The Lady Most Willing . . . (25 page)

Epilogue

A
mid hollered threats, imprecations, and vows to unman any men they found near their
daughters, the rescuers leaped from their horses and barreled into Finovair, heedless
of the fact that no one barred their way and that, in fact, Hamish held the castle’s
ancient portal open for them.

Finnian Burns led the charge, him having only the one bairn, and thus feeling both
the insult and the fear the greatest. Jamie Chisholm was close at his heels, bellowing
for his Marilla, while at his side strode the Earl of Maycott, looking justly grim,
as everyone knew how much he doted on his eldest daughter, Cecily. Behind them crowded
half the men of Kilkarnity, ostensibly to see that justice was finally done to that
old brigand Taran Ferguson, but in actuality because nothing near so exciting had
happened in the parish in thirty years and they wanted a front-row seat.

The small horde swept down Finovair’s high, empty hall, wrenching open the doors to
every hidey-hole, cupboard, and room, one after the other as they hunted down their
quarry until finally, they stood before the last door in the corridor, the one leading
into the dilapidated family chapel.

“They’ll be no sanctuary in there for you, Taran Ferguson!” Chisholm cried out, and
kicked the heavy oak door with all his might.

Unfortunately for Chisholm, the door had not been latched and the violence of his
kick sent him flying in and sprawling face-first on the chapel floor. Burns and Maycott,
who’d endured four days of Chisholm’s bombast and bluster, and had both come to conclusion
that those four interminable days might well lead the list of their grievances against
Taran, stepped over him and into the chapel, followed close by the men of Kilkarnity.

Whereupon they all stopped in their tracks.

Standing with their backs to them, facing the altar, stood eight people, four tall
men and four ladies in evening attire, while at the foot of the altar stood Father
Munro, still wearing the greatcoat Hamish had tossed over the old priest long before
daybreak this morning when he’d kidnapped the man from his cozy bed, dragged him up
onto a saddle in front of him, and galloped all the way from Kilkarnity to Finovair.

Now, all eight turned around to look at them, variously reflecting amusement, cool
appraisal, and steely resolve, yet, oddly enough, also in each face a full measure
of indisputable happiness, the happiest of all looking to be the old reprobate Taran,
who might as well have been rubbing his hands together, his gloating was that evident.

“What the devil is going on here?” Chisholm, who’d picked himself up from the stone
floor, bellowed.

With terrifying hauteur, the Duke of Bretton lifted one dark brow and intoned, “We
are having a wedding. Sir.”

At which the handsome, black-haired devil standing beside Lady Cecily added, “Rather
to say, we have
had
a wedding. Sir.”

“Whose wedding?” Finnian Burns demanded.

“Mine,” said Duke of Bretton. “To Catriona.” He smiled broadly. “Father-in-law.”

Burns reeled back under this pronouncement as if he’d been kicked in the chest by
a mule, falling into the waiting arms of the Kilkarnity men behind him, more than
one of whom had the sense to whisper to their fallen comrade, “A duke, Fin. A bloody
rich duke!”

“And mine, also,” the darkly handsome man said before Burns had recovered, “to the
Lady Cecily”—words that set Earl of Maycott starting forward in alarm, for now he
recognized the man holding his daughter’s hand and remembered his reputation. But
Maycott’s steps faltered to a halt when he saw the beatific expression on his daughter’s
face.

He opened his mouth to speak, but whatever objection or comment he might have made
was forever lost when the icily handsome Earl of Oakley spoke.

“And mine,” he announced, his gaze never straying from the face of Kilkarnity’s most
famous romp, Fiona Chisholm. “To the Countess of Oakley, my own Fiona.”

“Fiona?” squawked her own father, dumbfounded. “Not Marilla? Are ye mad?”

“Quiet, Jamie,” one of the Kilkarnity men hissed, “ye have a son-in-law what’s an
earl,” while behind them, the much recovered Finnian Burns beamed with paternal pride
at his new son-in-law, the duke, until Maycott turned to him and in voice heavy with
irony said, “Don’t think this means you’re shut the cost of a proper English ceremony,
Burns. That’ll come later.”

To which Burns, who was known far and wide to have deep pockets and short arms, shot
back smugly, “Unless a bairn comes first.” Meanwhile Chisholm, heedless of proffered
advice, burst out, “But what of Marilla?”

At which point Taran, the instigator and author of all this fascinating drama, stepped
forward—though later reports claimed he wisely kept his muscular nephews Lords Oakley
and Rocheforte between him and Chisholm—and said, “Well, Jamie, since ye’re of a mind
to know, I’m glad to be telling you—”

But Marilla, who had no patience with, well, anything, burst out with obvious glee,
“I am wed, too, Father! I won’t have to leave Scotland and I shall have my very own
castle!” She grabbed Taran’s arm. “So come and kiss your new son,” she crowed.

Chisholm’s eyes grew as wide as saucers, and all about the room, everyone fell dead
silent. Then, with a roar such as hadn’t been heard since Braveheart’s time, Chisholm
launched himself at Taran, going straight through the laird’s nephews—well, not truly
through, as both men stepped neatly aside—aiming for Taran’s neck and . . .

. . . And all merry hell broke loose.

Witnesses at the pub that night all agreed that Taran made a fair show and acquitted
himself well for a man of his years. The laird wasn’t there to dispute it, since he
was dancing the bedtime waltz with the prettiest girl in the county, even as her da
sat gazing into a glass of whiskey and shaking his head.

Those who believed in fairies and suchlike—and since the Scots aren’t fools, they
know right well that magic has its place—well, those folks said later that a strange
moon shone over Finovair Castle that December, a lovers’ moon, a blue moon, a spoonin’
moon. Other said the Seelie Court had come riding in on that winter storm, their steeds
as white as snow itself, and their laughter falling like blessings down Finovair’s
old chimneys and turrets.

Whatever magic took hold of Finovair castle that December of 1819, the four couples
who fell in love there never thought of that storm without a leap of the heart.

More to the point—and sure evidence of the magic if ever there was—some nine months
later five new bairns squalled their way into the light of day. That would be one
each for the noble parents, and a set of red-faced, lusty twins for the laird.

Beautiful, those babes were. And strong. And—or so their parents said—canny. And—so
the Ferguson oft proudly said—loud.

But mostly, they were blessed . . . as is every child born to a couple who love each
other with the kind of passion that only grows deeper with time. Neither the laird
nor his male guests were the sort to babble much poetry, but there wasn’t a one of
them that didn’t, now and then, drop a kiss on his wife’s sweet mouth and make her
a promise: “And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a’ the seas gang dry.”

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o’ life shall run.

About the Authors

A
New York Times
bestselling author of twenty-two novels for Avon Books, J
ULIA
Q
UINN
is a graduate of Harvard and Radcliffe Colleges and lives with her family in the
Pacific Northwest. She can be found on the web at www.juliaquinn.com.

New York Times
bestselling author E
LOISA
J
AMES
is a professor of English literature who lives with her family in New York but can
sometimes be found in Italy. Please visit her at www.eloisajames.com.

C
ONNIE
B
ROCKWAY
, the
New York Times
bestselling author of twenty-two books, is an eight-time finalist and two-time winner
of the RITA® Award. She lives in Minnesota with her husband and two spoiled mutts.
Her website is www.conniebrockway.com.

Visit
www.AuthorTracker.com
for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

Praise

Julia Quinn is

“Smart, funny.”

Time
Magazine

“Delightful.”

Nora Roberts

Eloisa James is

“Extraordinary.”

Lisa Kleypas

“Romance writing does not get much better than this.”

People

Connie Brockway is

“Delightfully witty and dazzlingly imaginative.”

Booklist

“Simply the best.”

Teresa Medeiros

More Dazzling Romance From

Julia Quinn

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Eloisa James

The Ugly Duchess

Connie Brockway

The Other Guy’s Bride

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of
the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.
Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead,
is entirely coincidental.

THE LADY MOST WILLING . . .
Copyright © 2013 by Julie Cotler Pottinger, Eloisa James, Connie Brockway. All rights
reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of
the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to
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EPub Edition JANUARY 2013 ISBN: 9780062107404

Print Edition ISBN: 9780062107381

FIRST EDITION

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