But no. Surely, Catriona herself had not guessed.

It had been the one scrap of pride he had been able to hold onto in his darkest moments-that she would never, could never know how badly he had ached over losing her.

Grandmother Blayne and Aunt Frances were watching him. Closely. Intensely.

He said nothing.

"You will no' want to hear this," Grandmother Blayne said. Her voice was full of compassion.

"Just speak plainly," he said, struggling to keep all evidence of how shaken he suddenly was out of his voice. "What did they call it in your day?"

"A fondness for footmen."

"A what?" he asked, unable to keep the laughter from his voice. He couldn't help it. It was simply too ludicrous to imagine.

"You asked for plain speaking," Grandmother Blayne said.

"I didn't ask for a jest." He flashed his grandmother a censuring glare. "A jest made in very poor taste."

Grandmother Blayne shook her head. "I knew you would no' want to hear the truth, even when plainly spoken."

"Oh, never mind her." Aunt Frances' tone held exasperation. "The doctor called it hysteria."

"Hysteria?" His voice stalled and he had to swallow against a constricted sensation in his throat.

Both women seemed frozen, as though they were holding themselves so still that they didn't dare draw breath.

Waiting for his reaction.

He frowned. "Is Catriona hysterical?"

He didn't want to believe it. Yet, that wildness in her eyes...

No longer frozen, Aunt Frances leaned closer to him, her gaze never wavering from his. "She has had her moments. It has not been easy to watch over her."

"Does she really require watching over?"

"Yes. If only to keep her from bringing shame on our name."

"The solution is another husband, I have told you that," Grandmother Blayne said.

"Dr. Meeker says she will be unsuitable for courtship or marriage until she is cured of her dependency. She would be unable to do anything but bring shame on herself and us without the cure."

"Dependency? What kind of dependency? Opiate dependency?"

Frances shook her head. "No, that is the only thing keeping her under control."

"What dependency?" He demanded.

Frances' eyes grew larger and a flush brightened her cheeks. She stepped back.

He turned to Grandmother. "Will you tell me?"

Grandmother Blayne glanced down at her lap, making a great study of her folded hands.

"Well?"

"As Frances says, 'tis a delicate matter, Jamie."

"You said she had a..." God, he could scarcely form the words. "A fondness for footmen?"

Frances waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, she could be a little flirtatious."

"Bah, any warm-blooded lass wed to Freddie would have been tempted to kick over a few fences here and again," Grandmother added.

"Kick over a few fences?" James asked.

"After the fever, the doctors said that Freddy's heart was too weak." Frances looked down as she spoke. Her cheeks flaring with color again. "Too weak to risk being a...proper husband." She practically whispered the last two words.

"And you say that Sunny flirted with footmen?"

"Well, at first we thought...you know how friendly Sunny always was. It seemed a natural, if highly inappropriate, progression of her cheerful, kind demeanor."

"Perhaps it was," he said. Yes, maybe it had all been kindness on Sunny's part that these sour old biddies had misinterpreted.

"The lassie did a lot more than flirt, Jamie," Grandmother said. Her tone was filled with sorrow, as though it hurt her to impart this knowledge to him.

"I'll handle this," Frances said.

James turned his attention back to her.

"After Freddy died, Sunny fell into a state of despondency. She certainly didn't do any flirting then. She would not eat, she couldn't sleep. We had to send for Dr. Meeker."

"That's when the opiates started?" he asked, unable to keep the accusation out of his voice.

At his tone, Frances scowled. "She must have the opiates, else she shall lose all control."

"I think she deserves to be able to think clearly for once. Then we shall see just how out of control she really is or is not."

"You don't understand. You weren't here. At first it seemed she just needed a little something to help her sleep. To bring her appetite back."

"Then what happened?"

Aunt Frances just stared at him, looking a little lost. Quite pale, her expression strained, shoulders drooping. She didn't look like her typical fire-breathing self, but appeared a good ten years older. She walked to the bed and sat again. More aptly put, she collapsed onto it.

"Jamie, lad, I think your aunt could use a little wine," Grandmother Blayne said.

With a deep inhalation, he forced his overpowering impatience down and went to the sideboard and poured a glass of wine. He brought it to his aunt. She took it and grasped it between her hands for several moments. Her face had gone a bit paler. Then she quaffed half the contents. After a pause, she began again. "Time went by. She seemed to be healing, even if she was a little less cheerful than she'd been previously. But she was a widow, older. It was good that she acted more dignified. Then..." Aunt Frances' voice trailed off. She was staring at the coverlet. A bit glassy-eyed.

"Then?" he prompted, not so gently.

She took another deep drink of wine. Then she set the empty glass on her night table. "Then one day, her maid came upon her-" She took a deep breath then let it go with a lengthy sigh. "Oh, how to say this?"

"Quickly, I hope." The words left his lips before he could hold them back.

"Sunny was with one of the footmen." Her voice grew more hushed. She had put peculiar emphasis on the word "with."

But surely, no. He had not imagined that. This night had dragged on far too long. He put his hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. He just needed to focus his tired mind. He lowered his hand and returned his gaze to his aunt's. "With one of the footmen?" he repeated, somewhat dumbly.

"Alone in her bedchamber."

He gaped at Aunt Frances. He knew his mouth had fallen open; he simply couldn't help it. "Perhaps you were mistaken as to the intent."

Frances' face flamed and she shook her head. "No, there could be no mistaking the intent."

"Are you sure?" He prodded gently.

Frances nodded, but she still wouldn't look at him. "We-under Dr. Meeker's direction, that is-we took control over her. Kept better watch. And she seemed to be healing, growing stronger. We even trusted her to go out every now and then for a little shopping. To have tea with a friend. Well, as it turned out, this 'friend' was the footman. And that after we had been forgiving with him and had given him a reference for a new position." Frances wrung her hands for a few moments. "She had been seeing him for months. Months! Thank the merciful heavens there were no..." She pursed her mouth. "Complications."

He gaped at her, stunned thoughtless. Speechless.

"We trusted her. She betrayed us." Frances' voice rang with hurt. "Her mama and papa entrusted her care to me. What would I have told them? Welcome home to Scotland, here's your grandchild, the footman's only son?"

"He was a handsome devil," Grandmother said, with a small grin and a definite sparkle in her eye.

"Stop that! Stop jesting," Frances said. "None of this is amusing to me. I swear I aged twenty years over the matter." She pointed to her head. "It put all this silver in my hair."

"Sorry, lassie. I did my share of crying over Catriona's missteps, too. You know I did," Grandmother said.

James' blood had frozen. He had spent the past few moments numb. Not wanting to accept any of it. Their story held that strange sort of eerie ring of what could be possible. Neither woman had ever been the bearer of tales for sheer spite. At least, not that he knew of.

Yet what they said was not possible.

Not for Sunny.

"You're speaking of her as though she were still an eighteen-year-old bride," he said at length.

"Well, in a way she is, Jamie," Grandmother said. "She'd been tucked away in the country with Freddy all those years."

"Not for the past three and half years?"

"Yes," Frances replied defensively. "But she hasn't been herself all this time. That's what we're trying to tell you."

"You said she has some sort dependency?" he asked.

"Haven't you heard enough?" Aunt Frances said. "Don't you understand now that this is a very delicate matter and is best left to her doctor and us ladies?"

"I want to know what this doctor is treating her for." He turned back to his Grandmother, as she seemed more capable of plain speaking. "Please tell me."

Grandmother held up her hand and waved him off. "Jamie, don't fash yourself over all of this. It was Freddy's long illness, the shock of his death, that's what did this to her. The doctor is caring for her. He will soon have her back to her old self."

"There was no shock involved in Freddy's death," he said.

"You cannot understand what it is like to lose a husband."

"There's more to this than a widow's natural grief. I want to know all. And I want to know now," he demanded, hearing the growl enter his own voice.

Aunt Frances stared at him evenly. "James Blayne, I want you to swear on your mother's life that you did not see Catriona this night."

How the devil was he supposed to do that? He just stared at her.

Guiltily.

He'd certainly done nothing to feel guilty about.

Yes, but you came damned close to it.

He steeled his expression even more.

"Oh, God help you, boy." Aunt Frances curled her lip upward. "God help you that you haven't done something irreparable."

His sense of guilt mounted. He tightened his jaw, continuing to meet her gaze, refusing to be cowed, even though he was starting to feel like he was about fifteen again.

After his father's death, Aunt Frances had been the primary source of discipline for him as a boy. His own mother had been too soft, too prone to spoil him.

"James Blayne!" His grandmother exclaimed. "Catriona is Freddy's widow. How could you?"

"How could I what?" He held his hands in front of his chest, using them to emphasize his words. "I've done nothing."

Aunt Frances shook her head. "No, he's not to blame. He's just a man, after all. He didn't know."

"What didn't I know?" His frustration boiled over. "What the bloody hell is going on in this house?!" The words exploded from him.

Aunt Frances lifted her chin, looking regal now despite her rag curlers. "We've told you all that you need to know. Now I ask that you kindly leave the matter to us. If you intend to stay in Edinburgh for any length of time, please find a townhouse. A bachelor's house. Your presence clearly has upset Catriona's balance, and you can see from her indiscreet actions tonight that for you to stay here is to court scandal and disaster."

Her tone held a note of finality.

"I will have to charge a consultation fee for this meeting." The tall, skeletal man smoothed a hand over flyaway strands of silver hair.

"Charge me then, doctor. But I will have answers," James said, his mind still unable to wrap itself around the things his aunt and grandmother had said.

It couldn't be true.

None of it.

Except possibly that Sunny had become too dependent upon opiates. And if that were the case, this doctor had much to answer for. James intended to see that he did.