Page 43

“I acted in error.” James looked between his parents. “But I saw the bill from the modiste, and I thought . . . I couldn’t imagine that . . .”

He tried not to glance at his mother’s dressing gown.

“Lovely day,” he said, turning his gaze to the window. “I’ll leave you to enjoy . . .” He winced, blinking awkwardly to banish any thought of the various enjoyments a second honeymoon might entail.

“Breakfast,” he concluded.

“James,” said his mother. “You must stay, now that you’re here. We are happy to see you.”

His father snorted.

“Henry,” she scolded.

James looked at his father and saw the twinkle in his eyes.

“I am glad I got to hear that speech.” A smile tugged his father’s lips. “You’ve grown up considerably.” His voice was uncharacteristically gruff. “I’m proud of the man you’ve become.”

This was a speech. James gaped, clapped a hand to the back of his neck, then straightened, trying to accept the unexpected compliment like a man, instead of a delighted boy.

“And who’s this?” asked his father.

For the second time, James spun about. Tib stood in the doorway, her dress hopelessly rumpled, her hair pulled back but uncombed. Dark, twisty locks snaked over her shoulders. She’d tipped up her chin. Who was she?

His vivid, radiant love.

Her eyes found his.

“This is Isobel MacKinnon,” said James. “The woman I’m going to marry.”

“MacKinnon,” repeated his father.

James clarified, eyes still fixed on Tib. “Robert MacKinnon’s daughter.”

“Robert MacKinnon the farmer? My tenant?”

“The same.” James turned. The duke had lifted his brows. He was nonplussed, certainly. But his face hadn’t hardened into adamant dismay.

“There she goes,” observed his mother. “Quick-moving, isn’t she? James, you shouldn’t have scared her away.”

Scared? Tib? Preposterous.

But when James glanced over his shoulder, the doorway was empty.

Tib had fled.

“She looked familiar.” His mother spoke slowly, a line forming between her brows. “Didn’t she used to bring butter to the inn?”

“The MacKinnons make excellent butter,” said his father. “My dear, you recollect Mrs. MacKinnon surely. I presented her with the end-over-end churn. We’ve talked at length about emulsions. Butter has a fascinating structure that⁠—”

“Don’t please let’s talk about emulsion now,” interrupted the duchess. Her attention was all for her son.

“James,” she said. “You want to marry a farmgirl?”

“I want to marry Isobel.” James felt a tingle move up and down his spine. “So yes, I want to marry a girl who happens to milk cows and churn butter. She also mucks stables. And scales cliffs. And makes maps of magical places. And tells stories.”

His parents were both staring at him.

“She’s the devil if you cross her,” he continued. “And she’s exactly the person you want by your side, if disaster befalls you. She has the truest heart, a heart forged in dragon fire and more valuable than all the world’s jewels.”