Other men might hesitate to put their sisters into the notice of a man who bluntly stated that he had no intentions of marrying, but Malcolm had three things in his favor. First, he knew that for all of Devon’s philandering ways, he was a man of integrity. All of the St. Johns were, whether they realized it or not.

Second, there was the talisman ring. Those who didn’t know any better might scoff all they wanted, but Malcolm believed. And when all was said and done, so would Devon.

And last, if by some miracle Devon was successful in breaking through Kat’s rock-steady defenses, her brother Malcolm would be there to make sure the right thing was done. Friend or no, if Devon compromised Kat Macdonald, he would marry her, whether or not she or he wished it.

All told, it was a good, solid plan, and only Fiona and her be-damned sister could ruin things. Keeping his thoughts to himself, Malcolm got up to pour more brandy in his and Devon’s glasses. It wasn’t time to celebrate. Not yet. But judging from the thoughtful look on Devon’s face, things were getting off to a fine start.

The next day, as afternoon approached, a coach and six rumbled up to the front door. As usual, the door was not answered on the first knock. But eventually the housekeeper came and let in the sole occupant, then sent a note to my lady’s room, informing her of her visitor.

Moments later, a flurry of footsteps sounded on the landing. “Murien!” Fiona flew down the steps to the main hall, her dressing gown floating around her, a froth of pink and lace. Her slippered feet barely touched the worn runner. “You came!” She threw her arms about her sister. “And so quickly! I am so glad to see you!”

Murien grimaced. “Fiona, my hair!” She disentangled herself and then glanced at the dusty mirror beside the front door. What she surely saw had to have pleased her, for there was not a more beautiful woman in all of Scotland. Delicate blond hair swept back in a mass of shiny curls from a face of such perfection that no portrait painter had ever managed to quite capture it. Her skin shimmered white even in the dull light that shone through the dust-ridden windows, her figure perfect in the white pelisse and blue gown with matching bonnet.

Fiona clasped her hands together. “I am sorry! I was just so excessively glad to see you that I didn’t think. Your hair still looks lovely.” And it did. Every blond curl was in place, a ribbon artfully tied about the whole.

Murien patted an especially fat curl that hung to one of her shoulders. “It turned out better than I’d hoped, though I’m not sure why I bothered. There is no one in the whole of Scotland worth such effort.”