Bride by Stella Cameron Page A

Struan?” Calum pressed. He puffed up his cheeks and said, “Do it, did you?” Struan made fists upon his hips. “I did not.”
    “You swear?”
    Struan averted his face.
    “Justine, I choose to believe Struan,” Calum said. “Quickly. Gather your cloak. We will return to the castle to retrieve your trunks. I will think of some excuse for your absence.”
    Justine didn't move.
    “Come,” Calum urged. “There is no time to waste. Please make haste.”
    “No.”
    “You must.”
    “I cannot.”
    “My dear sister. Please do not persist in this foolishness.”
    Justine lifted her pointed chin. “This has nothing to do with foolishness, only necessity. I cannot come with you. I cannot leave.”
    Calum approached and offered her his hand. “Why would you say such a thing?”
    She ignored his hand. “The fact is that he did.”
    “He did?”
    “Struan did. And so did I.”
    “Justine,” Struan said.
    She ignored the plea in his voice.
    Calum brought his face lower over hers. “You and Struan did what?”
    “You know,” she said airily. “You asked and I'm answering. We did
It.”
    To Justine's dismay, Calum rounded on Struan, made fists, and drew back one powerful arm.
    She pushed to her feet, threw herself between Calum and Struan—tripped, and found herself once more swept up into Struan's arms.
    One more moment and Calum would have hit poor Struan.
    “Put her down,” Calum ground out. “I shall take Justine away from here this instant and pray no permanent damage has been done to anything other than her good sense.”
    “But we did
It,”
Justine argued.
    Calum held up a hand. “Never—not ever—do not say that to me again. I cannot bear to as much as consider such a possibility.”
    “Dash it,” Struan said. “I begin to take offense at your tone,
and
your suggestions.”
    “Put my—” At the sound of approaching footsteps—an apparent herd of footsteps—Calum stopped speaking. Then he whispered,
“Down,
I tell you,” urgently.
    Too late.
    Even had Justine not been holding Struan firmly about the neck, he could not have set her down before a whirlwind of young energy erupted through the open doorway.
    “We've come!” Max announced, his overlong, shockingly red hair springing away in all directions from a slim, freckled face. A little blond girl clutched his loose shirttails. “Ella's in the kitchens with Mrs. Mercer and bubbly, bouncy Buttercup Likely. There's t'be porridge …” His green eyes settled on the spectacle of Struan with Justine in his arms.
    “Hello, Max,” Justine said, still clinging to Struan. “Who's this pretty child?”
    He took several seconds to close his mouth and swallow. Glancing first at Calum he said, “Kirsty,” very faintly. “Kirsty Mercer. She's got a terrible wee brother called Niall. He's two. Mrs. Mercer says two's the most terrible age on a wee one. He's in the kitchens, too. We've brought porridge on account o’ Mr. and Mrs. Mercer worryin’ about Papa not eatin’ proper.”
    “My goodness,” Justine murmured. “He speaks like a Scot, Struan. Only months since he sounded like—”
    “A barrow boy,” Max announced smugly. “Like a London barrow boy from a market. Grumpy told me so. Spawned o’ the devil, she says I am. And—”
    “Enough,” Struan said and seemed to remember he still held Justine. “This is too much for you,” he murmured, close to her face, and set her feet upon the floor with great care. He took her hand and threaded it beneath his elbow.
    Justine studied Max and the ethereal blond child. “Were you not in your bed, Max? Have you just returned from … Have you just returned home?”
    “Aye,” he said.
    “Yes,”
she corrected him automatically. “And Ella, too? Has she already been out this morning?”
    “O'course,” Max said as if he considered her lacking in simple understanding. “We've both been where we always are at night. Wait till Ella sees ye, Lady Justine. She'll be beside hersel’ wi’