This dinner, thought Alasdair Penhallow, was bizarre. During it, as one course succeeded another, he’d been stared at by his guests as if he were a puzzle to be worked out, a celestial visitation, an exotic and possibly dangerous wild beast, or a meal for a starving person.

He took a sip of wine and glanced around the high table. How odd to think that sitting here before him was the young lady who would become his wife. He wondered how long it would take for him to make his selection. Would he decide right away, or wait until the last minute? Luckily, no one could expect him to make a decision tonight, so he could, at least, look at them without raising expectations too high.

One thing was already obvious: they were four very different women.

Miss Mairi MacIntyre was a wee dainty lass, pretty as a princess, even to the sparkly tiara set in her golden locks. She sat to his immediate right, and shared her chair (and much of her food) with her asthmatic pug-dog, a friendly little beast whose overtures to Cuilean had been met with regal indifference.

Next to Mairi was Miss Janet Reid, whose emerald-green eyes shone and white teeth flashed. Attractive and vivacious, she seemed entirely at her ease, matching him glass for glass of wine, and exchanging endless jokes and banter across the table with Uncle Duff, who roared with laughter and sent speaking glances of approval to Alasdair.

To Duff’s left had been placed Miss Wynda Ramsay, clad in a daringly low-cut gown which flaunted a stupendous décolleté. She ignored Janet Reid’s spirited attempts to bring her into the conversation, saying, in a clear, carrying voice to her neighbor, “So vulgaire to parlay-voo sur la table! Il ne foo passie, don’t you agree, mein sherry Mademoiselle Douglass?”

Miss Fiona Douglass, the fourth candidate, seemed to jump at the sound of her surname, then turned to Wynda and said a little absently (in flawless French, unlike that of Wynda):

“Ce sont des circonstances extraordinaires, alors peut-être beaucoup plus doit être pardonné.”

These are extraordinary circumstances, so perhaps much must be forgiven. Alasdair repressed a sardonic snort of laughter as Wynda smiled and replied, with kindly condescension, “You speak French oossie! Trez bean! Quel bonheer!”

Janet Reid was less circumspect and did laugh heartily, although Wynda seemed oblivious as to the reason why. Alasdair directed his gaze again to Fiona Douglass. She was a striking woman—he supposed that could, at least, be said about her. She was unusually tall, and very slim, with thick straight hair of so pale a blonde that it seemed almost to have a silvery shimmer to it. Her eyes, big in her slender face and framed by long dark lashes, also defied simple classification, for they seemed to change color, much like a stormy sea or a sky roiled by strong winds. Just now they were a mysterious gray-blue, remote, aloof, as if she were—or rather wished herself to be—a thousand miles away.

She alone among the four gave the appearance of utter disinterest . . . in him? In the competition for his favor? Alasdair studied her curiously. She wasn’t his type at all. He preferred shorter, rounder lasses, with dark hair and laughing eyes, who were lively and sportive. Not ice maidens who looked at you, through you, like you didn’t even exist. That, he thought wryly, was an unusual experience for him.

Well, what did he care?

Fortunately, there were three other lasses who seemed to find him quite appealing.

Still, as he bent his head to courteously attend to a remark little Mairi was making, something about dancing and a ball (was she actually talking about glass slippers?), he wondered, just for a moment, exactly what it was that Miss Fiona Douglass was thinking about.

In her mind, Fiona was composing the letter she planned to write to Mother later that evening.

In this fashion Fiona passed the time agreeably enough, although as she was contemplating adding a border of crimson to the shawl she’d been knitting for Mother, and wondering if tomorrow she could start on a baby smock for Dallis, she became aware of a creeping sensation of being watched. She blinked, and realized that at her side was standing a thin, rather scrawny child of perhaps seven or eight years of age, whose pale blue eyes, with faint, almost transparent lashes, were fixed simultaneously upon herself and some other unknown object.

Fiona smiled. “Hello.”

“You face in the wrong direction, lady, you stare at the moon, ever changing,” intoned the little girl in a solemn voice.

Perplexed, Fiona caught at her small, grubby hand and clasped it in her own. “I understand you not, hinny.”

“You look but you do not see. Turn about, lady, turn about.”

From across the table Janet Reid gave another jolly laugh—reminding Fiona irritably of a braying donkey—and cried:

“We have a wee poetess among us! How charming! How inscrutable!”

The girl freed her hand from Fiona’s, and slowly twisted toward Janet. After an interval of silent observation, she said, “You leap, but should not. You go, but you ought not.”

Janet only laughed again, and Alasdair Penhallow said, “Away with you, little Sheila, for you disturb my guests. Return to your place at your table, and you’ll see that ices are shortly to be served.”

Suddenly Sheila looked like every other child who craves dessert. “Oh, laird, ’tis my very favorite,” she exclaimed, and hurried away at once.

“Ices,” Wynda Ramsay informed Fiona in a knowledgeable tone, “are the most fashionable goormandooze in London. The trez charmeent Prince Regent is said to be particularly fond of pistachio ice.”

“I see,” said Fiona politely (although in fact she could not have cared less), then looked at her pretty, gold-rimmed plate as if seeing it for the first time. She had to admit—in another surprise—that dinner had been a most elegant experience, quite surpassing even the most formal meals served at home, where one could count on mutton being served every day: boiled, broiled, braised, baked, fried, stewed, and, occasionally, fricasseed. She had enjoyed every bite of her cold pheasant pie, and the poulets aux champignons, garnished with a delicate watercress sauce, also were delicious. Perhaps she could get the recipe from the cook. Something else to do tomorrow. She added it to her mental list.

When at last dinner was over, the annoyingly jocund old man with the preposterous beard, Duff MacDermott, uncle to Alasdair Penhallow and apparently in charge of herding them around like farm animals, announced that each of the young ladies was to have time to privately converse with the laird—with himself and at least one chaperone, of course, at a discreet remove.

“Oh! A teet-à-teet! C’est amoosing!” gaily said Wynda Ramsay, and Mairi MacIntyre asked, in her soft, sweet voice, if both her parents might sit by as chaperones, and could she bring along darling Pug?

“As you wish, my dear,” Duff MacDermott answered jovially. He shook the crumbs from his beard and glanced speculatively around the high table. “Miss Fiona, may I escort you, the laird, and Miss Isobel to the Great Drawing-room?”

Yes, get the least likely candidate over with first, thought Fiona cynically, and, placing her linen napkin next to her plate, stood up without haste. She resisted the temptation to paraphrase the famous line from Macbeth and say, Lay on, MacDermott, and merely nodded. As their little group—preceded by servants bearing candelabra—made their way along a long gallery whose walls were hung with dozens and dozens of portraits, Fiona glanced left and right at them, aware, to her chagrin, that she and Cousin Isobel surely made a comically odd pair: herself so tall and thin, Isobel so short and plump. Nor did Isobel improve things by the manner in which she was discreetly, but continually, scratching at her flea-bites which, by the look of things, covered her from head to toe.

When at length their party entered the drawing-room Fiona had to suppress a gasp of further astonishment: never in her life had she seen such an elegant, such an exquisite chamber, from the handsome array of sofas, chairs, and tables, all arranged so as to encourage easy conversation among small groups, to the luxurious tasseled window-hangings of dark green velvet and the many works of art, both paintings and sculptures, in sizes large and small, that were placed everywhere about to best advantage.

Briefly she envisioned the saloon at home that served as their drawing-room—darkly wainscoted, low-ceilinged, incurably draughty, roastingly hot when one sat near the fire, and frigidly cold when one stepped ten paces back—and she couldn’t help but contrast it unfavorably to this warm, gracious, light-filled room.

And yet . . . and yet there was something about it which baffled her, though she could not, at the moment, specify what exactly it was.

“You stare, Miss Fiona, and why not?” said Duff MacDermott. “Here you see the hand of the laird’s mother—my sister, God rest her soul. According to common report, it was his father—my brother-in-law, may he also rest in peace—who undertook the renovations you’ll see everywhere, but it was really Gormelia. Never happier than when she was having old curtains ripped down and new ones put up, and fancy new dishes brought in by the hundreds!” He chuckled, which made his beard ripple in an undeniably fascinating way. “She’s probably redecorating heaven as we speak, and telling Saint Peter he needs a modish new desk at the Pearly Gates! I suppose,” he added thoughtfully, “she did so much here in the castle, during her day, there’ll be little for the laird’s new wife to do, beyond producing offspring, of course.”

“Of course,” echoed Fiona, sardonically. “And I’m sure the castle practically runs itself.”

“Now, now, don’t trouble your head with domestic affairs, my dear,” he said with an avuncular condescension that made Fiona’s teeth grit. “Come! The laird’s waiting for you.”

With what struck her as overdone courtliness, MacDermott proceeded to usher her to a tasteful little sofa near the cozily crackling fire, and drew Cousin Isobel away to a seat on the opposite side of the room. Fiona sat, and, opposite her, so did Alasdair Penhallow. Stubbornly she gazed at the leaping flames within the hearth. Here she was, just as she’d angrily remarked last week to Father, on display like some poor dumb animal before a reprobate.

Even though—she now realized—she’d mixed up her metaphors, it was a ridiculous situation. And a demeaning one.

She sat very straight. Set her lips firmly together. Thought of other things.

• Go to stables tomorrow—all well with Gealag? Our other horses?
• Check on carriage also. Fleas. How to treat?
• Cook re: recipes
• Find something to read. Library here?
• Write to Dallis & Rossalyn

“We ought, perhaps, to have some conversation.”

His voice was deep, calm, pleasant.

Unwillingly, Fiona was jolted back into the present moment. She tore her gaze away from the fire.

So here, sitting across from her, was the infamous laird of Castle Tadgh.

He was tall (but not as tall as Logan Munro), and his shoulders were, she supposed, broad enough (though not as broad as Logan’s). Altogether he had a big, lean, active sort of look about him, and wore with casual distinction the traditional evening wear of black coat, black breeches, and black stockings, with the usual white waistcoat and a white cravat, tied gracefully and without ostentation. But goodness, that dark red hair, clipped very short, and those ordinary brown eyes!

Oh, well, perhaps not completely ordinary: they did seem rather brilliantly alive, with an unusual kind of yellow-gold gleam to them, and he had nice dark eyelashes and strongly marked dark eyebrows. Still, what was red hair to black hair, brown eyes to deep dark ones? He really wasn’t her type at all.

Nonetheless, Fiona had a sudden, unexpected pang of self-conscious regret over the gown she had deliberately worn, a severely cut, rather high-necked, somewhat dated dress of a nondescript blue color. Then again, what did it matter? Composedly she folded her hands in her lap. “Conversation, laird?” she replied coolly. “To what end?”

His expression of polite interest gave way to one of mild surprise. “Why, so we might get to know one another a little better.”

“With respect, laird, I’ve no desire to know you better. All I ask is that you make your choice as soon as possible, so that I might return home.”

“You do not wish to be my wife?”

“No.”

He lifted one dark eyebrow, and said lazily, easily, in his deep voice, “You do not find my person comely?”

Fiona found herself leaning back, as if retreating from what felt like a wave of pure masculine charm, warm and seductive. She’d had her fill of that from Logan. “Not particularly.”

“You are blunt.”

“I beg your pardon. Would you prefer the social lie?”

Instead of answering her question, he posed one of his own. “What sort of man do you find attractive?”

An all-too-familiar image flashed into her head and just as quickly she banished it. “It’s not relevant.”

He said nothing, only eyed her appraisingly for several deliberate moments. “You are twenty-seven, I believe, Miss Douglass?”

“Yes.”

“And unmarried. Why?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“You also have three younger sisters who all are married.”

She gave him a challenging glance. “How came you to know that?”

“We have a resident authority on such matters. No doubt you’ll meet her by and bye.”

“I’d rather be gone before that happens.” Fiona sat up straight again and spoke with a new earnestness. “See here, laird. We both know you don’t want me, and that I don’t want you. Let’s spare each other all these false courtship rituals. I’ll bide my time, and you can have fun watching the other three jump through your hoops.”

“Yes, you’re very blunt. What makes you think I don’t want you?”

Fiona smiled at him humorlessly. “Do you?” She watched as he shifted in his seat, as those dark brows drew together. Finally he leaned against the cushions of the sofa on which he sat, and crossed one leg over the other, his expression now one of relaxed alertness.

She thought of a cat, playing with a mouse, and firmly set her jaw.

“Your father, so I’ve heard, is a hard man,” Alasdair Penhallow remarked.

She was thrown for a moment by the change of subject. Then, cautiously: “Yes, he can be very hard indeed. But he’s also a canny chieftain. It’s thanks to his diligence that our clan thrives in many ways.”

“I’ve heard that too. Still, some women, under such circumstances, might be eager to make a new home elsewhere.”

“Yes, some women might, I suppose.”

“Especially if that home was a fine one.”

“An added inducement for some, perhaps,” she said coldly.

“Don’t you want children, Miss Fiona Douglass?”

She considered prevaricating, but it really didn’t seem worth the trouble. “Yes.”

“Well, then?”

“I’ll not marry only for that reason.”

“Don’t you think you ought to hurry, at your age?”

His voice was not unkind. It was even gentle. But still his words stung. “All the more reason to choose one of the others,” she snapped. “As you’ve no doubt observed, they’re considerably younger than I am.”

“I have observed that, yes.”

“And yet you sit here wasting your time with me.”

“Wasting my time? Hardly. I find you very . . . entertaining.”

Fiona could feel a hot, angry flush overtaking her face and throat, and she recalled Mother’s breathless report from a few weeks ago:

Alasdair Penhallow has been scandalizing the Eight Clans for years with his disgraceful behavior. Not just on special occasions but every day! Consuming spirits to excess, presiding over debaucheries, and so on! A monster of irresponsibility!

“Yes,” she said to him now, her voice full of pointed meaning, “I understand that you’re very fond of . . . entertainment, laird.”

Those brows drew together again. “And what might you mean by that, miss?”

“It would hardly be maidenly of me to say.”

“You needn’t spare me. I have no delicate sensibilities.”

“Obviously.” Fiona permitted herself a slight, a very slight sneer.

He leaned forward, frowning. “What in the devil’s name are you insinuating?”

“I’ve heard some things about your . . . habits, laird, which would hardly inspire in a rational woman an ambition to become your wife.”

“Are you criticizing me? You don’t even know me.”

“Nor do I want to. We’ve come full circle, haven’t we?” Fiona smiled triumphantly, as if she had scored a well-deserved point. And indeed, she could almost feel the tension in those broad shoulders of his as he said, slowly:

“You give the distinct impression, miss, of being a shrew.”

“I haven’t the slightest interest in what you think of me.”

“I pity the man who marries you.”

“As long as we’ve established it won’t be you, you may disburse your pity as freely as you like.”

“Although now I begin to wonder why any man would want to.”

“Now who’s being blunt, laird?” It gave Fiona what did seem like slightly juvenile satisfaction to have shaken him from his posture of calm politeness, but he certainly deserved it, for his gibe about her age if nothing else. Deliberately, even a little ostentatiously, she settled herself into the corner of the sofa. Ugh. The pillow there was as stiff as a block of wood, and its elaborate beaded decorations pressed uncomfortably into her spine. All in all, a stupid pillow. It looked good, but felt bad. No doubt an acquisition of the Penhallow’s sainted mother. Fiona jabbed her elbow into it, then looked measuringly at Alasdair Penhallow. Now that they’d cleared the air between them—in a manner of speaking—she couldn’t resist satisfying her curiosity. “So did you ride your horse all throughout this castle?”

His frown deepened. “I beg your pardon?”

“It was just something I heard.” Then Fiona remembered the other part of the story. That he’d done it stark naked. My, my. It was one thing to hear gossip when the person it was about was elsewhere; it was another thing entirely to think about that person without any clothes on when he was sitting right across from you. And even when that person wasn’t your type and you didn’t like him but he was still a tall, broad-shouldered, muscular man, who seemed to literally radiate provocative virility . . .

A hot red flush suffused not just Fiona’s face, but her neck and chest, too. Resisting a powerful, even desperate urge to fan herself with her hand, guiltily she met his eyes, those brilliant amber eyes, and saw that he was looking at her with a hard quizzical gleam in them.

“You heard that I rode my horse here? Inside Castle Tadgh?”

Fiona cleared her throat a little. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“On a dare.”

“On a dare as a grown man?”

“Uh . . . yes.”

“And you think I’d do it? Likely breaking the spirit of my horse by forcing it to do such a thing, and quite possibly risking its life for a prank?”

Well, when he put it that way . . . And clearly it would be a bad idea to mention the part about him not wearing any clothes. Fiona now felt more than a little foolish. Plus, that horrible red flush was still making her feel like someone had been poking at her with a lit candle. So she took refuge in prim hostility again.

“Since I don’t know you, laird, it’s not unreasonable to suppose you capable of anything.”

Now he smiled at her in a way she didn’t like one bit.

“I don’t know you either, Miss Douglass, but to be listening to gossip? And you such a mature woman, too. I’d never have credited it.”

“I notice you didn’t deny it,” she snapped, nettled despite herself.

“Since you seem to have an active imagination, I’ll let you decide for yourself.”

Oh, splendid. It was as if he was making her picture him stark naked on a horse. With a flash of temper Fiona got to her feet. “Well!” she said, with an affability that was utterly false. “This has been instructional, laird, hasn’t it? Now, if you’ll excuse my cousin and me . . . ? I’m sure those other young ladies are simply champing at their bits for their time with you. An apt metaphor, don’t you agree, for are they not creatures to be bought and sold?”

“I will excuse you with pleasure,” said Alasdair Penhallow, his smile a little grim, standing up as well.

She dipped a little curtsy and left the room with long strides. That same feeling of mildly spiteful satisfaction remained even as she had to endure the breathless chatter of Cousin Isobel, who struggled to keep up with her along the various passageways to their rooms.

“Oh! That insufferable Duff MacDermott! I simply observed what a handsome couple you and Alasdair Penhallow make, and he had the gall to—I wish you would slow down, Fiona dear! Why must you lope so? It’s not at all proper, I do assure you!—What was I saying? Oh, yes, that dreadful man, and his beard! I could barely keep my eyes from it the entire time. Why, he scratched at it in the most vulgar way!”

A sidelong glance revealed to Fiona that Cousin Isobel was herself digging her fingers into her armpits, but nobly she refrained from comment.

“This castle is massive, is it not? Oh, my dear, what a thing to be mistress of it! Are you quite sure we ought to go left here? Yes? Well, thank goodness you remember where they placed us! Isn’t that a magnificent hanging? How ancient it looks, yet so well-preserved! But I haven’t yet told you what that MacDermott said! He commented that you and the laird seemed a most ill-suited couple, with such very different temperaments! The cheek of that man!”

Fiona caught at Cousin Isobel’s arm and steered her away from going into someone else’s room. “He’s right, you know.”

Her cousin fairly quivered with outrage. “Nonsense! Such matters can’t be deduced so quickly! Although with dear Logan and yourself, of course—but that’s neither here nor there! Do slow down, Fiona dear! Else I fear a palpitation may come on, which would never do, as we’ve so much planned for tomorrow! Have you heard? An excursion to the Keep o’ the Mòr, an old monastery. Isn’t that delightful?”

“I adore crumbling ruins,” answered Fiona sarcastically, “as every female must. If we’re lucky, there will be a hermit, or possibly even a ghost or two.”

“Oh, no, do you think so? A ghost, really? Surely not, in this day and age! But a hermit would be most interesting! I’ve always longed to see one. What on earth do they eat, do you suppose? And how do they protect their clothing from the damp? It seems terribly unhealthy. But what was I saying? Oh! Yes! Of course Laird Penhallow will choose you, for you are infinitely superior to those other girls.”

“Well, I’m certainly taller than them. Here’s your door, Cousin. Good night.” Fiona practically bundled Isobel into her room, and swiftly went on to her own, sorry she had neglected to bring her knitting from home, and that she had finished the two books she’d brought along with her. It was going to be a long night. But then, they all were.

Later, much later that evening, Alasdair lay with his head resting on interlaced fingers and his elbows akimbo. He was a big man, but even so his own self took up but little space within the great laird’s bed. Four massive oaken posts, carved long ago, upheld a canopy and looped hangings of rich cream-colored linen, upon which had been skillfully embroidered figures of falcons, hawks, eagles, does and stags, foxes and wildcats. At this canopy Alasdair gazed unseeingly, for he was thinking about the four women.

About Wynda of the extraordinary bosom, so generously displayed, he could only wonder what exactly was the jewel on her pendant necklace, it having disappeared like a climber descending between two close-set boulders. He supposed she had talked to him in the drawing-room, but for better or for worse he retained nothing, as he had primarily exerted himself not to stare at her deeply fascinating balconniere.

Little Mairi had told him, in considerable detail, about her dog: where he slept (on his very own pillow, right next to hers), what he ate, when he evacuated his bowels, his fear of squirrels, his hatred of baths, his love for a nice marrow-bone.

Green eyes sparkling, Janet was full of enthusiasm for the morrow’s outing. “An ancient monastery!” she’d cried, clapping her hands. “What fun! I simply adore old ruins, the more ramshackle the better! Oh, I do hope there are ghosts. Or a hermit at the very least!”

He had been obliged to inform her that the keep was entirely free of hermits, and as for ghosts, he had yet to encounter one there.

Janet had been only temporarily daunted, and smilingly said: “Still, it sounds wonderfully romantic! So Gothic! How I look forward to exploring every inch of it! Now! I want to hear all about you, laird!”

Now that was the right sort of lass, positive and friendly, excited about visiting a local landmark, a good conversationalist, and all soft and plump and round, like a ripe hothouse peach.

As opposed to the prickly, sharp-tongued, aloof Miss Fiona Douglass. Her eyes, when they spoke, had been suddenly, strikingly blue against the drabber blue of her gown—and practically crackling with fiery intelligence.

She was not uninteresting.

But God’s blood, she’d be a handful for a man.

Some other man. Not him.

He liked his private life to be easy, predictable, as smooth as silk. And nothing about Fiona Douglass suggested smooth, easy predictability.

Besides, she’d made it clear she didn’t want him, either.

He wondered again why she was still unmarried. Was there, perhaps, a swain anxiously waiting for her back in Wick Bay?

Oh well, it wasn’t his problem.

So now there was one lass crossed off his list.

Still, there was no point in saying anything to her about it. No use in sending her home early, under a cloud of humiliation.

He thought again about Janet, and Mairi, and Wynda. Good God—Wynda. He spent a few moments imagining himself spending the rest of his life, the rest of his nights, with his face buried between those prodigious, those delicious, yielding breasts.

His last thought, before sleep claimed him, was of Fiona Douglass, and the recollection that her breasts weren’t prodigious at all.