Murien had a point and Fiona knew it. But her head ached too much for her to do anything but nod dumbly. Something was going dreadfully wrong with her plan; not only was St. John unaffected by Murien, but Malcolm, even though he was winning the wager, was becoming colder by the day.

It was as if the closer he came to winning, the angrier he became.

Her lips trembled and she hastily took a sip of tea to stave off the tears. Murien hated to see people cry.

Murien sank into the chair opposite Fiona’s in a cloud of pale blue muslin, a petulant expression on her face. “We have to think of some way to keep St. John here, at the castle. At least for an evening or two. I just know that if I could spend more time with him, he’d begin to see how well we would suit.”

Fiona sighed. “I don’t know what to say. St. John comes home every night, but goes straight to bed or closets himself with Malcolm in the billiards room. He’s only been to dinner twice in the time he has been here.”

Of course, part of that could be her fault. She had to admit that the cook was horrid—part of Fiona’s original plan to force Malcolm to remove from Kilkairn. How Malcolm managed to get such breakfasts out of the man was beyond Fiona’s ken. She imagined that the cook, like all of the other men in the household, was siding with Malcolm.

Murien’s mouth thinned. “My brother-in-law does not wish me well.”

“Nonsense. He merely enjoys St. John’s company and likes a good game of billiards.”

“Oh Fiona, stop it. Malcolm does not care for me; he never has. That’s fine with me for I don’t care for him, either. How you could marry such a—”

“Don’t.” Fiona wasn’t sure who was more surprised at the icy tone of her voice.

Murien recovered first. She leaned back in her chair, a placating smile on her lips that did not quite reach her eyes. “I was just teasing, sister. There is no need to get in an uproar.”

Fiona tilted her head in acknowledgment, mainly because she didn’t trust herself to speak again. Heavens, what had caused that reaction?

“This is all so very perplexing.” Murien placed her elbow on the arm of her chair and rested her chin in her hand. Her brow pulled down as she considered her options. “I wish there was some way we could expose Kat Macdonald for what she really is, gauche and unformed.”

“Actually, she would have a very pretty figure if it was not for today’s fashions,” Fiona said absently. “They do not suit a woman with such curves.”