“Are you enjoying your breakfast?” she asked, turning to the well-laid sideboard. Whatever Taran Ferguson’s faults, he’d provided an excellent morning meal. There were two kinds of meat, eggs prepared three ways, salted herring, and toast and scones. And, of course, homemade butter and jam.

“In all honesty,” the duke said, “I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a breakfast more.”

“Mrs. McVittie is the best housekeeper in the district,” Catriona confirmed, loading her plate with food. “I don’t know why she stays at Finovair. Everyone is always trying to steal her away.”

“I recommend the scones,” Bretton said.

Catriona nodded as she took a seat across from him. “I always recommend Mrs. McVittie’s scones.”

“I wonder why we can’t get them right in England?” he mused.

“I shall not answer that,” Catriona said pertly, “for fear of insulting an entire country.”

He chuckled at that, as she’d hoped he would. She needed to keep this conversation light, her observations wry. If she could manage that, she could forget that less than twelve hours earlier, his lips had been on hers. Or at the very least, make him forget it.

It was going to be a very long few days if he thought she was pining after him. Good heavens, if he so much as thought she might be trying to trap him into marriage, he’d run screaming for the trees.

A distinctly non-noble Scotswoman and an English duke. It was ludicrous.

“You’ll have to pour your own tea,” the duke said with a nod toward the pot. “One of Ferguson’s . . . Well, I don’t know what you’d call him, certainly not a 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 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.