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stared at her for a moment, then smiled, almost reluctantly. “I commend you
     on maintaining your good humor.”
    “There is nothing else to do,” she said with a shrug. “We are stuck here for the foreseeable
     future. It behooves no one to flounce about in hysterics.”
    He nodded approvingly, then said, “Still, the arrangement is unacceptable. I told
     Oakley you could have my room.”
    “Not to put too fine a point on it,” Catriona said, trying not to be delighted at
     his ire on her behalf, “but your room is his room, and the last thing he will wish
     to do is offend the dignity of a duke.”
    “I have been kidnapped by a caber-wielding relic,” Bretton muttered. “My dignity has
     already suffered a mortal blow.”
    Catriona tried not to laugh; she really did.
    “Oh, go ahead,” he told her.
    She brought her serviette to her lips, smothered her giggle, then adopted a most serious
     expression before saying, “It was a claymore, Your Grace, not a caber.”
    “There’s a difference?”
    “If Hamish had been wielding a caber, you’d hardly be talking about it over breakfast.”
    He stared at her blankly.
    “It’s a log, Your Grace. A log . And it’s not really used for fighting. We just like to toss them about. Well, the
     men do.”
    A good long moment passed before Bretton said, “You Scots have very strange games.”
    Her brows rose daringly, then she turned back to her tea.
    “What does that mean?” he demanded.
    “I’m sure I have no idea what you are talking about.”
    “That look ,” he accused.
    “Look?” she echoed.
    His eyes narrowed. “You don’t think I can toss a caber.”
    “Well, I know I can’t toss a caber.”
    “You’re a woman ,” he sputtered.
    “Yes,” she said.
    “I can toss a bloody caber.”
    She arched a brow. “The question would really be, how far?”
    He must have realized he’d begun to resemble a strutting peacock, because he had the
     grace to look a little bit sheepish. And then he completely surprised her by saying,
     “A few inches, at the very least.”
    Catriona held her supercilious expression for precisely two seconds before she lost
     control entirely and burst out laughing. “Oh my,” she gasped, wiping her eyes. “Oh
     my.”
    Which was precisely the moment Marilla chose to enter the dining room. Marilla, who
     Catriona was certain rarely rose before noon. Clearly, someone had tipped her off
     that the duke was an early riser.
    “You’re very jolly, Catriona,” Marilla said. Although from Marilla’s lips, it sounded
     more like an accusation.
    Catriona opened her mouth to reply, but anything that might have resembled an intelligent
     comment died upon her lips. For Marilla had abandoned her thoroughly impractical evening
     dress in favor of a heavy brocade gown dating from sometime in the prior century.
    Not that that would have given Catriona pause. She was all for making do, and if Taran’s wardrobes
     contained nothing but leftovers from Georgian times, then so be it. But Marilla had
     chosen a dress of the deepest, darkest, most sensual red, with a tightly corseted
     waist and a square-cut neckline that dipped far lower than it ought.
    “Isn’t it lovely?” Marilla said, smoothing her hand along the skirt. “There was an
     entire trunk full of gowns in the attic. One of Taran’s men brought it down.”
    Catriona just stared, speechless. As for the duke, he couldn’t seem to take his eyes
     off Marilla’s breasts, which trembled like barely set custard with every movement.
     Catriona would have been irritated, except that she couldn’t take her eyes off them,
     either. They had been pushed up so high the tops had gone completely flat. She could
     have balanced a dinner plate on them without losing a crumb.
    “Marilla,” Catriona suggested, “perhaps you should . . . er . . .”
    “I couldn’t possibly wear the same gown two days in a row,” Marilla remarked.
    Catriona, clad in the same green velvet she’d