‘But if your baby had been a boy he would have inherited,’ he said softly. ‘It’s unjust.’

‘You think that bothers me?’

‘I’m sure it doesn’t.’

‘Fine,’ she said flatly. ‘So that’s settled. You needn’t worry. The escutcheon is firmly fixed in the male line, so there’s no point in me stabbing you in the middle of the night or putting arsenic in your porridge.’

‘Toast,’ he said. ‘I don’t eat porridge.’

She blinked. This conversation was crazy.

But maybe that was the way to go. She’d had enough of being serious. ‘You don’t eat porridge?’ she demanded, mock horrified. ‘What sort of a laird are you?’

‘I’m not a laird.’

‘Oh, yes, you are,’ she said, starting to smile. ‘Or you probably are. Fancy clothes or not, you have definite laird potential.’

‘I thought I was an earl?’

‘You’re that, too,’ she told him. ‘And of course you’ll stay that as long as you live. But being laird is a much bigger responsibility.’

‘I don’t even know what a laird is.’

‘The term’s not used so much any more,’ she said. ‘It means a landed proprietor. But it’s more than that. It’s one who holds the dignity of an estate. Angus was absolutely a laird. I’m not sure what sort of laird Rory would have made. Kenneth would never have been one. But you, Hamish Douglas? Will you make a laird?’

‘That sounds like a challenge,’ he said, and she jutted her chin a little and met his look head on.

‘Maybe it is.’

He hesitated, not sure where to take this. Not at all sure that she wasn’t just a little crazy herself. ‘Maybe I’d best stay in town,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back in the morning to organise things.’