his handsome face. “This is not amusing, Rob. That was a lady.”

“Damned right that was a lady,” Taran bellowed. “A spirited one, too. I got three of them with money, birth, and looks enough.” He pointed a gnarled finger at Robin. “You’ll pick one of these, nephew, or I’ll do it myself and lock the two of you in a room until you have to get married.” He glanced at Byron. “You might as well take one, too,” he added magnanimously.

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!”