And the Bride Wore Plaid

by Karen Hawkins

  He pulled Thunder to a halt. He wasn’t afraid of the giants. The tall ones always fell the hardest. Still, it wouldn’t do to be rude.

  He led Thunder up to them and dismounted. “Good day,” he called. “I am looking for—”

  Kat stood in the doorway behind the men, dressed in the same drab gown as before. It hung gloriously on her curves, molding itself to her slants and slopes. The sunlight dappled her hair gold, muting the red and making her shine like a new guinea. Standing with the men, she looked petite.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, one hand propped on her hip.

  It was hardly the welcome he wished. “I came to ask you a question.” He glanced at the men, offering a smile to offset their glares. “In private,” he added.

  They didn’t move. Neither did Devon.

  “I don’t wish for a word in private with y—” Her gaze wandered past him to Thunder, her eyes widening. “What a lovely horse!”

  Devon hid a smile. Malcolm had been right; Kat loved horses. “Thunder is a lovely animal. And he knows it, too.”

  One of the men—a red-haired, burly sort with disapproving eyes and a grim expression—said, “Miss Kat, we’ve work to do.”

  “Aye, Simon,” she said, though she continued to walk toward Thunder. “How long have you had him?”

  “I purchased him a year ago.”

  She reached them and placed a hand on Thunder’s neck. The horse pretended to shy. She laughed and grabbed the bridle, holding him still while she patted his side. “He’s a high-strung one, isn’t he?”

  “Miss Kat!” Another of the men chimed in, a large, brown-haired man with a beard and thick brows. “We’ve glass to do and time’s a-wastin’.” He glared at Devon the whole time he was speaking.

  “Glass?” Devon said quietly so that only Kat could hear him.

  She started to answer, then hesitated. “It doesn’t matter. A business concern, no more.” She turned to the brown-haired man. “I wish to speak to Mr. St. John. Go ahead and begin on the next brace of cuts.”

  The men eyed him sullenly, apparently blaming him for Kat’s answer. Devon took the opportunity to eye them all back. It was a strange assortment. Some were brown-haired, some red; some had freckles, some didn’t. Except for their size and the glares on their faces, they were as different as the day was long.

  Devon wondered if they were going to allow Kat to stay and speak with him. Hm. How did one deal with seven giants? He didn’t recall a single one of his mother’s fairy tales that gave instructions. If only he had some magic beans. The thought made him grin, a fact that did not sit well with the giant conclave one bit.

  “Miss Kat,” snapped the redheaded one. It was quickly becoming apparent he was the leader. “I don’t think ye should be standin’ aboot, talkin’ to a stranger.”

  “Simon, for the love of—what could happen? We’re here, in the middle of the clearing. If the man is foolish enough to attempt to molest me, I’ll black his eyes and send him on his way.”

  Devon had to bite back a smile for the calm way she spoke. He didn’t know of another woman who would have made such a statement in such an unemotional manner.

  “Simon,” Kat said. “Take the lads back inside; I’ll be in shortly.”

  “We’ve two more windows to make,” he answered, though his gaze never left Devon.

  “I realize that,” she answered, a note of steel in her voice. “Which is why you all need to get back to work. I cannot do the cuts until you’ve got the glass ready.”

  Whatever that meant, it must have been true, for the men began to shift uneasily. Finally Simon flexed his shoulders and nodded once. “Very well. If ye need us, ye’ve but to call.” He cast a last, cold glance at Devon and then turned to the others. “Back inside, lads. The sooner we get the glass ready, the sooner Miss Kat can get it cut.”

  As soon as they shuffled back into the building, Devon glanced down at Kat. “Your servants?”

  “No. Apprentices. Except Simon.” She gave Thunder one last pat, then stepped away, her gaze meeting his. “Why are you here, Sassenach?”

  “Sassenach?”

  “Englishman.”

  He wasn’t sure he liked the way she said that. “You’re English, too. At least half.”

  Her mouth tightened, her green eyes accusing. “You’ve been talking to Malcolm.”

  Devon nodded.

  A faint line of color touched Kat’s face, and she turned away, facing the building. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  Devon eyed a large wood curl in Kat’s red-gold hair. He reached out to untangle the sliver of wood, but Kat yanked away.

  She eyed him suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

  He smiled and reached again, only this time more slowly. She held still, though her body was so stiff he could almost feel the tension seeping from her.

  Apparently, when she wasn’t surprised, Kat Macdonald was a bit shy of touch. He wondered if that was a result of the incident that left her “ruined” in the eyes of society, or because of Malcolm’s other guests continually groping her when they came to visit.

  He plucked the wood curl from her hair, then showed it to her. “What have you been doing?”

  She took the sliver of wood and tossed it to the ground. “Helping Hamish with the frames.”

  “Frames?”

  “Malcolm didn’t tell you everything, then. I am not a lady, St. John. I make my own way, I do.” Her firm chin lifted and she said with simple pride, “We are glassmakers, the lads and I. The best there is.”

  “If you’re a glassmaker, why is there a wood shaving in your hair?”

  “Because glass must be fit in a frame. And the right frame is as important as finding the right colors for the picture.”

  “You and the ‘lads’ do this by yourselves?”

  “Aye. And we’ve more work than we can fill.”

  His gaze roved over her, from the pride in her eyes, to the strength of her body, to the broad grace of her hands. She was a conundrum, this woman, a strange mixture of strength and…was it vulnerability? Or pride? Something sweet and delicate rested deep in her eyes, and he was determined to discover what it was.

  Despite Devon’s determination to merely establish a dalliance with Kat, he had to admit that he was somewhat fascinated. Not too much, of course. He was no wet-eared halfling to think interest was love. It wasn’t, of course. But it did promise to make the flirtation something special, which was fine by Devon. It had been a long time since a woman—any woman—had truly intrigued him.

  Devon reflected that of all the women he knew, with the exception of a housekeeper, laundress, or maid or two, none had had professions of their own. Truly, everything about Kat Macdonald was larger than life—her size, her blazing color, even the gentle rasp of her husky voice—all were more in some way. More than he expected, and far more than a proper lady should be.

  The thought was rather exciting. “Do you know what I think?”

  Though her expression didn’t change, he felt her withdraw, as if in expectation of a blow. Devon placed a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face to his. “I think you’re an exceptional, astounding woman, and I want to know more of you.”

  Kat discovered that it was possible to stop breathing even while panting. And she was panting. There was a fey magic about the stranger, something that made her body quiver the second he was within range.

  If she looked back in her memory, there was only one other time she’d been so affected by a man. The memory tightened about her throat and halted her voice.

  “Furthermore,” Devon St. John continued, his voice low and smooth, “I wonder why you are the way you are.” His gaze wandered over her, from her head to her feet, a question in his blue gaze. “Who are you, Katherine Anne Macdonald?”

  She stiffened. “I am who I am. And I would prefer it if you did not call me by that name.”

  “Katherine? Why not?” His eyes twinkled. “It’s your real name, isn’t
it?”

  “Yes. But my mother never used it unless she was angry, so I prefer Kat. Or for you, Miss Macdonald.”

  He laughed. “Miss Macdonald it is. But only if you’ll call me Devon.” His gaze darkened the slightest bit. “I want to hear my name on your lips.”

  Kat had to rub her arms to stop the goose bumps that traveled up her skin at the silken tone of his voice. It took all of her composure to answer in a steady voice. “I hope you aren’t counting on such. I will never say your name.”

  He leaned forward, his eyes so rich a blue that she couldn’t look away. “Is that a wager?”

  “No, Mr. St. John. It is a fact.”

  The man smiled then, a faint curve to his well formed mouth that drew the gaze and sent heated thoughts through her mind. “Miss Macdonald, may I say that I look forward to the challenge of our continued friendship.”

  Friendship…was that what this was? Kat was held by the thought. It had been a long time since she’d thought of having a friend—any friend, even a dangerous one like Devon St. John. And he was dangerous. She stole a glance at him from beneath her lashes.

  Kat was used to seeing rather robust men appear pallid beside the likes of her lads, especially Alistair and Simon, who had to dip their heads to enter the lower barn door. But this man carried himself with such masculine ease that she caught herself looking at his legs, his hips, his hands…wondering what he would be like in bed. She already knew his kisses were hot and lethal, a fact that only made her wonder the more about the rest of him.

  Kat’s cheeks heated. Bless her, but she was worse than Annie’s cousin, Jane.

  Well, perhaps not that bad, but bad enough. “I am exactly what you see, St. John. Can you say the same?”

  “I think so,” he answered, nodding thoughtfully. “I have never been one to dissemble.”

  Before she could stop herself, she snorted in disbelief.

  His brow jerked lower. “I am serious. I do not lie.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “Have you ever told a woman she had beautiful eyes for no other reason than to tempt her into your arms?”

  He opened his mouth. Then closed it. After a long moment, he puffed out a sigh. “Up until now, I hadn’t thought of that as a lie.”

  “No? What would you call it?”

  “A hard-won compliment.”

  Her own lips twitched, but she swallowed the smile before it could blossom. “That is the problem with men like you. You lie so much and so oft that you no longer know the truth. Now if you’ll excuse me, St. John, I’ve work to do.”

  She turned to go, but his hand was about her wrist before she could take a step.

  “I came for a reason, Miss Macdonald. I came to ask you if you’d do me the honor of taking a ride with me.”

  “A ride?” She tried to pretend that the feel of his strong hand about her wrist wasn’t making her stomach heat in a most disturbing way.

  “A ride,” he repeated. He gave her a rueful, lopsided smile. “That’s all. One simple ride. I’m here alone, you know. And I’ve no place to go for three weeks. Surely you can spare a few hours of your time for something as innocuous as a ride.”

  For one blessed mad moment, Kat thought of agreeing. She could almost see the two of them, riding across the fields, laughing and talking. But then reality returned and she remembered another time, another man, also pleading for nothing more than “a few hours.” At the time, she’d wondered what harm could occur in a few hours. Now she knew.

  She pulled her wrist free. “No thank you, Mr. St. John. You’ll have to find someone else to pass the time with. I’m not available.” With that, pride stiffening her weakened will, she turned on her heel and quickly made her way into the shop.

  Malcolm climbed the stairs to his wife’s bedchamber, his boots landing heavily on the grayish runner. He tried to ignore the small puffs of dust that swirled with each footfall and the dusty slickness of the railing beneath his hand, just as he tried to ignore the cobwebs that hung unattended from the branched chandeliers displayed overhead, and the faint musty odor that was slowly permeating his once orderly household.

  Though he’d been unable to explain the entire situation to Devon, the truth was that Malcolm and his wife were not arguing. Oh no, it had progressed far beyond that. They were now at war. What had begun as a difference of opinion had escalated into something far worse.

  It was a simple matter, really. He wanted children; his wife did not. Worse, he wanted to stay here, at Kilkairn, and enjoy life at the castle, while she was determined to drag him to Edinburgh.

  Normally, Malcolm had nothing against Edinburgh. He rather enjoyed a taste of town life on occasion. But after Fiona had denied his request for a child and refused to stay at Kilkairn for more than two weeks at a stretch, he’d dug in his heels and refused to go anywhere. Better yet, he’d refused to allow her to travel, as well.

  He’d thought to wear her down, make her agree to his wishes—once she had his son, she could travel all she wished, and with his blessing. It seemed a fair enough request, but she’d been far from agreeable. What was worse was that he’d underestimated one small facet of his lovely wife’s character—her overgrown sense of pride. It was equal to his own, if not larger and far more entrenched.

  In response to his ultimatums, she’d done what she could to make Kilkairn Castle the uncomfortable mess it was today, irritating the capable servants until they left and neglecting to oversee the ones that stayed. Malcolm had uneasy dreams of Fiona dancing through the castle, tossing dust in the air. Then, once she tired of that game, resting in his favorite chair by the fire to knit cobwebs of every shape, size, and color.

  Malcolm paused outside a wide oak door and straightened his shoulders. “Do not give an inch,” he muttered to himself. His father would have never put up with such nonsense, and neither would Malcolm. Still, it was difficult to maintain his pride because he loved Fiona…didn’t he?

  A cold grip of uncertainty held him in place. As always, it was the one question he couldn’t answer. What if his love for his wife only lasted as long as his father’s love had lasted for his mother? Malcolm remembered his mother’s pain each time his father strayed.

  It was a long moment before he lifted his hand and knocked on the door and then entered.

  The room was decorated in delicate blue and white, Fiona’s favorite colors. A large bed sat in the center of one wall, an ornate dressing table across the room, near the large fireplace.

  His bride sat at the dressing table, a lace gown tossed over her shoulders, her hair streaming down her back as her maid brushed out the long curls.

  Fiona’s gaze met Malcolm’s in the mirror and a stubborn flush rose in her cheeks as she looked away.

  Malcolm flicked a glance toward the maid. “Marie, I wish to speak with Lady Strathmore privately.”

  Marie’s gaunt face reddened and she gripped the back of Fiona’s chair in a protective manner. “I was just brushing Her Ladyship’s hair and—”

  “That will be all, Marie,” Malcolm said firmly.

  The maid sniffed and then looked at Fiona. “Madam?”

  Fiona sighed. “You may go, Marie.”

  “Oui, but—” Marie glanced at Malcolm as if to ascertain his trustworthiness.

  That irked him. By the saints, he was the man of this house, and he wouldn’t stand for such impertinence. He spun on his heel and went to the door and held it open.

  Head high as if she were on her way to the guillotine, Marie slowly went to the door. The second she crossed the threshold, Malcolm kicked the door closed behind her.

  Fiona jumped. “Malcolm!”

  “Sorry. My foot slipped. I meant to plant it in her arse.”

  Fiona’s cheeks pinkened. “There is no need to be crude.”

  “I disagree.” He met her gaze in the reflection of the mirror. “I came to speak with you about this morning. You, madam, are out of hand.”

  Fiona adjusted the c
ut-crystal decanters on the dresser. “I am no such thing.”

  “I sent you a request to join me and a guest for breakfast. You refused to attend.”

  She picked up the brush and began brushing her hair. “I was not yet up.”

  “Then send word that you had to dress! I asked you to attend us and you should have.”

  Her chin lifted. “You know how I prize my mornings.”

  Mornings. The thought echoed in his mind. At one time, he’d loved mornings. Mornings when he’d come into this very room and climb into Fiona’s bed to find her warm and soft, snuggled deep beneath the blankets. A pain tweaked his heart. “It has been some time since I was allowed to share mornings with you.”

  Her cheeks turned a deep pink, though her gaze met his steadily. “You know the cost of returning to my bed.”

  Malcolm paused. A part of him wished to end this ridiculous standoff. To return to the warmth of their previous relationship. But he could not bend. “And you know the cost of returning to Edinburgh. I will have a son, madam.”

  Fiona pulled the brush through a long strand of hair. It was thick and as brown as the forest floor, with threads of gold glimmering in the silken mass. “As before, we are at an impasse.”

  Malcolm rubbed his neck where an ache was beginning to form. “Look, Fiona, I didn’t come here to argue. I came to ask that you be polite to St. John.”

  “Oh!” She tossed the brush to her dresser where it clattered to a stop among a mass of crystal bottles. “When have I ever been rude to any of your guests?”

  “Never. It’s just that I happen to think that perhaps St. John is interested in Kat.”

  “They all are, at first. But you know what will happen. St. John will take one look at Kat and she’ll set her fist in his eye for his impertinence. And then he’ll want nothing more to do with her. Her attraction never seems to last past the first meeting.”

  “This seems different.”

  Fiona’s delicate brows rose. “Oh?”

  “They met this morning, and if I’m not mistaken, Devon is quite interested.”