Regrettably, that hadn’t happened, though Marilla was only beginning to notice the lack of offers; her vanity was such that she deemed virtually all potential suitors beneath her notice.

“We have only a few days before the pass is cleared,” Fiona told Marilla, giving her hair a little tug to get her attention. “Perhaps three or four . . . five at the outside.”

“I know that,” her sister said, twitching her curl free.

“I have no doubt but that Rocheforte or Oakley will fall in love with you. But I would suggest that you make sure of the man before the three days are up.”

“Rocheforte?” Marilla snorted. “Granted, he is very handsome and he’s reputed to have a sportive disposition—in every way. But he could have fled back to France for all I’ve seen him. He hasn’t spent more than five minutes with us. ’Sides, I want a title. A real title, not some French sham.”

“All right, Oakley will fall in love with you,” Fiona said patiently. “But not unless you play your cards right.”

“Are you implying that I cannot do so?” Marilla cried. “That nun of an English heiress can’t hold a candle to me. Though I was shocked to see the duke fall prey to that dreadful Catriona Burns. I’ve never liked her.”

“I have always liked her,” Fiona said. “She’s exceedingly nice.”

“My point is that Oakley will not pose any particular challenge for me.”

“Of course not.” There was no point in taking issue with Marilla’s overweening self-regard. It was as infinite as a starry night. “Do try to control your temper. Be docile and chaste.”

“Why should I be docile? I hate to fawn over an Englishman. I—”

“Because you want to marry into the peerage,” Fiona interrupted. “The English aristocracy. Though I have to say that Rocheforte’s title is an ancient and honored one, not a sham in any sense of the word.”

“That’s right,” Marilla agreed, the little smile coming back to her mouth. “I do want to marry an aristocrat. But I don’t care how old Rocheforte’s title is. He could crawl on his knees across Scotland begging for my hand, and I wouldn’t marry him. The man was too superior to join us for games after supper. I’m sure I don’t know what right he has to be so haughty; the duke and the earl are perfectly happy to join us.”

“In order to marry the earl, you must be docile, courteous, and gentle, as in gentlewoman.” Fiona felt like a governess reciting the alphabet, but that was the reality of being Marilla’s older sister.

“Gentleness doesn’t suit me.” Marilla’s nose wrinkled. One thing you could say about her was that she did not bother to lie to herself.

“Pretend,” Fiona said, rather grimly. “No more behavior such as you exhibited last night.”

“Blindman’s buff invites that sort of playfulness,” Marilla said, with an edge to her voice. “You know how much I love frolics of that nature. Every man in the room tried to find me as soon as he had a blindfold over his eyes.” She squared her shoulders and readjusted the bodice on the ice blue gown she’d chosen from Taran’s ancient selection. “I think I would prefer to carry your reticule than mine. It would better suit the color of this gown. Give it to me, please.”

“I can’t seem to find it,” Fiona said. “I must have dropped it during the kidnapping. Or perhaps I left it in the carriage.”

Marilla raised an eyebrow. “Careless of you,” she drawled. But her eyes returned to the mirror. “These clothes are terribly old-fashioned, but I rather like them.”

“I didn’t think the neckline would be quite so low on you when I altered the gown,” Fiona said, wondering how shocked the room would be if Marilla bared a breast to all and sundry.

“Actually, you didn’t do an adequate job altering the dress, so I had to adjust it myself,” Marilla replied, carefully arranging a long, silky ringlet so that it lay in the valley between her breasts.

“Be careful with your tone,” Fiona warned. “I’m no subservient Cinderella here to do your bidding. I sewed on your gown all morning so that you wouldn’t be stalking the castle half-naked, but if you are rude about it, I shan’t even thread a needle tomorrow.”

Marilla glared back. “You want me to marry, if you remember. It’s to your benefit that I leave the house, so that you can have Father all to yourself.”

“And I would remind you that you want to be married,” Fiona replied. “So kindly remember not to gesture too enthusiastically. Your bodice may well lose its claims to propriety.”

“I doubt it.”

“From all I’ve heard, Englishmen like their wives chilly and chaste.”

“That puts you out of the hunt,” Marilla said with a spiteful giggle. “I’m sure they already know all about you and your infamous bedchamber window.”

“Perhaps,” Fiona said. “But it would be better for you if the news doesn’t leak out.”

“You tarnish my reputation just by existing, do you know that?”

“So you have reminded me, many times,” Fiona said, adding, “You sound like a shrew, rather than the docile virgin you should be playing.”

“I am a virgin,” Marilla retorted. “Which is more than I can say for you!” She turned up her nose and flew out the door in a flutter of skirts.

Fiona lingered for a moment to look in the glass.

The clothing she’d found in her wardrobe actually flattered her. She had a figure meant for gowns that hugged her curves in a way that current fashion did not; the tiny velvet balls that adorned the snugly fitted bodice and danced along the curve of her breasts were a particularly nice touch. In fact, she looked better in this gown than she did in her usual garments. She fancied it would draw male eyes to her best features. What’s more, her skirts were a trifle short and revealed her ankles.

Not that anyone showed an inclination to gape at her ankles.

Fiona sighed and made her way down the wide stone steps leading to the great hall. A fire burned in the huge hearth, but the room was as echoing and cold as it had been the previous night. Even the ancient retainers who were knocking about last night seemed to have disappeared.

She hesitated for a moment, wondering where she might find the others, and was moving toward the drawing room door when she heard Marilla’s laughter.

There must be some other room to which she could retreat, perhaps a library or a study; she didn’t want to watch Marilla chase the earl around a sofa. Her sister apparently thought a man who displayed that kind of icy precision would make a complacent husband.

Oakley wouldn’t.

There was something buried and formidable about him, something that made all his control seem a façade. He would not be comfortable. She was sure of that. But she was also sure that if Marilla wanted him, she would take him.

When they were in London, Marilla was hemmed in by society’s strictures. But there was nothing to stop her here, in this isolated castle. Ever since she was a little girl, Marilla had taken whatever she wanted—including Fiona’s toys and Fiona’s clothing. Faced by a little angel with buttery curls, their father had always given in.

Just then Marilla burst out of the drawing room, but the smile dropped from her face the moment she saw Fiona. “Go away!” she hissed. “You’ll ruin everything. This bodice is a trifle chilly, so I’m going to fetch a shawl. Then I’m returning to the card game.”

“I’ll find the library,” Fiona said.

“Just stay in your chamber,” Marilla ordered. “The earl hasn’t come down since luncheon, but he is obviously very punctilious about his reputation. I don’t want him to recall that we’re sisters, in case he knows of your disgrace.”

The laird’s ancient butler emerged from the dining room on the far side of the great hall as Marilla trotted up the stairs. “May I be of assistance, miss?” he asked.

Fiona gave him a warm smile. “Could you advise me as to a room to which I might retire for a spell? The library, perhaps?”