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footman
     . . .”
    “Men,” Catriona said.
    The duke looked up at her, clearly startled.
    “One of his men,” she said quickly. “That’s what he calls them. I don’t think there’s
     a one below the age of sixty, but they are fiercely loyal.”
    “Indeed,” Bretton said in a very dry tone.
    “Loyal enough to steal women from a ballroom,” Catriona said for him, for surely that
     was what he had meant.
    Bretton looked to his left and then his right, presumably to make sure none of Taran’s
     men were in earshot. “Whatever he wishes to call the gentleman who was here earlier,
     I would not trust his grizzled hands to aim the tea into the cup.”
    “I see,” Catriona murmured, and she reached out to pour for herself.
    “It is probably no longer hot,” the duke said.
    “I shall endure.”
    He smiled faintly into his own teacup.
    “Would you like some more?” Catriona asked. At his nod, she refilled his cup with
     the lukewarm tea, then set about spreading jam on her scone.
    “Did you sleep well?” he asked.
    “No,” she answered, “but I did not expect to.” She would not complain about having
     been put in a maid’s room. In truth, she’d been grateful just to get a bed; she’d
     been half expecting Taran to try to stick her out in the stables. Still, the tiny
     garret room had lacked a fireplace, and although Lord Oakley had handed her three
     blankets, they were all quite thin.
    At least with Mrs. McVittie as the housekeeper, Catriona could be assured that the
     mattress was aired out and clean. Bedbugs truly would have been the final insult.
    “And you, Your Grace? Did you sleep well?” she asked politely. He’d been given Lord
     Oakley’s room, which had to have been more comfortable than hers. Certainly not up
     to ducal standards, but still, presumably the best that Finovair had to offer.
    “I’m afraid not, but as you said, I shall endure.” The duke cut off a piece of bacon,
     ate it, and then asked, “Is it always this cold?”
    “In December?” Her lips parted with surprise . . . and perhaps a bit of disappointment.
     Surely he had not just asked her such a stupid question. And here she’d been thinking
     she rather liked the highborn Englishman. “Er, yes.”
    He did not so much roll his eyes as flick them upward in impatience. “No, I meant here . At Finovair. I was shivering all night.”
    “Didn’t you have a fire in your room?”
    “Yes, but I fear it was a mirage. And it was dead by morning.”
    Catriona gave him a sympathetic nod. “My father says it’s why Scots marry young.”
    At this, the duke paused. “I beg your pardon?”
    “For warmth,” she clarified. “It’s tremendously difficult to heat these old castles.
     I usually sleep with my dog.”
    Bretton nearly spit out his tea.
    “Laugh all you want,” Catriona said with an arch little smile, “but Limmerick weighs
     seven stone. He’s like a giant furry hot water bottle that never goes cold.”
    “Limmerick?”
    She turned back to her food. “My grandfather was Irish.”
    “Since I can only assume Ferguson did not loose the dogs on you,” Bretton said dryly,
     “were you warm enough last night?”
    “Not really.” She shrugged, resigned to her fate. “I’m in a maid’s room. No fireplace,
     I’m afraid. And, as you surmised, no dog.”
    His expression turned ominous. “You were put in the servants’ hall?”
    “ ‘Hall’ might be a bit of a stretch,” Catriona demurred.
    “Bloody . . . sorry,” the duke apologized, but not before Catriona heard the beginnings
     of “hell.” “I will speak to Oakley immediately,” he said. “I will not have you insulted
     by—”
    “It’s hardly an insult,” she interrupted. “No more so, at least, than being informed
     I was kidnapped by accident.” She set down her toast and regarded him with an arched
     brow. “If I must go through the bother of being kidnapped, I should have liked it
     to have been deliberate.”
    The duke