Free Bride by Stella Cameron

taking breakfast in a dirty kitchen was quite the thing.
    Arran abandoned his musical efforts and sat beside Justine with Niall on his knee.
    “Good God,” Calum muttered. “Surely you do not intend to have your company sit in this mayhem and eat amid the filth.”
    “Gael came to feed me,” Struan said simply. “She is a wonderful woman who has helped me greatly. I would not offend her and neither, I assure you, would Arran. He knows every one of his people—including their children—and regards them as his responsibility. He's particularly fond of the Mercers.”
    “But Justine has never—”
    “Justine appears entirely comfortable,” Struan remarked, smiling down into Kirsty's somber face. “This young lady looks hungry to me.”
    Calum shrugged and approached the table. “I give up. We shall get through this and remove to the castle where we can speak sanely.”
    Jugs of thick cream, a bowl of honey, and a pot of fragrant coffee graced the rude table. Gael placed cups before each diner and gathered her children to her side. “We'll be leavin’ ye now.” Her face was flushed from working over the stove, and from discomfort at her unfamiliar surroundings, no doubt. She bobbed a curtsy. From the sloping wooden board beside deep sinks she took a glass bowl crowded with snowdrops, purple sweet violets, and bright blue speedwell and set it in the middle of the table. “Robert and I will await your instructions, m'lord,” she said to Struan. At Arran she directed the sweetest of smiles. “It's verra good t'see you, your lordship. Please tell her ladyship she's sorely missed at Kirkcaldy and we all look forward to her return.”
    “Your words will bring her great pleasure,” Arran said.
    Gael bobbed again. “Is wee Lady Elizabeth well?”
    “Blooming,” Arran said, grinning. “And a handful.”
    When the Mercers had left, Calum commented, “You always did have a way with the tenants, Arran. I do believe they love you. Not a usual situation between Scottish lairds and their people.”
    “A usual situation between the lords of Stonehaven and their people,” Arran said. “But you already know that.”
    Justine ate her porridge with evident enjoyment. “Ella,” she said, “your papa tells me you are a remarkable seat upon a horse.”
    “I ride well enough,” Ella mumbled. Her black, waist-length hair hung in a tangled mass. Her thick lashes gleamed darkly about large, uptilted black eyes. At sixteen she was, indeed, a beauty.
    Max squirmed on his bench. “I'm t'swim in the river wi’ a bunch o’ the laddies today,” he said. “Can I go now?”
    “No,” Justine said, utterly serene. “It is far too cold and it is time for you to begin your instruction.”
    “Papa,” Max said. “I want t'swim wi’—”
    “You will not be swimming today,” Struan said, avoiding both Arran and Calum's eyes. “I have need of you here.”
    “It is evident that I haven't arrived a moment too soon,” Justine said. She waited until Struan turned toward her. “I'm glad you have agreed that I should take the children in hand and prepare them for their rightful place in society.”
    He put too large a spoonful of porridge in his mouth, burned his tongue, and coughed.
    “Justine,” Calum said. “This lodge is a disgrace. I mean no disrespect to Arran or Struan—in a way I still think of this estate as my own home. I did grow up here. But this lodge was all but abandoned many years since and it is unfit—entirely unfit—for habitation. Particularly by a gentle lady completely unaccustomed to discomfort.”
    Justine showed every sign of listening politely. When Calum had finished, she set down her spoon. “You misjudge me, brother. I am no milk-and-water miss. I am a mature woman who has passed from the spun-glass to the serviceable-plate phase of life. Do you intend to continue to live here, Struan?”
    Whatever he said was bound to plunge him deeper into this new dilemma. “Yes,” he told her. That, at