The horses pulled to a halt, with the door of the landau exactly in front of Sinclair and family. The tall man was only a lad, Bertie saw, maybe eighteen or nineteen. He dropped straight down from the box as the landau halted, landing gracefully on his feet with a flutter of kilt.

“Danny!” Andrew yelled from Sinclair’s arms. “That was bully driving.”

Danny had rawboned strength and the looks of the Mackenzies Bertie had already met—broad-shouldered, dark hair with red highlights, his eyes a bit darker than Hart’s, Ian’s, and Cameron’s. Andrew had told Bertie all about Daniel Mackenzie, son of Lord Cameron, now at university in Edinburgh, the young man full of pranks and larks. Plus he knew all about engines and how to make them go.

“Glad you liked it, Andrew.” Daniel reached for Andrew, and Sinclair relinquished him. “How are you, Miss Caitriona? More and more a beautiful young lady every time I see you.”

Daniel’s Scottish accent was the most pronounced of the Mackenzies Bertie had heard, and he used it easily, unself-consciously. Cat took the compliment with her usual calm, but she sounded a little more animated when she answered. “Thank you, Master Daniel.”

Daniel burst out laughing, a warm sound. “Little minx. The beaus will be breaking their hearts over you in a few years’ time. And this is the new governess, is it?” His frank stare landed on Bertie.

“This is Bertie,” Andrew announced with his usual volume. “She’s going to stay with us forever!”

“No she won’t.” Cat’s soft answer was lost in the coachman’s whoa, as the horses moved, impatient, but Bertie heard her.

“I see.” Daniel’s look turned shrewd, and Sinclair moved closer to Bertie.

“You don’t,” Sinclair said in his barrister’s voice. “Are we going to the castle or will we stand at the station freezing all morning?”

Daniel grinned and opened the carriage door. “In ye go. Miss . . . ?” He held out one hand to Bertie, his other arm still firmly around Andrew.

“Frasier,” Bertie said in her best ladylike voice. “Thank you, Mr. Mackenzie.”

“My pleasure.” The laughter and intelligence in his eyes unnerved her.

Daniel said nothing more, only lifted in Andrew then Caitriona, and stood back so Sinclair could enter. Instead of joining them inside, Daniel closed the door and climbed back to the box. He was going to drive them to the castle.

Drive he did. The landau rocketed out of the village and straight up a hill, the carriage listing alarmingly.

Sinclair gave Bertie’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Hart Mackenzie’s coachman would never let Daniel take the traces if it weren’t safe.”

Bertie didn’t much agree, though if this coachman was anything like the duke’s coachman in London, the man would at least be strong enough to stop the horses running away. She could hope so, anyway.

The ride didn’t take long—not the way Daniel drove—and soon they were speeding over a bridge and along a curved drive. A house came into view, a colossus of one. Bertie rubbed mist from the landau’s window and stared hard at it.

The house spread itself across a wide sweep of land, one long horizontal wing in front, with hints of more wings flowing out behind it. Glittering windows, dozens and dozens of them, marched across every floor, up to small dormer windows in the attics.

Daniel leapt to the ground as soon as they stopped, and two footmen in dark suits came forward to open the landau’s doors. They handed Aoife down from the back with as much courtesy as they did Sinclair and family from inside. Five dogs swarmed out of the house, outflanking the footmen to greet the guests with barks and waving tails.

“This ain’t a castle,” Bertie said to Sinclair as she stared up at the house. “It’s a blooming palace.”

“The original Castle Kilmorgan is a ruin,” Sinclair said calmly. “This house was built about a hundred or so years ago. The ruins are up there.” He pointed east, to a high hill with black rocks tumbled along the top.

“It’s a bully climb,” Andrew said. His new word was bully, Bertie surmised. He must have heard someone in the train or stations using it. “I’ll take you, Bertie.”

“When you’re better,” Sinclair said in a hard voice.

Andrew paid no attention. He reached out from his father’s arm to tug a footman’s sleeve. “I got shot!” he said at the top of his voice. “Want to see?”

Chapter 20

The house was packed. The Christmas celebration preparations were in full whirl, and the ladies of the house caught Bertie up in them. The Mackenzie women were all there—Eleanor, Ainsley, Isabella, Beth, and their children, Louisa plump with her pregnancy. The McBride ladies, Juliana and Rose, were also present with more young ones.

The women ran about like sergeant majors in full command. Dogs burst apart every time the ladies rushed by, then closed in to follow them. The Mackenzie men and Sinclair’s brothers seized Sinclair immediately and disappeared with him to some male sanctuary.

Bertie assumed she’d be confined to the nursery to help the nannies with the McBride and Mackenzie children, but it seemed the ladies needed all hands on deck. Bertie barely had Cat and Andrew settled in before she was pulled away by Ainsley—literally pulled by the hand—back to the ground-floor drawing room, which had become tactical headquarters.

Many ladies and gents from the upper echelon of British society had arrived to celebrate Christmas as the honored guests of Hart Mackenzie. The family would remain after Christmas for a private celebration at New Year’s, but beforehand, the varied guests expected entertainment.