And the Bride Wore Plaid

by Karen Hawkins

  Kat curled her nose.

  Simon nodded morosely. “That’s what I thought, too. Fat Mary does nothin’ but spread rumors, night ’n’ day. I don’t know why Annie puts up wid it.”

  Kat could have told Simon that his sister was addicted to gossip. While Annie rarely passed on any information she gathered in her meticulous cullings, she enjoyed knowing more than anyone else.

  Simon crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels. “I’ve got the lads down in the workshop, finishing off the last window for the Earl of Argyll. I tol’ the lads they’d best make it something to behold. If we do a good job, there’ll be more where that comes from.”

  Kat nodded. “The earl has a new wife. She’ll be wanting to put her own mark on his household. She told me she wants to commission a window for every child they have.”

  “Women,” Simon said, shaking his head. “They can think of more ways to spend blunt.”

  Kat lifted her brows. “I’m a woman.”

  “Aye, but ye ain’t all trussed up in the need to tell everyone what to do.” Simon glanced at the house for a moment, before adding in an undertone, “Take Annie. M’sister has a bad habit of bossin’ a man aboot until he’s ready to bundle his clothes and run for the hills.”

  “Just see to it that you don’t run,” Kat said, leaning over to give him a quick hug. “Or if you do, at least promise to come back after you’ve enjoyed a pint or ten of freedom. I can’t do without you more than one day. Perhaps two, if things are slow.”

  Simon’s smile blossomed. “I have to come back, lassie. Who else’ll make the windows bearing the coat of arms fer those fancy earls and dukes?”

  “Who indeed?” She kissed his cheek and turned to the house. “Tell the lads I’ll be with them directly.

  I just want to see what Annie bought in the village today.”

  “I’ll tell them,” Simon promised. He retrieved his plank and hoisted it over his shoulder, then winked. “I’ll tell them ye’re in a rare mood, too. That should get them to hoppin’.”

  “I don’t want them hopping, just working. We’ve more orders to fill than there are hours in the day.”

  “Don’t ye fash, Miss Kat. We’ll come aboot. See if we don’t.” He gave her a reassuring nod, then left, walking toward the workshop, a long, low building set on the other side of the cottage, back against the line of trees.

  She watched him go, a fond smile touching her mouth. Simon possessed a heavy sense of responsibility and a natural tendency to step in and do what most needed doing. These were just two of the many things she loved about him.

  Kat turned and crossed to the back door of the cottage. If there was any chance that mud or dirt was clinging to her boots, she always entered through the kitchen. As she stopped outside the open door to scrape her feet, Kat heard voices from inside.

  “I seed him meself, I did!” said a woman in a breathless voice. Kat recognized Fat Mary, a kitchen maid from Kilkairn. As round as a barrel, there was no mistaking her rough voice. “He’s as beautiful as Lucifer, all black hair and blue eyes.”

  “Is he tall?” asked another woman. That sounded like Lucy, who came from the village to help Annie with the cooking.

  “Tall he is,” Fat Mary agreed with so much enthusiasm that Kat found a scowl upon her face. “He has a fine arse, too.”

  Arse? How on earth could Mary know that? Kat leaned closer to the open door and tried to peek around the corner.

  “Och now, how do ye know aboot the man’s arse?” Annie asked, her voice sharp.

  God bless Annie, Kat decided with rising satisfaction. The housekeeper never stood for any nonsense.

  “Why, I walked into his room to stoke the fire and there he was, lying on the counterpane, sound asleep and as bare-arsed as the day he was borned.”

  Kat took a hasty step forward, then caught herself. St. John had arrived in the middle of the night, and Kat herself had been there when he’d awakened, so it was highly unlikely Mary knew anything more than the man’s fully clothed appearance. Mary was lying; she had to be. But Kat knew that bursting into the room, ringing with indignation, would only draw undue attention to herself.

  In the time Kat had known her, Fat Mary had launched and sailed several hot air balloons’ worth of gossip. None of them landing anywhere near the truth. But if Fat Mary started such a rumor about Malcolm’s new guest, every single maid in the countryside soon would be making excuses to visit Kilkairn in an effort to glimpse the handsome stranger. For some reason, Kat found that very annoying.

  Lifting her chin, she walked into the kitchen and looked directly at Fat Mary. “I was at the castle this very morning, and you did not light the fires in any of the bedchambers.”

  Fat Mary flushed. She was a large, fleshy woman with pale, stringy hair and watery gray eyes. “I did the guest chamber!”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. That’s when I seed him, whilst I was lighting the fire.”

  Kat lifted her brows. “Which chamber did you say St. John was sleeping in?”

  “Which—” Mary shifted uneasily. “I don’t remember, exactly—perhaps ’twas the green one.”

  Lucy frowned. “But ye tol’ me on the way here that he was in the gold room and—”

  “Ha!” Annie plopped her fists on her narrow hips as she glared at Mary. “Ye were fashin’ us, weren’t ye? Tellin’ us fibs aboot one o’ Lord Strathmore’s guests. Ye ought to be ashamed o’ yerself.”

  “I’m not tellin’ fibs,” Fat Mary said, though her gaze shot to the door and back as if she were considering running for her life. “I seed him, I did. And his arse, too!”

  “I don’t know who you ‘seed’ or whose arse, but it wasn’t St. John’s,” Kat said. “He was in the blue room because none of the others were ready.”

  “There!” Annie eyed Mary with disgust. “Isn’t it time ye returned to Kilkairn? I daresay they’ve more dirty pots fer ye to scrub.”

  Mary stiffened, her plump shoulders rising almost to her ears. “I was just tellin’ ye what I seed, was all.”

  “What you wished you’d seed,” Annie amended. Though a good head shorter than any other woman in the room, she managed to maintain control of every conversation, simply through sheer force of her character. Even now, her hair tucked beneath a cap, her whip-cord thin body covered with a gray gown, and solid, plain shoes on her feet, she was plainly in command. “Off with ye. Mary, ye know where ye’re wanted…and where ye’re not. I’ll have yer cart brought around. Lucy, thank ye fer the jelly. Tell yer mum we’re grateful.”

  Kat watched while Annie bustled her guests out to their cart and waved them on their way. Then, wiping her hands on her apron, Annie returned and pulled out a wooden bowl and a sack of potatoes and began peeling them.

  Kat found another knife and joined in. “I’m sorry your visit turned out so unpleasantly.”

  “Och, don’t think on it. Fat Mary is as Fat Mary is. By this time tomorrow, neither of us will remember who was mad aboot what.” Annie finished off a peeling with an expert twist of her wrist.

  “She’s a braggart, all right,” Kat agreed.

  “Indeed. Actin’ as if she was the only one who saw him in the castle.” Annie turned to Kat and eyed her up and down. “Well?”

  “Well what?” Kat asked uneasily. She kept her gaze on the potato she was peeling so she wouldn’t have to meet Annie’s gaze.

  “What do you have to say aboot the stranger at the castle?”

  “I know his name is St. John.” And that he had a mouth made for kissing. Kat cut the potato with more force than was necessary, the knife thunking soundly on the cutting board.

  Annie eyed the flashing knife with some misgiving. “Indeed?”

  “Aye. If I remember what Malcolm told me a while ago, I believe they met whilst the two were down at Eton.” Or so she thought.

  “Indeed?” Annie said. “Is that all ye know?”

  “Aye,” Kat said.

  “Hm. I suppose I’ll have to wait un
til my cousin Jane gets a look at him. She’s ever had an eye for a handsome man.”

  Kat didn’t like that at all. Jane was the upstairs maid at Kilkairn, and a more lascivious woman was difficult to find.

  In fact, Kat was quite certain that Jane had bedded most, if not all, of Malcolm’s guests. “I daresay St. John isn’t the sort of man Jane would like to dally with.”

  Annie looked astounded. “He was breathin’, wasn’t he?”

  “Aye, but—”

  “Then Jane would enjoy dallyin’ with him. She’s not particular, is our Jane.”

  Kat cut another potato in two, this time slicing it so thoroughly that she buried the tip of the knife in the table top. “Oh! I’m sorry.”

  Annie’s hand closed over Kat’s. “Just leave the knife there. I’ll take care of the rest of these.”

  “Are you certain? I can at least—”

  “I’m certain. Besides, aren’t the lads waitin’ on ye?”

  They would be, of course. Since housework had never held any appeal, Kat readily washed her hands in a bucket and dried them on a towel Annie kept nearby. “You’re right. We have to finish the windows by the end of this week or we’ll be good and behind.”

  “There is no ‘good and behind.’ There’s only ‘behind.’ Get to work, Miss Kat.” Annie flashed a smile, her angular, usually morose face lighting. “I’d never let the lads alone for a minute. You canno’ tell what they’ll be into.”

  Kat agreed, smiling in return. The men they’d gathered as glassworkers were a singular lot, all of them strong on personality. Simon had collected most of them, scrutinizing them carefully. Kat paid more than a fair wage, and she rewarded quality work, which meant the best of the best were drawn to her cottage.

  Waving good-bye to Annie, Kat left. She lifted her face to the sun as she walked across the clearing to the workshop where the pleasant sound of hammering and male voices made her smile. All in all, it was a good thing she wouldn’t be going to Kilkairn Castle any more this week. She’d spent far too much time mulling over the handsome Englishman as it was, and all for no more than a little kiss. Heaven only knew what state she’d be in if he’d done more. So to preserve her own peace, she’d stay away from Kilkairn. At least until St. John was on his bonny way.

  The carriage swept into the drive and pulled up in front of Kilkairn Castle much as it had done the night before. Paul leaned forward and caught a glimpse of a solitary figure standing on the front portico.

  “Mr. St. John’s biting at the bit, ain’t he?” John the coachman said.

  “So it appears.” Paul jumped down the second the coach came to a halt. He hadn’t been entirely certain he’d find the master up and about. It was only eleven, after all. But there he was, pacing the front portico, hat in hand, dressed for riding.

  As soon as Paul approached, St. John smiled. “There you are! How was the inn?”

  “Adequate, sir.” Barely. But it was better than staying at the castle.

  “Excellent. I find Kilkairn just as satisfying.”

  A smile hovered over St. John’s mouth, and Paul found himself responding. “I’m surprised ye’re up so early, sir.”

  “What? Me? Why, I love mornings!” Devon waved a hand. “Just smell the fresh air. Taste the crisp coolness of the dawn.”

  Paul didn’t point out that dawn had been hours ago. “Indeed, sir. I hadn’t noticed.”

  “You’d better wake up, Paul. Such glorious mornings do not come often.” St. John’s eyes twinkled. “Almost never, where I am concerned.”

  Paul grinned. “No, sir. Did you wish us to take you somewhere today?”

  “Actually, yes. But I’m not sure where.”

  “Sir?”

  “I want to find a house located in the woods. A smallish house, from what I understand.”

  “A small house? Ye want one to let?”

  “No, no, no! This house belongs to someone, and I wish to pay a visit.”

  Things suddenly became clear to Paul. He was beginning to smell a petticoat. “Sir, who might this house belong to?”

  “Miss Katherine Macdonald.”

  From the look on the master’s face, this was obviously a promising errand of a romantic nature. “If Miss Macdonald lives hereabouts, I daresay someone in the stable will know how to get there.”

  “Excellent idea! Furthermore, I believe I should ride there myself. All I need are the directions.”

  “Of course, sir. Shall I have the gelding saddled?”

  “Yes. I daresay Thunder could use a stretch.” Devon had paid a small fortune for the horse, and had never regretted it. Especially today when he could ride up to Kat’s cottage astride a horse worthy of carrying a knight.

  Paul bowed, then went on his way. In a relatively short time, he returned with directions, leading Thunder to the steps. The animal was huge, all gleaming black muscle and streaming mane and tail. Devon pulled on his gloves. Miss Katherine’s head was bound to be turned.

  Moments later, Devon galloped across the green fields of Kilkairn toward the forest. He was spurred forward by the memory of Kat’s lush body in his lap.

  Devon considered briefly the information Malcolm had let fall. There was an unspoken code of gentlemen that averred that one did not attempt to seduce the sisters of one’s best friends. Malcolm must have decided that any flirtation of Devon’s was nothing more than that—a flirtation, begun and ended with a kiss. Of course, Malcolm also knew that Devon would never go beyond the line of the acceptable, not without the permission and encouragement of the lady in question. What stung was that for some reason, Malcolm seemed to think his sister was immune to Devon’s particular charms—that Kat would want nothing more from Devon than a kiss.

  But Devon was not so sure; Kat seemed to possess a very passionate nature. Whatever the truth, it would certainly take more than a kiss to ease his lustful thoughts of Kat Macdonald, and to satisfy the curiosity and heat he’d seen burning in her eyes.

  But the real beauty of it all was that the more time Devon spent with Malcolm’s ineligible sister, the less chance there was that Devon might fall victim to the talisman ring’s magical powers.

  With Kat and her ruined reputation, Devon was completely safe, no matter how far their flirtation went. More proof that he was smarter by far than any ring ever made. Smiling to himself, he urged Thunder farther into the woods, certain he was on his way to dislodge an evil fate.

  Chapter 5

  It’s really quite easy. As soon as you see the fires of wrath in their eyes and know your time has come, you begin the seduction. A brush of your hand across theirs when they reach for the crème pot. A heated glance. A lingering appreciation for how they look…smell…taste. Just try it, sir. I’ve been married fourteen years, and not once has she managed to ring a peal over my head without stammering and blushing like a school girl.

  Viscount Mooreland to his uncle, the Earl of Stempleton, whilst viewing the horses for sale at Tattersall’s

  Devon had always believed that one’s greatest strength was also one’s greatest weakness. Such was his case, anyway. From the time he’d been a child, he had never been known for his lack of persistence.

  Once, when he had attained the ripe age of five, his parents had left for a brief visit to London. Devon had begged to go with them, but had been refused.

  Looking back now, he could see that perhaps his parents had desired some time alone. Even though they employed a squadron of governesses and tutors, six children had to have been a drain on their marital reserves.

  But at the time, all Devon had known was that he was being left behind. Thus he’d waited until the trunks for the upcoming journey were sitting in the front hall and he’d opened the largest one, removed one of his mother’s voluminous gowns and stuffed it beneath the settee in the front sitting room, and then paid his brother Chase a shilling to close the trunk and lock him in.

  Moments later an unsuspecting footman had carried the trunk to the waiting coach and strapped it o
n the back. Neither Devon nor Chase had thought of such mundane things as food or air. Within thirty minutes of rumbling out of the long drive, Devon had begun to realize the shortfalls of his plan.

  He became increasingly hot, the air stifling and then thin, and all the while he was aware of a horrid need to relieve himself.

  By the time the first hour had passed, he’d begun to panic and tried to gain the attention of the coachman, but the noise of the creaking, swaying coach and the clopping of the horses concealed the thumping of his small fists on the trunk lid. No one heard him.

  It was a good thing the trip to London was a mere three hours, though by the time Devon was discovered, he was ill from the heat and the confinement. It took almost two days before he could get out of bed.

  Of course, he’d been thankful for his convalescence as it prevented him from receiving the switching that should have been his. As his father would later say when the incident was brought up, “Devon’s determination will be both the making and the breaking of him. God only knows which.”

  Now here he was, not in London, but in a clearing in the forest, looking at what had to be Kat Macdonald’s cottage, and that same determination that had caused him to ride in a trunk all the way to London was urging him forward.

  The sun shone on the house and lit the clearing until he almost expected the door to fly open and little men in matching tunics to come tumbling out, turning buttercups into gold, or making mushrooms into sweet cakes, or some such nonsense.

  “Either that or seven beautiful maidens,” Devon said to himself, trying to remember the fairy tales his mother had so delighted in telling. Something about seven pairs of shoes and dancing…He frowned. Whatever the tale, he’d forgotten most of it. Not that it mattered. It was all childhood nonsense anyway.

  Devon urged Thunder across the clearing. The gelding frisked and frolicked, prancing as if afraid of the splotches of sun that trembled across the ground in unison with the breeze. They were only about halfway to the cottage when Devon realized they had an audience.

  A group of men stood outside a long, low building. The group was small, but the men were not. They were all huge. “Giants,” Devon muttered. “One. Two. Three—good God. Seven giants.”