He wanted to put his hand on the small of Fiona’s back. He’d never thought about the gesture, but now he perceived the possessiveness in that light touch. He wanted to hand Fiona into a chair and then sit beside her, a bit too close, and hold hands under the table, the way Bret and Catriona now were. He wanted to escort her to supper with lips that had been kissed the color of dark cherries, as Bret had.
Hell, he wanted to join her in the bath and . . .
After making her his bride, of course.
Marilla’s voice cut into his thoughts again. She had curled her fingers around his forearm, and was leaning forward, saying something to Catriona. “Oh, we feel the same,” she cooed. “Byron and I were just talking about the arduous duties of running a large household. This strange little interlude at Finovair has done so much to bring us all close! I’m thrilled to know that I was there when the Duke and Duchess of Bretton fell in love. I cannot wait to tell my friends.”
Byron drew his arm away, while Bret threw him a look that said, clear as day, that Marilla wasn’t going within two miles of the duchy of Bretton. Byron grinned back and then watched the puzzlement grow in Bret’s eyes.
His old friend hadn’t figured it out yet. Hell, hehad hardly figured it out. All he knew was that his entire being was tense, waiting for Fiona to get out of that bath and join them at the supper table.
Taran blew in the door, followed by a train of his retainers carrying platters. “Lady Cecily dines in her room,” he said briskly. Robin was nowhere in evidence: he was probably hiding in his room as well. And still there was no Fiona.
The laird sat down and scowled rather unexpectedly at Marilla. “Keep your hands to yourself, lass. Your father wouldn’t approve.”
Byron realized that Marilla had once again curled her hand around his forearm. She gave Taran a lofty smile and didn’t move a finger. Instead, she moved even closer and said in a breathy voice, “Byron, do tell me about your castle.”
“I don’t have one,” he said calmly.
“What a pity,” Marilla said. “But I suppose you could always buy one if you wished.”
“No,” Byron said, catching Bret’s eye. Bret was trying not to laugh and not succeeding very well. “I could not. Castles are far and few between in England.”
Without even glancing at Marilla, he knew she was pouting. “Such a pity! This is the first time I’ve stayed in a castle and I find it very, very charming. It’s so grand . . . so much bigger than most houses.”
Naturally, it’s all about size, Byron thought uncharitably.
“My sister is very retiring,” Marilla informed the company when they reached the second course and the plate to his left was still empty. “She likely lost her courage, and will eat in our bedchamber. Of course we must continue without her. In our household, my father and I often forget that she’s there at all.”
Byron was contemplating what Fiona’s life had been like in company with her relatives, when she walked into the room and began heading around the table to the open chair.
She looked a bit pale, but her greeting was cordial enough. But he didn’t care for “Good evening, Lord Oakley.”
He stood and pulled the chair out for her. “I thought we agreed that you would not address me as Oakley,” he said to her, ignoring the conversations that had started around the table.
Not that anyone ignored his statement. Even Marilla’s semiflirtatious conversation with Taran—the woman seemed incapable of conversation that was not suggestive—halted in mid-sentence.
Fiona had just seated herself; she froze and turned a little pink. Her hair was slightly damp from her bath, and enchanting pin curls framed her face. Bret looked swiftly from her face to Byron’s and then leaned over to whisper something to Catriona. There was a huge grin on his face.
Byron just wanted to make it all clear. He was possessed of the happiest emotions of his life, and even though the object of his happiness looked stunned, he was bent on sharing them. Could she really believe that he would kiss her—the way he had kissed her—and mean nothing by it?
He bent down and dropped a swift kiss on her lips, and then another on her damp curls for good measure. She sat as rigid as a statue, not seeming to draw a breath, looking . . . stricken?
“Well, the tone of this gathering has lowered, has it not?” Marilla said shrilly on the other side of Byron. Her voice trembled with fury.
“Marilla,” Fiona whispered.
“I gather I have to protect my sister once again from the illicit lust of ne’er-do-well gentlemen,” Marilla cried, ignoring her plea. “Isn’t it enough that she is branded a whore the length of all Scotland? Must you, Lord Oakley, who has some claim to being a model of propriety, show your contempt for her so openly? Kissing her in an open gathering? When you know perfectly well that a man of your noble heritage would never make her his countess? Shame on you, Lord Oakley, shame on you!”
Byron was so stunned that he stared at Marilla for a moment, registering the cruel gleam of rage in her eyes.
Then he turned, slowly, back to Fiona. Branded a whore? Fiona?
She had turned the color of parchment. As their eyes met, she raised her chin. “I told you repeatedly that I had a reputation. Apparently, you did not believe me.”
“Yes, but did you tell him that your fiancé fell to his death from your bedchamber window?” Marilla shrilled.
At this, Taran threw back his chair and stumped around the table. He reached out a hand and jerked Marilla to her feet. “You and I, lassie, are going to have a good talk, because it’s obvious to all of us that the beauty in your face doesn’t match your heart. You’re acting like a mean-spirited little horror, you are.”
Before Marilla could say another word, he pulled her over to the door, pushed it open, and slammed out into the corridor.
“I’m sorry,” Fiona said to Byron, her beautiful green eyes as grave as a monk’s. “I kept trying to tell you what happened.”
“He fell from your window?” Byron echoed, finally sitting down himself.
He could feel all the joy draining from his body. It felt as if he had turned back to a brass automaton, to the half-dead man he’d been when he arrived in Scotland. His father’s double. Obviously, women were as lustful as his father had warned, even sweet ones from Scotland who smelled like fresh bread and innocence.
There was dead silence around the table. Fiona nodded. “Yes. My fiancé, Dugald, lost his life in a fall. All Scotland knows it. I am sure that our friends at the table will be gracious enough to forget the implications of what you said a moment ago.”
Bending her head, she spread her napkin in her lap.
“I never believed it,” Catriona said with a note of ferocity in her voice, “and neither did my mother. She should know, since she was godmother to Dugald himself. How could a man who was as fat as a distillery pig think to climb a strand of ivy?”
“The window was there, as was the ivy, and unfortunately, so was Dugald,” Fiona said. “Yes, I would like some roast, if you please. Catriona, what games did you play this afternoon?”
Catriona looked as if she wanted to continue her defense, but she succumbed to the pleading expression on Fiona’s face.
Byron endured three more courses without saying another word. Taran strolled back in at length, looking pleased with himself, but Marilla never reappeared. Byron was aware of the warmth of Fiona’s arm next to his, though they never touched, even accidentally. The conversation stumbled along until finally the subject of Robert Burns’s poetry was brought up, which provoked a spirited dispute.
“As full of air as a piper’s bag,” Taran shouted, in response to Catriona’s praise of the poet.
“I rather like the poem about how he’ll love his betrothed until the rocks melt into the sun,” Bretton murmured, looking (of course) at Catriona.
“Until the sands of life run dry,” she whispered back to him, but Byron heard her.