Pretty in Plaid

by Eliza Knight

  Pretty in Plaid

  Eliza Knight

  Contents

  More Books by Eliza Knight

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  About the Author

  More Books by Eliza Knight

  Prince Charlie’s Rebels

  The Highlander Who Stole Christmas

  Pretty in Plaid

  Prince Charlie’s Angels

  The Rebel Wears Plaid

  Truly Madly Plaid

  You’ve Got Plaid

  The Sutherland Legacy

  The Highlander’s Gift

  The Highlander’s Quest

  The Highlander’s Stolen Bride

  The Highlander’s Hellion

  The Highlander’s Secret Vow

  The Highlander’s Enchantment

  The Stolen Bride Series

  The Highlander’s Temptation

  The Highlander’s Reward

  The Highlander’s Conquest

  The Highlander’s Lady

  The Highlander’s Warrior Bride

  The Highlander’s Triumph

  The Highlander’s Sin

  Wild Highland Mistletoe (a Stolen Bride winter novella)

  The Highlander’s Charm (a Stolen Bride novella)

  A Kilted Christmas Wish – a contemporary Holiday spin-off

  The Highlander’s Surrender

  The Highlander’s Dare

  The Conquered Bride Series

  Conquered by the Highlander

  Seduced by the Laird

  Taken by the Highlander (a Conquered bride novella)

  Claimed by the Warrior

  Stolen by the Laird

  Protected by the Laird (a Conquered bride novella)

  Guarded by the Warrior

  The MacDougall Legacy Series

  Laird of Shadows

  Laird of Twilight

  Laird of Darkness

  Pirates of Britannia: Devils of the Deep

  Savage of the Sea

  The Sea Devil

  A Pirate’s Bounty

  The Thistles and Roses Series

  Promise of a Knight

  Eternally Bound

  Breath from the Sea

  The Highland Bound Series (Erotic time-travel)

  Behind the Plaid

  Bared to the Laird

  Dark Side of the Laird

  Highlander’s Touch

  Highlander Undone

  Highlander Unraveled

  Touchstone Novella Series

  Highland Steam

  Highland Brawn

  Highland Tryst

  Highland Heat

  Wicked Women

  Her Desperate Gamble

  Seducing the Sheriff

  Kiss Me, Cowboy

  Historical Fiction

  Coming soon!

  The Little Mayfair Bookshop

  Tales From the Tudor Court

  My Lady Viper

  Prisoner of the Queen

  Ancient Historical Fiction

  A Day of Fire: a novel of Pompeii

  A Year of Ravens: a novel of Boudica’s Rebellion

  French Revolution

  Ribbons of Scarlet: a novel of the French Revolution

  May 2021

  COPYRIGHT © 2021 ELIZA KNIGHT

  PRETTY IN PLAID © 2021 Eliza Knight. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part or the whole of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted or utilized (other than for reading by the intended reader) in ANY form (now known or hereafter invented) without prior written permission by the author. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal, and punishable by law.

  PRETTY IN PLAID is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and or are used fictitiously and solely the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Kimberly Killion @ The Killion Group, Inc.

  Edited by Erica Monroe

  1

  Inverness, Scotland

  Culloden House

  February 14, 1743

  In the great hall of Culloden House, downstairs was a mass of dragoons drinking wine from Scottish glassware and mingling with Scottish lasses and lords alike as though they belonged.

  Miss Kenna Forbes supposed she should have been glad that the interactions between the Scots and the English were pleasant in the house rather than what they could have been, which was violent, as often what happened when dragoons clashed with Scots.

  As it was, she stood at the top of the stairs preparing to make her descent, wearing a lovely gown that had once been her mother's. The only problem was that her gown was going to cause quite a stir, and dare she go through with it, downright outrage.

  Kenna’s gown—deep green and blue with thin stripes of white in the pattern of her family’s plaid—was lovely as ever. Made of the finest wool and with Scottish pearl buttons on the bodice and cuffs, she was going to irritate her audience. Dear Uncle Duncan was going to be quite put out.

  He’d given her, and every other lass in attendance to this hastily tossed-together ball an order not to wear plaid, but to try and blend in with the dragoons, to remind them of home. Uncle Duncan was a loyalist and blessed his Hanoverian King George every morning, noon and night. He did not believe that the Scottish Stuart line should be returned to their rightful place on the throne. Kenna had to keep it very much to herself that she was a fan of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s and a secret Jacobite herself.

  But this order not to wear plaid to the ball had bristled in a way she couldn’t put into words. It was as if Uncle Duncan wanted to erase who they were. It was all well and good that he wanted to save his neck by siding with the King of England and Scotland, a man who didn’t deserve to be in the position he was, but that didn’t mean they had to give up their heritage.

  Nay, Kenna was not going to bow down to any edicts that demanded she forget who she was.

  She was a Scot. A Forbes, even if her uncle had been so long endeared to those in England that he’d forgotten what it meant to be both a Forbes and a Scot.

  “My lady,” hissed her maid from behind Kenna. “I think this is a bad idea.”

  Kenna waved away her well-meaning maid. “Och, Izzy, dinna start on me again.”

  Izzy stared down the stairs as if expecting one of the dragoons to sprout from the floor. “My da will have my head.” Her da was the master of the household and right-hand to Uncle Duncan.

  “Everyone in Culloden House knows me for being a bit of a...an independent,” Kenna said, not using the word “termagant,” as was so often bandied about. “Just blame it on me.”

  Izzy grimaced, bit her lip and said nothing. After a minute, her maid sulked away, resigned to her fate.

  Time to make her entrance. Kenna took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. If only her mother could see her now. Once a rebel in the Jacobite forces, her mother had been instrumental in the first uprising nearly thirty years before. Both of Kenna’s parents had been killed in a skirmish with dragoons when she was four years old. She’d been lucky that Uncle Duncan had been willing to take her in, given his differing political views.

  Which was why she felt a twinge of guilt now that she was going against his wishes. Kenna paused in the middle of the staircase. Perhaps she should just return to her room and say she’d taken ill, and then she’d not have to participate at all. To be made to socialize with men who were related generationally to the men who’d killed her parents.

  Oh, heavens, but it made her stom
ach twist up into knots.

  Aye, best to go back upstairs.

  Kenna turned around, prepared to make her escape when a voice from the shadows at the bottom of the stairs caught her attention.

  “Are ye no’ going to join the party?” a deep male baritone broke through her thoughts.

  Kenna whirled around, squinting her eyes to see who was there, making out only a looming shape in the shadows.

  “Who are ye?” she asked.

  He stepped into the light, larger than life. And incredibly striking. He wasn’t exactly handsome in the way most women would say a man was, but rather ruggedly good-looking. His jaw was square, his cheekbones high, and his brow wide. Lips shaped in a way that would make any of the lasses in the ballroom jealous, and a strong chin to match his equally strong nose. A cap covered his dark hair, which was also pulled back at his nape in a queue, but several wayward tendrils had fallen loose about his ears.

  The man was tall, leaning his long, muscular body languidly against the wall at the base of the steps as though he belonged there. As though it were only a casual happenstance that she’d come upon him when it was anything but. The intruder was dressed in plaid, and dancing merrily upon his tilted cap was a white cockade, a clear sign of a Jacobite.

  “What are ye doing here?” She looked nervously about, afraid for the reckless stranger. “Ye must know there are at least two dozen dragoons in the ballroom.”

  He grinned as though the very thought thrilled him, and a rush of excitement funneled itself through Kenna’s veins.

  “I must say, miss, ye look quite bonny outfitted in plaid. Are ye attempting to be arrested?”

  Kenna crossed her arms over her chest. “I suggest ye leave, sir, afore they notice your presence.”

  He peered beyond the grand foyer, looking in the direction of the ballroom. “I dinna think they will be coming here anytime soon. There’s a bawdy game going about the ballroom from the looks of it.” He glanced back at her, and she wished she could see the color of his eyes. “’Haps ye’d like to join the fun.”

  “I dinna like games.” This was a lie. She loved games, and the idea of a bawdy game at that had her curiosity fairly bursting from her skin. What a tease he was. “Go away now.”

  The man chuckled, low and rumbly. The sound bounced up the steps to thump right into her belly, enough that she felt unbalanced and gripped the banister for purchase.

  “I’m afraid I canna do that.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I came here for something in particular.”

  “So, ye’re a thief.”

  He shrugged, not denying her accusation.

  “I shall scream,” she challenged.

  “Would ye care if I stole ye away from Uncle Duncan?”

  Kenna felt the blood drain from her face. How did he know that Duncan was her uncle? He chuckled again as though he could read her thoughts.

  With her hand gripping hard to the banister causing her knuckles to whiten, she said, “I’ll give ye to the count of three to vacate the premises before I alert the guards.”

  The man grinned as if he would very much enjoy that. “The count of three?”

  “Aye.” Was she being too generous?

  “All right, I’ll take the challenge.”

  What? She narrowed her eyes.

  “Are ye going to start counting, or should I?” He winged a cocky brow that made her bristle with irritation.

  “I will count.” Was the man taking her up on the challenge?

  He gave a languid perusal of her person. “I’m waiting verra patiently, lass.”

  Oh, the nerve!

  “One,” she said quickly.

  He pushed his bulk off the wall, lifted a long leg up to the third stair and then stopped.

  “What are ye doing?”

  “Waiting for ye to say two.”

  What in the bloody hell? Kenna was shocked, stunned, and curious. “Ye should be running the other way. Ye dinna know how this works.”

  “Trust me, lass, I know exactly how this works.” Why did he have to say it like that, in a tone that spoke of something else, something not proper at all?

  “Two.” She retreated, feeling uneasy, as he took two steps in one stride. She should run but dashing up the staircase with these voluminous skirts would likely have her face-planting onto the very path she wished to take. “Stop,” she hissed. “No’ another inch closer.”

  There was only one stair between them now. If she said three, he’d be right on top of her.

  “Say three.” He grinned widely, sending a thrill through her.

  “Nay, I will no’.”

  “Say it, or I will.”

  Kenna shook her head vehemently and stepped back up the stairs, stumbling on the hem of her skirt and planting her arse right on the step. She used her hands, scrambling being her for purchase, while he watched. The expression on his face was patient and only enraged her further.

  Kenna jumped up, prepared to fight now, except her damn skirts kept getting in the way, and started to fall forward, grappling for a hold on the banister. She knew this dress was a bad idea. Strong arms came around her waist, holding her upright and entirely too close to his large, hard body. Though he stood on the stair below her, she was still gaping up into his striking face, the intensity of his gray eyes locked on hers. Her breath caught at his touch, his expression and the overwhelming feeling that he might just kiss her. She was curious enough to let him do it.

  “Three,” he whispered. “Are ye going to scream now?”

  “Aye.” Kenna opened her mouth and filled her lungs.

  The wee wench was going to rat him out. Sorley MacLeod clamped his hand over her mouth before she could make good on her threat of screaming.

  And then she bit him.

  Sorley yanked his hand away from her mouth with a hiss. “What did ye do that for?”

  “Dinna ever cover my mouth again.” She reached behind her and pulled—of all things—a small dagger from the mass of red curls piled on her head.

  “Where the hell were ye hiding that?” Sorley raised a brow, impressed.

  She jabbed it toward his chest, and he swayed away from her so as not to be swiped with it. “Careful, lass, ’tis sharp.”

  “Ye think I dinna know that? That’s the whole point.” She frowned up at him with such ire that, it only made him smile.

  Sorley held up his hands in surrender, unable to keep himself from grinning. “I’ll beg ye to listen a moment afore ye send me to my maker.”

  The lass narrowed her eyes, keeping the dagger level. “I’ll no’ be counting to three this time, so spit it out. Someone is bound to come looking for me eventually, and then ye’re a dead man.”

  “I came for ye, Kenna Forbes.”

  She paled visibly, the steady hand holding the dagger giving a tiny tremble. But despite those two obvious shows of fear, her gaze was still fierce, and her lips pinched in defiance.

  “What do ye want with me?” She spoke through gritted teeth, and the tautness of her body charged the air between them.

  Saints, but if this had been any other time and the enemy weren’t so close, he would have taken some time to calm the chit, even if the color in her cheeks was quite becoming. “Ye’re wanted by your uncle.”

  “My uncle is in the ballroom, and he’d no’ have sent a rebel to get me.”

  Sorley shook his head. “No’ that uncle. Your ma’s brother.”

  “Laird MacLeod?” The shock made her eyes go wide, and the tightness fell from her lips.

  “Aye, lass.”

  “He didna want me afore. He let my Uncle Duncan take me in. Why should I believe he wants me now or that he sent ye to get me?”

  Sorley smiled, hoping the small gesture would reassure her somewhat, but it only seemed to make her pricklier. “He’ll be pleased ye asked. Said if ye were truly his sister’s daughter that ye’d no’ be so willing to walk away with a stranger.”

  Kenna’s shoulders s
traightened. “Any woman in her right mind wouldna walk away with a stranger.”

  “True, I hadna thought of it that way.” Sorley shrugged. None of that mattered anyway. He simply needed her to leave with him, and soon.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, the glint of the metal tip of the dagger pressed up against her arm, toward her shoulder. “Best be on your way. If the MacLeod wishes an audience, he can come and fetch me himself.”

  “Och, lass, come now. Ye and I both know he canna come anywhere near your precious Uncle Duncan and his band of merry dragoons. It’ll be a death sentence. He’ll no’ be pleased with me if I dinna fetch ye myself.”

  “So he would risk your life then? Who are ye to him, and why should I care?”

  “I’m Sorley MacLeod, lass.” He gave a mock bow, which only brought his face closer to hers. Lord, she smelled good, like sugary sweets and flowers all at once. “The clan calls me the retriever.”

  “Like a dog?” She raised a brow of her own, managing somehow to look down her nose at him despite being over a foot shorter. Was that a hint of a laugh behind those disdainful eyes?

  She was a feisty one. “I’m no’ a dog, and I’ll endeavor no’ to take offense to the insult. I find what needs finding, and I bring what needs bringing.”

  She scoffed. “Well then, ye can bring this message to my uncle—I’m a human person, not a package or a treasure or whatever it is that needs retrieving.”