And the Bride Wore Plaid

by Karen Hawkins

  He looked down at his lap, barely hidden from sight by the thin sheet. “Now?”

  Her gaze followed his to where his obvious reaction was visible against the folds. Her cheeks heated, a lush pink color beneath the creamy white. “Nay,” she said hastily, “not now. But as soon as I’ve left. Then you can put on your clothes and be on your way.”

  He was not going to leave without at least a kiss—or something more—to give him the strength to fight off whatever enticements the blasted talisman ring had in store. He glanced down at the bandbox she’d been peering into. “What are you looking for?”

  “A ch—” She snapped her lips closed, glaring at him as if he’d committed a sin of some sort. “None of your business.” She bent down and plunked the lid back on the bandbox. Then she picked it up and returned it to the stuffed wardrobe, slamming the doors closed. “I’ll leave you to dress and then I’ll return and finish what I was doing.”

  “Don’t leave yet.” He patted the bed beside him, watching her from beneath his lashes. “Stay and talk a bit.”

  One brow raised in skeptical disbelief. “Talk?” Her gaze dropped pointedly to his lap. “That’s not what you appear to be wanting.”

  He choked on an unexpected laugh. She was a brazen one with a wit to match. It was a pity he had so little time, for it would have been wonderful to luxuriate in that deliciously decadent body of hers. As it was, he was forced to immediate action.

  Devon met her gaze directly. “I wish I had more time to spend here at Kilkairn.”

  “You aren’t staying long?”

  He ignored the satisfaction that threaded her voice. “I’ve business to attend to for my brother, so I must leave in three weeks. Which is a great, sad pity.” He peered at her from beneath his lashes and waited.

  She shifted from one foot to the other, curiosity rampant in her gaze. After a moment, she asked in a rush, as if the words were forced from her, “Why is it a pity?”

  “Because if it were not for that wretched fact, I would stay here and spend days, weeks, slowly seducing you, teasing and tormenting away your frowns until you had nothing left but ecstatic gasps and contented sighs.”

  If she’d colored before, it was nothing compared to the blaze of pink that heated her cheeks now.

  Devon leaned forward. “More than anything in the world, I want to kiss you. Right now. May I?”

  She blinked, and he realized that her lashes were so long that they tangled at the corners. “A kiss?”

  It wasn’t an invitation exactly. But it would do. In one smooth movement, he slid to the edge of the bed, swung his feet to the floor, grasped the woman’s arm, and pulled her into his almost-bare lap. It was unfortunate that the sheet had tangled about his hips or there would have been naught but her skirts separating them.

  Without giving her time to react beyond a simple gasp, he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her. He kissed her deeply, thoroughly, his mouth opening over hers, his tongue pressing between her lips. He tasted, teased, poured every ounce of his longing and desire into that one touch.

  She stiffened, but didn’t move, neither welcoming nor fighting off his embrace, though he could feel her heat thundering beneath his hands as he held her close. Could taste the wanton desire that answered his own.

  A soft moan sounded in her throat, and Devon deepened the embrace. But even as he did so, she went limp in his arms, her face turning away from his as she gasped for breath.

  It was an unbelievably sensual moment, the feel of her in his arms, her taste on his lips, her heart beating so fiercely that his own raged in response.

  Devon held her tight and didn’t move. After a long moment of fighting off the heavy wave of desire that made his loins ache and his throat tighten with need, he caught his breath enough to lift his head and look down into her face.

  He expected shocked surprise. Or perhaps a pretense of outraged virtue, all of which he was prepared to kiss away.

  But instead, despite her flushed cheeks, she met his gaze directly enough and said in a rather breathless voice, “Bloody hell, not again.” To his further astonishment, she seemed to school her expression into one of supreme disinterest.

  Of all the hundreds—nay, thousands—of kisses he’d delivered, none had met with a reaction anywhere close to this—disinterest tinged with boredom. Nor was he used to seeing a tedious expression on the faces of the women he gifted with his expertise. Bemusement, yes. Wonderment, yes. Even awed excitement. But boredom?

  He pulled back a little more so that he could see fully into the maid’s face. “I beg your pardon, but did you say ‘Bloody hell, not again’?”

  “Aye,” she said, her gaze even with his. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen slightly, her chest still moving rapidly up and down—those few things assured him that she was a pretender.

  But still, it was intriguing that she could manage such a disinterested look and tone. “What do you mean ‘again’?” he demanded.

  She struggled to sit upright, but when he refused to loosen his hold, she merely sighed, her breath sweet, brushed with cinnamon. “Every time Strathmore has a guest, I get mauled. I am damned tired of it.”

  Devon’s lips twitched. The maid’s breath might be sweet, but her language was not. “If you don’t wish to be mauled, then perhaps you should try to be a little less tempting.”

  “Tempting? Me?” Kat Macdonald blinked into the blue, blue eyes of her captor, fighting a losing battle to appear unaffected. Her mind whirled around the fact that the handsomest man she’d ever beheld had swept her into his lap and bestowed an expert, passionate kiss on her astounded lips. Then she’d had to fight the fact that her body had immediately softened, her heartbeat had tripled, her chest had tightened with an unfamiliar emotion.

  It had been all she could do to appear bored, though she’d managed. It was the best way to depress unwanted attentions, something Kat excelled at. Something she was far too familiar with, as it was. But in a way, that was her own fault. She’d sold her reputation for something that had seemed far more important, only to discover that she’d been wrong, dead wrong. Now she was forced to deal with the repercussions of that decision, one made so hastily eight years ago.

  He lifted a finger and traced the curve of her cheek, the touch bemusingly gentle. “You are a lush, tempting woman, my dear. And well you know it.”

  Kat’s defenses trembled just the slightest bit. Bloody hell, how was she to fight her own treacherous body while the bounder—Devon something or another—tossed compliments at her with just enough sincerity to leave her breathless to hear more?

  Of course, it was all practiced nonsense, she told herself firmly. She was anything but tempting. She looked well enough when she put some effort into it, but she was large and ungainly, and it was way too early in the morning for her to look anything other than pale. Her eyes were still heavy with sleep, and she’d washed her hair last night and it had dried in a most unruly, puffy way that she absolutely detested. One side was definitely fuller than the other, and it disturbed her no end. Even worse, she was wearing one of her work gowns of plain gray wool, one that was far too tight about the shoulders and too loose about the waist. Thus, she was able to meet his gaze and say firmly, “I am not tempting.”

  “I’d call you tempting and more,” Devon said with refreshing promptness. “Your eyes shimmer rich and green. Your hair is the color of the morning sky just as the sun touches it, red and gold at the same time. And the rest of you—” His gaze traveled over her until her cheeks burned. “The rest of you is—”

  “That’s enough of that,” she said hastily. “You’re full of moonlight and shadows, you are.”

  “I don’t know anything about moonlight and shadows. I only know you are a gorgeous, lush armful.”

  “In this?” She looked down at her faded gown with incredulity. “You’d call this gorgeous or lush?”

  His gaze touched on her gown, lingering on her breasts. “Oh yes. If you want to go unnoticed, you�
�ll have to bind those breasts of yours.”

  She choked.

  He grinned. “And add some padding of some sort in some other areas.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but please let me up—”

  “I was talking about padding. Perhaps if you bundled yourself about the hips until you looked plumper, then you wouldn’t have to deal with louts such as myself attempting to kiss you at every turn.”

  She caught the humor sparkling in his eyes, and it disarmed her a bit more.

  “Furthermore,” he continued as if he’d never paused, “you will need to hide those eyes of yours and perhaps wear a turban, if you want men like me to stop noticing you.”

  “Hmph. I’ll remember that the next time I run into you or any other of Strathmore’s lecherous cronies. Now, if you’ll let me go, I have things to do.”

  His eyes twinkled. “And if I refuse?”

  “Then I will have to deal with you myself.”

  “Oh ho! A woman of spirit. I like that.”

  “Oh ho,” she returned sharply, “a man who does not value his appendages.”

  That comment was meant to wither him on the vine. Instead he chuckled, the sound rich and deep. “Sweet, I value my appendage, although it should be your job to admire it.”

  “I have no wish for such a job, thank you very much.”

  “Oh, but if you did, it would then be my job to wield that appendage in such a way as to rouse that admiration to a vocal level.” Devon leaned forward and murmured in her ear, “You have a delicious moan, my sweet. I heard it when we kissed.”

  Her cheeks burned. “The only vocal rousing you’re going to get from me is a scream for help.”

  A bit of the humor left his gaze, and he said with apparent seriousness, “I would give my life trying to earn that moan yet again. Would you deny me that?”

  In all her years of avoiding the clutching hands of her half brother’s friends, never had any attempted to woo her with words. Not a single one. The tactic surprised her, and very few things did. “Please let me go. It is very improper of me to sit in your lap.” Improper, but comfortable for all that.

  He pursed his lips. “I’m not sure I can. Not without a toll.”

  “A toll? To gain release from my own bed?”

  His eyes glinted suddenly, a smile on his sensual mouth that left her heart trembling in her throat. His hands, so warm before, now seemed even warmer, almost hot through the material of her gown. “My sweet,” he said, “you aren’t in bed, but in my lap. Were you in bed, I’d demand much more than a kiss for your freedom.”

  She frowned. “That is not fair.” And it wasn’t, not in any way.

  “Life is rarely fair,” he retorted.

  Kat couldn’t very well argue with him there. Life had already proven that. Blast it, it wasn’t fair if he was going to use logic. “I already gave you one kiss,” she pointed out reasonably.

  “You didn’t kiss me—I kissed you.”

  “That’s all you’ll get from me.”

  “Really?” His lids lowered, and he regarded her with a sleepy, sexy look that quite stole her thoughts. “What a pity, for I enjoyed that kiss. More than I should have. Without a doubt, it was the most intriguing, most delicious kiss I’ve ever received.”

  Despite Kat’s determination to appear unmoved, a tiny flicker of pride tickled through her. From the stranger’s manner and appearance, she was certain he was quite used to being kissed…in fact, there had been something of a master kisser in his manner and ability. And yet he’d been impressed with her efforts. She hadn’t even tried to impress him, either. She wondered what he’d think if she did try. He would be completely astounded and—

  Kat blinked. St. George’s Dragon, but if she continued on this line of thought, she’d talk herself into kissing him again. And all without him saying another word!

  Her gaze narrowed on the stranger and she noted that he was watching her expressions intently, a pleased smile on his lips as if he knew exactly where her thoughts were taking her. I’m playing right into his hands, blast it!

  “Enough of this. I will give you until the count of three to free me.”

  Amusement laced his blue eyes. “Or?”

  “Or I will be forced to hurt you.”

  He chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Really? And how will you—”

  “One.”

  “Oh come now. All I want is a kiss. You’ve already given me one, what can be the harm in—”

  “Two.”

  He shook his head. “I vow, but you are a stubborn thing. Far more stubborn even than my sis—”

  “Three.” She lifted her foot and swung it back, hard. There was a solid thunk as the heel of her boot hit his bare shin. His arms loosened instantly. Kat was on her feet and across the floor before her captor finished a rather colorful string of invectives.

  Once she reached the door, she wasted no time hurrying out and slamming it behind her. Then she continued on her way down the steps, through the great hall, and out the door, where she hurried on to the stables.

  She didn’t think Mr. Devon St. John would follow—he’d have to stop long enough to find some clothes. But still, her heart was pounding as if he were hard on her heels. And perhaps, in a way, he was.

  Kat found the stables thankfully quiet. She hurried by the nearly empty stalls, the scent of hay and oats mingling in the cool air. She went straight to the tack room, where she locked the door and then stood with her back against it, fighting for breath and the return of her usual calm thinking.

  In all the times she’d fended off the groping hands of Kilkairn guests, never had Kat allowed anyone to touch her, much less hold her in his arms and kiss her. This man had merely caught her by surprise with his soft words and smiling eyes. But now she’d be cautious around him; very cautious indeed.

  Certainly Kat had never enjoyed the attentions of any of Malcolm’s other miscreant friends, yet this time she had to admit that she’d felt a definite trill of excitement. In fact, she’d felt many things while in Devon St. John’s arms, and none of them was safe.

  That thought firmly in mind, she waited only until her breath returned to normal before leaving the tack room and finding her horse. Then she mounted and left, riding through the forest and hills as if the hounds of hell were indeed following her.

  Chapter 3

  I am not here to argue, sir. I am here to inform you of my wishes and to see to it that you consent in all matters forthwith.

  Viscountess Mooreland to her mirror, practicing for an upcoming “conversation” with His Lordship regarding his wasteful gambling habits

  The chit had kicked him. Hard. Devon’s temper went from amused interest to astonished outrage in the space of a few seconds, his irritation complete when she swept from the room in seemingly righteous indignation, slamming the door behind her.

  All told, it was a new, and unpleasant, experience. Women rarely refused his requests for a dalliance and never bothered to kick him before leaving the room.

  Damn it, what was wrong with the woman? A simple “No, thank you” would have sufficed. Although…He rubbed his shin and winced. Perhaps he’d been too determined to keep the damned effect of that blasted talisman ring at bay by holding the chit in his lap. Truly, he had meant no harm. It was just the realization that she was so absolutely perfect for his plans—and right there, at arm’s length—that had made him reluctant to heed her request for release.

  Of course, most women he knew wouldn’t have complained had he kept them in his lap for much longer than a few miserly minutes. Had he offered, many would have stayed and even suggested additional amusements to accompany such a luxuriously naughty position. But apparently London misses were something less particular than Scottish misses. Perhaps some small part of that was due to his position in London society…

  An insidious idea crept into his mind and latched about his thoughts. What if all the women who had bedded him had done so merely because they
had known who he was, that he was a St. John?

  He glanced down at his ready “appendage,” as the chit had called it, and relief swept through him. His name might have been the reason some women had tumbled into his bed, but it wasn’t the reason so many of them clamored, cajoled, and begged to return.

  Feeling a bit more himself, Devon rose and began to dress. He didn’t have Tilton’s way of decreasing wrinkles, but Devon managed quite well. His cravat was sadly crushed, of course, but here in the wilderness, who would know? He tied it as best he could and then pinned it in place with a sapphire pin. He’d just bent over to fish his boots from under the bed when he caught sight of the St. John talisman ring where it still rested in the candle dish on the night table. His gaze narrowed, and he reached out and touched the slender metal band.

  The ring was warm beneath his fingertips, and surprisingly smooth despite the runes carved on the side. For some reason, the feel of the silky metal reminded him of the maid. She was every bit as prickly on the inside, and then just as surprisingly soft to the touch.

  He traced the curve of the band, his mind lingering on the memory. Suddenly he caught himself, stepping hastily back from the table and ramming his hands into his pockets. Bloody hell, if he wasn’t careful, he’d be bedded and wedded before the day was out.

  Not to the saucy maid, of course—not only was she completely unsuitable, but she had also apparently developed an unreasonable dislike for his presence, as indicated by the bruise on his shin. He realized that she’d bruised far more than his shin; his pride was injured as well.

  He shrugged into his waistcoat. Devon knew there had to be other unsuitable women to dally with, though he doubted any of the others possessed the creamy skin, red-gold hair, or pure audacity of the one he’d let escape.

  Damn. He turned his back on the ring and pulled his boots from beneath the bed, grimacing at the mud on the once shiny leather. Sighing, he crossed to a window and opened it, pausing as he leaned out to dust his boots onto the gardens below. The scent of the flowers and herbs rose to meet him. For all the mismanagement inside Kilkairn Castle, the gardens were glorious. The green of the grass reminded him of the eyes of the wench who’d kicked him.