“. . . that they have absolutely no idea what they’re getting into?” Catriona finished for her.
Fiona grinned in response.
“Well, I think you’re very unwise to have suggested this,” Marilla announced. “When they see the caber and realize they can’t lift it, they are going to feel like fools. And men do not like being made fun of.”
“That presupposes that none of them are in possession of a sense of humor,” Catriona responded. She looked over at the men again. Or rather, still. She hadn’t taken her eyes off them even once. The duke appeared to be having a grand time, laughing heartily at something Mr. Rocheforte had said.
Then he turned, and their eyes met.
And he smiled. Grinned, really.
Catriona’s heart stopped. She felt it, thumping loud, then skipping three beats.
“Did you see that?” Marilla said excitedly. “His Grace just smiled at me.”
“I thought he was looking at Catriona,” Fiona said.
“Don’t be silly.”
“Bait to which I shall not rise,” Catriona murmured.
“What did you say?” Marilla demanded.
Catriona didn’t bother to answer.
“Oh, look,” Fiona said. “Here come the men with the caber. I daresay the snow is making it easier to transport.”
Catriona craned her neck to watch as four of Taran’s men brought the caber into view. It was an enormous thing, at least fifteen feet long. They’d looped chains around the enormous log, pulling it along like a sleigh.
“Time to prove your manhood, boys!” Taran announced, loudly enough for the women to hear. His arm swept through the air in a majestic arc. “The ancient, ceremonial caber.”
It was gloriously massive. At least sixteen stone and thick as a man’s leg.
Catriona felt her lips pressing together, hard, just to keep from laughing. She couldn’t see the expressions on Lord Oakley’s or Mr. Rocheforte’s faces, but the Duke of Bretton’s mouth had come positively unhinged.
“Respect the caber!” Taran yelled. “Ye’re going first, Duke!”
Bretton stared at it.
“Now remember,” Taran said loudly, “it doesn’t matter how far you throw it, it’s all about landing it on its end.”
“You’re joking,” the duke said.
“It’ll balance,” Taran assured him, “if you do it right.”
Catriona tried not to giggle.
“Excuse me,” the duke said.
“Pfft. Brrrght.” All sorts of ungraceful noises were spit forth from Catriona’s mouth until she finally just gave up and laughed.
“Uh-oh,” Fiona said, but Catriona was laughing too hard to have any idea what she was talking about.
“Catriona,” Fiona said in a warning voice.
“Oh! Oh!” Catriona yelped, gasping for breath.
“I told you so,” Marilla crowed.
Catriona wiped her eyes and looked up just in time to see the duke barreling toward her. “Your Grace,” she chirped, the squeaky noise just about all she could manage.
He pointed a finger at her. “You said it was a log.”
“It is a log,” she said, not that her words were remotely intelligible through her giggles.
“It’s a bloody maypole!”
“Oh, I think it’s bigger than a maypole.”
His lips clamped together in a straight line, but he couldn’t fool her. The Duke of Bretton, it seemed, was in possession of an excellent sense of humor. In three seconds, he’d be laughing just as hard as she was.
“Still think you can toss it?” Catriona said daringly.
He stepped forward. To the rest of the observers, he must have looked furious, but she could see the mirth dancing in his eyes. “Not . . . even . . . an . . . inch.”
And then she lost herself entirely. She laughed so hard she doubled over, so hard she feared she might faint from lack of breath. “Your face! Your face!” she gasped. “You should have seen your face!”
“Catriona!” Marilla exclaimed, horrified. And it was true, Catriona supposed. One wasn’t supposed to talk to a duke in such a way.
But his face! His face! It had been priceless.
She laughed even harder, grabbing on to Fiona for support. The other men had ambled over, grinning at her uncontrollable mirth, and out of the corner of her eye, Catriona saw that Lady Cecily had joined the party, too. The poor girl was clad in some sort of antique mourning gown, the heavy black bombazine dragging through the snow.
“Miss Burns needs air,” the duke announced, and before anyone could offer an opinion, he scooped her up in his arms and said, “I’m taking her inside.”
And just like that, all the chill left the air. Catriona allowed herself the indulgence of resting her cheek against Bretton’s chest, and as she lay there, listening to the steady beat of his heart, she could not help but think that this was where she was meant to be.
But then, of course, Lord Oakley had to spoil the whole thing. “You’re taking her inside so that she might get air?”
“Shut up,” the duke said.
Catriona had a feeling she might be falling in love.
“Wait!” Taran yelled, tramping over through the snow. “She needs a chaperone!”
“I’ll go,” Fiona offered.
Taran blinked in surprise. “You will?”
“I’m cold,” Fiona said with a deceptively placid smile. “And I still have sewing to complete before supper.”
“Do you think you might help me?” Lady Cecily asked, fidgeting beneath her cloak. “Nothing they brought down fits, and I am a terrible hand with a needle.”
“Of course,” Fiona said. “Why don’t you come with me? We’ll take tea in my room and see to the gowns.”
“You’re supposed to be chaperoning Miss Burns,” Taran reminded her.
“Oh, but Catriona will take tea with us as well,” Fiona said. She looked over at Catriona. “If that is amenable.”
“I would be delighted,” Catriona said, although not, perhaps, as delighted as this very moment, wrapped as she was in Bretton’s arms.
“Marilla, you must stay and watch the caber tossing,” Fiona instructed. Marilla looked about to argue, but then Fiona added, “The gentlemen must have an audience.”
Marilla must have decided that one earl plus one French comte equaled something more than a duke, because her expression quicksilvered into one of utter enchantment. “I cannot imagine a more pleasing activity.” She placed a delicate hand on Lord Oakley’s muscular arm. “It is all so very, very exciting.”
“Very,” Catriona thought she heard Lady Cecily say under her breath.
“Back to the caber, then!” Taran hollered. “The old laird and his nephews,” he chortled, elbowing Mr. Rocheforte in the ribs. “The way it should be, vying to impress the fairest maiden in the county.”
Mr. Rocheforte smiled, but it was a queasy thing, quite unlike his normal expression.
“That’s the one I wanted for you in the first place,” Taran said in a loud whisper. “Prettiest girl in town. She’s got some money. And she’s Scottish.”
Mr. Rocheforte said something Catriona could not hear, and then Taran’s bushy brows came together as he grumbled, “It was a whisper! Nobody heard me.”
And then, before anyone could contradict, Taran pumped a fist in the air and once again yelled, “To the caber!”