“Of course, I have no personal knowledge of the love between a man and a woman,” the Father said, taking her hand in his large one. “But it seems to me very difficult to know precisely where love begins and ends.”

“Oh, I—” Annabel said, and snatched back the rest of the sentence. She wasn’t ready to tell near-strangers that she herself was in love, even if Ewan wasn’t. “I understand,” she said. She felt suddenly exhausted.

But there was one thing she did want to say. “Ewan has told me how very helpful you were in overcoming his grief over the death of his parents.”

Father Armailhac was a great one for grinning. “He told you that, did he? And here I thought he never spoke of the flood at all. Nor of his parents either.”

“It seems to me,” Annabel said, “that he cannot remember his father well because you have become that father to him.”

“When I came to Scotland, Ewan was already a man grown,” the Father said. “In the beginning he was most reluctant to allow us to care about him; ’tis often so, I’ve found, with those who have no family. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, my dear, he guards his heart fiercely, though he’s generous with his possessions. I am quite hopeful that you will change his life, as he, no doubt, will change yours.”

Annabel smiled politely. If the Father thought she was going to traipse out onto the battlements in the rain singing prayers with Gregory, he was going to be disappointed. She didn’t want to become a psalm-singing righteous type of woman. Father Armailhac said nothing more, merely took her arm and led her back to the stairs.

“Neither you nor Ewan are Catholic, so I shall perform a simple ritual of handfasting. Yet I would like to add what ceremony I may, and in France, marriages are generally performed on the Lord’s day,” he said tranquilly. “Since the two of you have waited almost a fortnight, I’m sure neither of you will mind waiting a few days. After all, as you said, it isn’t a love match.”

She glanced at him, but his face was bland and smiling.

“Just so,” she said.

Thirty

It was the following evening, and they were playing speculation. The game was being played by Lady Ardmore, Uncle Pearce, Ewan, Gregory and Annabel. But things were not going as usual.

Wonder of wonders, Gregory was winning hand after hand, and Annabel was holding her own as well. By another hand, Ewan and his grandmother dropped out, leaving a three-way battle.“You play surprisingly well,” the countess said as Annabel scooped up two of Uncle Pearce’s bawbees. She managed to shade her compliment with enough doubt to turn it to an insult.

“I’d be happy to give you lessons, if you wish,” Annabel said, giving her a consolatory smile.

To her surprise, Lady Ardmore gave a crack of laughter. “It looks to me as if you might already have given young Gregory lessons.”

Gregory’s eyes were shining and he was scoring trick after trick. Pearce’s black eyes were darting around the table. His cheeks had turned a port wine color as the pile of bawbees before him dwindled.

“How are you doing it?” Ewan breathed in Annabel’s ear.

“It must be luck,” she told him. “You know I can’t play this game very well.”

“I’m aware of that,” he said to her severely. Then he leaned next to her ear and said, “But you cheat very well.”

“Only when challenged by an expert,” she told him, and put down her cards, handily winning the round.

“Times are changing!” Nana cackled. “I think you can’t expect to win so effortlessly in the future, Pearce. I—” But she cocked her head and then they all heard the peal of trumpets from Ewan’s sentries. “Visitors,” she said. “I hope some of those reprobates in the clan haven’t decided to anticipate your wedding. I don’t approve of all those heathenish practices like blackening.”

“What’s blackening?” Annabel asked.

“A particularly repellent practice, traditional in Aberdeenshire,” Nana told her. “I don’t believe in it!” She thumped her stick.

“Were you blackened, Nana?” Gregory asked in some awe.

“It’s so long ago I can’t remember,” she snapped. Then she said, “But there’s naught to worry about. These are more civilized times, and no one would dare touch the earl’s bride.”

“I expect it’s the Crogan boys,” Ewan said resignedly. And, to Annabel, “They live down the road and once they’ve had something to drink, they grow rather excitable.”

“Excitable? Debauched miscreants, that’s what those Crogans are,” Nana stated. “You tell them the wedding isn’t until Sunday. They can take themselves straight back home. I shall go to my chambers. And Gregory, you come upstairs as well. Drunken Crogans are not fit for gentlemen’s company.” In the end, Uncle Pearce took himself to bed as well. His shining eyes darted from face to face, but he apparently couldn’t bring himself to demand an explanation of precisely how he had managed to lose.

Yet when Warsop opened the door of the sitting room a short time later, it wasn’t to introduce inebriated Scotsmen.

“My lord,” Warsop said, standing back. “Lady Willoughby. Lady Maitland. Miss Josephine Essex. The Earl of Mayne.”

For a moment Annabel froze with surprise, and then she jumped up with a happy cry. “Imogen! Josie!” Then Josie was hugging Annabel as if they’d been separated for months rather than weeks.

“But what are you doing here? This is such a lovely surprise,” Annabel said.

“We’ve come to save you, of course!” Imogen said gaily.

“What?” Annabel asked, looking into her sister’s face. Imogen’s eyes, it seemed to her, were less grief-stricken. She pulled her into her arms. “How are you, truly?”

“I’m better,” Imogen said simply. “Mayne has been a great comfort.”

“Mayne!” Annabel exclaimed.

Sure enough, the Earl of Mayne turned from his conversation with Ewan. He bowed with all his usual finesse but somehow he seemed different. Rather than the exquisite, wind-swept kind of elegance he usually displayed, he looked…merely windswept. Rather than skin-tight trousers in the newest mode, he was wearing worn buckskin breeches. His shirt was clean but showed age. Even his jacket appeared to have been cut for a larger man.

“Please forgive me for appearing before you in my dirt,” he was saying, bringing her hand to his mouth.

“I am grateful to you for accompanying my sisters and your own to Scotland,” she said. “May I introduce Father Armailhac?”

Mayne surprised Annabel by switching into flawless French.

“Our mother is French,” Griselda said, kissing her cheek. “Please tell me that you haven’t married Ardmore. Because if so, I’m liable to swoon to the floor.”

“No, no, we’re to marry on Sunday,” Annabel said, blinking at her.

Griselda smiled, and Imogen grinned as if Christmas had come. “We have a wonderful surprise for you!” she burst out.

And then Griselda said, “You needn’t marry at all! We’ve come to bring you back to England, and you can choose your own husband, and needn’t marry Ardmore.”