And the Bride Wore Plaid

by Karen Hawkins

  “Och, Miss Kat, ye went and fergot yer night rail. ’Tis on the floor.” Annie placed Kat’s old ball gown over the back of a chair and went to collect the forgotten night rail.

  Kat held the covers a bit tighter. “I, ah, got very hot last night. So I took it off and threw it on the floor. I meant to pick it up, but I slept in.”

  “Hmph.” Annie’s gaze scrutinized her features. “I canno’ fer the life o’ me believe ye were so hot that ye took off yer rail. ’Twas cool last night after the rain.”

  Kat didn’t know what to answer, so instead she glanced at the old gown and said, “I’d forgotten about the ball.”

  Annie stopped, astonishment on her face. “How can ye say that? ’Tis to be a grand affair.”

  “I know, I know! I’m just a little—” What was the word? In lust? She certainly wasn’t in love, that would require…well, it would require a man who was capable of caring about one for more than a two-month period.

  A little of her happiness dimmed. He would leave soon, and she needed to remember that, first and foremost. Her heart sank as she realized how soon he would be gone. “I am looking forward to the ball.” If nothing else, it might well be one of her last chances to see him, talk to him, laugh with him.

  Ever.

  Somehow, before this moment, the enormity of that fact had escaped her. In a way, she’d used it as a shield to protect her from caring too much. But somehow she had allowed her heart to become entangled. She loved him. With all her heart, she loved him.

  The realization stole her breath. Tears threatened to clog her throat. Good God, when had that happened?

  She loved a man who had plainly told her that he would not, could not love her.

  Now what would she do? She had thought being with him was a safe venture. Safe because he wasn’t the staying kind, safe because he hadn’t once tried to pretend that he was something he was not. Now she realized that those facts had merely made him more dangerous.

  “Ye should be excited,” Annie chatted on, “for ’twill be a fine ball. Now come, listen to what I have planned fer yer gown.”

  Annie began to talk and Kat forced herself to smile, though she felt far from it.

  It wasn’t quite so difficult to really smile once she heard Annie’s idea for the gown. The housekeeper had outdone herself. She would use the straw silk borrowed from the saved curtain linings to make a slashed overdress with puffed sleeves and decorate it with no fewer than eight tiny, hand-sewn rosettes of blue silk from Kat’s old ball gown. Annie would then use the remaining blue silk as insets in the sleeves and for the petticoat, which would be revealed in the slashes on the overdress. The overall effect would be simply beautiful and, when combined with Kat’s reddish hair, breathtaking.

  At least when Devon saw Kat for the last time, she wouldn’t be wearing a gown smudged with soot. She lifted her chin a little. Whatever else she did, she would not let him see how much she cared. This time, she would keep her pride intact, no matter the cost.

  She caught sight of Annie’s speculative gaze and hurried to paste a smile back on her lips. “Annie, it will be a lovely gown.”

  Annie beamed. “’Tis glad I am to hear that ye think so, Miss Kat. Ye know, ye look a mite flushed.” Annie laid her hand across Kat’s brow. “Are ye taking an ague?”

  Kat shook her head. “’Tis excitement, that’s all.” And not just over the ball.

  “Hm. Well, ’tis to the bath wid ye and then we’ll see how ye’re feeling.” Annie went to the wardrobe and fished about for one of Kat’s robes. “Here, put this on. Ye don’t need to be getting cold afore ye soak in the tub.”

  A clattering in the hallway preceded Simon and Hamish’s reentry. They carried two large steaming buckets, which they tipped into the brass tub. “One more trip will do it,” Hamish said, his gaze fixed on Kat.

  “Mornin’ Miss Kat,” Simon said, eyeing her even more closely than Hamish.

  There was something odd in the way they looked at her, but Annie didn’t give them time to say anything. She sent them to fetch more water while she straightened the room. Finally the tub was filled to the brim, and Annie sent the lads on their way.

  Annie went to the tub and added some scent, then dipped her elbow into the water. “Perfect! Come along, now. Into the tub wid ye.”

  Kat didn’t wait. She gratefully slid into the lavender-scented water. Perhaps her troubles would melt away if she just stayed here. Surely Annie would bring her food and the lads would keep the glasswork going…Why, she could stay here for the rest of her life and no one would ever know. Kat’s lip trembled. Who really needed her anyway?

  Stop that, she told herself. You are being silly. And she was, but somehow she couldn’t help it. Her heart was trying valiantly not to show its cracks, and all the while it was trembling, falling to pieces. To stop from thinking too much, she scrubbed herself thoroughly, trying to rub away the hurts. It helped…a little.

  Annie leaned out the window. “By the saints, ’tis that Sassenach of yours.”

  Devon? Here? Now what was she to do? If she saw him and he guessed how she felt, it would ruin everything together. But if she didn’t see him, he would know something was amiss.

  Which was better? Kat took a deep breath. She could do a lot of things, but pretend she wasn’t affected by him wasn’t one of them. Not here, or now, anyway. If she waited until the ball to see him, at least then she’d be girded in the wondrous ball gown. She would smile and laugh and dance, and no one would know her secret.

  Taking a deep breath, she pushed her wet hair behind her ears and then sank into the water up to her neck. “Annie, please inform Mr. St. John I will see him at the ball and not a second before.”

  To say that Devon took the news of Kat’s defection well would be a misstatement. He didn’t. He’d been at first incredulous, and then irritated, and at last angry that she could so calmly put him off when he’d come to see her time and again.

  While he was not in love, their night together had proven something to him. It had shown him that passion did not burn itself out, that it could satisfy even as it left one hungry for more. Never in all his days had he ever had such a delightful encounter with a woman. And if he’d had his normal reaction, once having sampled her bounty, he would be itching to be off, looking for another challenge. But this time, all he wanted was to be with Kat. More and more.

  And not just physically. While riding there, he’d thought of no fewer than three things he wanted to tell her. One thought involved a nice trail ride that had a pretty little abbey at the end of it. It was a tip from one of the grooms at Kilkairn and sounded as if it might be just the thing for a lazy afternoon. The second thing he wanted to tell her was how Murien had been in the stable when he’d left. She’d been loudly demanding a horse, saying she wished to ride, too. The grooms had all been skeptical and had not hurried to meet her demands. One old groom, however, had agreed to saddle a mount for her. And he had—a pathetic old slug with a lumpy gait and a bad tendency to bite.

  Devon had been hard-pressed not to laugh. But he’d made certain he wasn’t around when she got ready to mount the horrid thing. He didn’t want Murien tagging along when he came to visit Kat.

  The third thing he thought to tell Kat was about the talisman ring and how it had gone missing. And that he could not, in all honesty, leave until it was found.

  He had wondered if she would be glad, but if he agreed to her wishes he’d have to wait until the ball to discuss anything with her. It was most irritating.

  It was ludicrous to wait for such a time—there were still four more days until that blasted ball. Four days of no Kat. Surely she hadn’t meant it…

  But a visit to the clearing proved him wrong. So did a second visit. And a third. All he got from his visits was the sight of Kat’s back as she whisked out of sight, and the baleful stares of her lads.

  Frustrated, but refusing to make a spectacle of himself, Devon returned to Kilkairn. Preparations for the ball continued and
to fill the suddenly empty hours, Devon began to assist Malcolm in the list of duties Fiona had assigned him. Devon had his servants leave the relative comfort of the inn where they’d been staying and spend the better portion of each day at Kilkairn, helping in whatever way was needed. Though he stayed busy, Devon’s mood darkened with each passing hour. Without Kat, everything seemed…dull and lifeless. The moods of his companions were not much better. Fiona was in a tizzy, Malcolm was strangely quiet, and Murien looked as if she’d like to drag Devon off to the nearest broom closet and divest him of his clothing.

  The evening before the ball, he took a long lonely ride on Thunder, conveniently missing dinner. He returned to his room well after the sun had set, muddy and tired and feeling almost despondent.

  Sighing, Devon removed his coat and crossed to the window. He pulled back the curtain and stared into the distance. Cool air leaked in around the casement, making him glad for the fire, smoky as it was. The night was especially bright, lit by the full moon, the stars twinkling all around. It would have been a magical night for a midnight ride.

  But only if he had Kat to share it with. God, what a coil. His last few days had been ruined. Blast it, he was locked here in a ramshackle castle with a warring couple and a marriage-minded shrew while the woman he—

  He caught himself. The woman he what? Liked? Enjoyed? Lusted after? What was she? His mind seemed unable to define it, to define her.

  He sighed and rested his forehead against the damp windowpane. Deep in the woods, a faint light twinkled, a glimpse of golden warmth.

  He couldn’t seem to stop thinking of her. Of the feel of her lips beneath his, of the fullness of her in his arms. He loved women, loved their foibles, their airs, their frivolity. They amused him, but none had ever engaged him on a serious level.

  But with Kat, he found himself wondering who she was behind that enigmatic exterior. She simply did not play by the known Rules of Womanhood. She didn’t flirt. She didn’t laugh at his sallies unless they caught her by surprise. She didn’t try to impress him or engage his interest in any way whatsoever.

  She was completely devoid of the artifices most women used. Artifices that had, until very recently, amused him in a mild sort of way.

  What was strange was that the more he saw of Kat, the less amused he was by what he had once considered natural feminine wiles. In fact, he was finding Murien’s company onerous. What bothered him most was the realization that, had he met Murien two weeks ago, he would have been completely taken by her. At least for a month or so.

  He sighed, pushing the curtain back further, to rest his shoulder against the window frame, feeling the chill of his own chamber.

  He’d wager Kat’s cottage was warm. There was something almost magical about that place, something uniquely comforting and homelike. Somehow, Kat had turned her cottage into everything that Kilkairn Castle was not. He sighed. Once he left Kilkairn, every day would feel like today. Every day he’d smile and talk and nod and feel utterly alone. Being with Kat had spoiled him.

  He dropped the curtain and turned away. The truth was that Kat Macdonald intrigued him in a way that no other woman had. Not because he was attracted to her, but because she was a challenge, a unique, undiscovered source of amusement to his dull spirit. It had been a long while since he’d had to put forth an effort to win a woman to his bed. And such a woman, too.

  He removed his boots, tossing them to one side. He had just reached for his cravat when something clinked against the window.

  Devon whirled toward the sound. It came again, only with more force. Bloody hell, someone was trying to get his attention by throwing pebbles against his window. Could it be Kat? Had she missed him, too? No one else would go to such lengths to gain his attention. Malcolm would knock at the door, Fiona would never have cause, and Murien…well, he rather thought Murien would just walk right in and climb into his bed. And if he was not cautious, that is exactly what she would do. There was a line of brass beneath her silver polish. He could almost taste it.

  Another rock hit the window, this one larger. It clunked against the glass and fell away. It had to be Kat.

  Grinning, he threw open the window and leaned out—thunk. A rock hit him in the forehead, and sent him staggering backward, into the long curtains that surrounded his bed.

  He fell against the mattress and then lay there, blinking rapidly. Bloody hell, did she want to kill him? He straightened, carefully touching his forehead, where a bump was already swelling.

  “Sassenach? Are ye there?” a heavily masculine voice called out.

  It wasn’t Kat after all. Irritation warred with disappointment. With one hand covering his aching forehead, Devon climbed back to his feet and looked out his window. In the courtyard below stood a huge, hulking Scotsman, one of Kat’s lads, no doubt, though it was too dark to see which. “Who the hell are you?” Devon demanded. “You almost killed me!”

  “Not a’purpose,” the giant said in a mild tone. “’Twas a small rock.”

  Devon finally recognized the voice. It was the redoubtable Simon. Devon gingerly rubbed his forehead. “What do you want?”

  “I came to see if ye’d like to wash a whisker wid us.”

  “Wash a whisker.” What the hell did that mean? “I’m afraid I cannot wash my whiskers right this moment since I have none—”

  “Come, Sassenach! The Lion and Boar has some fine ale, they do. I’ll even foist the rowdies fer it.”

  Devon placed his hands on the windowsill and leaned out so he could see his visitor a bit more clearly. The man didn’t appear drunk, for he wasn’t swaying on his feet, nor did his words sound anything other than crisp and to the point. “Ale, eh? Is that what ‘washing your whiskers’ means?”

  “What else could it mean?” Simon asked, apparently astounded.

  “What else indeed. May I ask why you’re offering this wonderful invitation?”

  “Because we thought ye’d like a pint.”

  “We?”

  “The others are already at the inn. I daresay we’ll be hard pressed to catch up wid ’em, especially Hamish. He seems solemn, but he can outdrink any man ye care t’ name.”

  Devon’s head ached from the rock, and his heart ached from the last few wretched days. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear Malcolm’s voice, suggesting that the best way to win over Kat was to win over her lads.

  It was an unspoken right of passage for a man who wanted to judge another man’s mettle, to invite him to partake, and then see who could withstand the torture with the least effect. And Devon recognized the aged ploy now.

  But this contest of manly wills had a purpose—to win the trust of Kat’s lads. If all he had to do was drink with a roomful of rowdies to win some time with Kat, he’d do it every night for a year.

  “Very well,” he called down. “I’ll come. Wait for me there.”

  Simon’s grin was evident even from upstairs. “Do that, Sassenach, but dinna keep me waitin’ long. I’ve a powerful thirst as ’tis.”

  “I won’t.” Devon started to close the window, but his gaze fell on the rock that had rolled to the edge of the bed. With a faint smile, he picked it up and then, after taking a second to judge the distance, he tossed it back out the window.

  A faint grunt of pain and then a loud curse filled the air.

  Grinning a little, Devon pulled on his boots and coat and headed out the door.

  Chapter 18

  I don’t know how my son came to do such a thing, pinching a kitchen maid. I know he has never seen me do such a thing. I’ve never taken up with anything under a chambermaid in my life.

  Duke of Draventon to his best friend, Lord Rutherford, while walking with that gentleman into the gallery at the House of Lords

  “Bloody hell,” Devon said woozily. “I’ve died.”

  “Not yet,” came a sharp feminine voice.

  “Kat?” He started to lift his head, then groaned and dropped it back on the mound of pillows holding it. The moveme
nt made his stomach clench.

  “Lie still,” she ordered.

  As if he could do else. “My head…did someone hit me?”

  “The only thing that hit you was the brandy in the bottom of a bottle.”

  She sounded angry. He opened his eyes again, but had to close them right away. “The room is spinning.”

  “Put your foot on the floor.”

  “What?”

  Two capable hands picked up his foot and plopped it on the floor. After a moment things settled a bit and he was able to say, “That worked.”

  “So will this,” she said. “Sit up and drink it.”

  It took every ounce of effort that he possessed, but he lifted himself on his elbow and realized he was on a settee in a small room, most likely at Kat’s cottage. His head felt swollen to twice its normal size, and his body ached everywhere that didn’t feel ill.

  Kat’s face swam before his eyes, and for a second he forgot his woes and said the first words that came to mind. “I love you.”

  She had just picked up a glass holding some murky-colored stuff, but she paused, her clear eyes meeting his not-so-clear ones. “What did you say?”

  What had he said? He blinked, trying to remember. Then his brow cleared. “I said I love you.” Damn, but his memory was good, even when drunk.

  “I see. Here.” She placed the glass in his hand.

  He was suddenly thirsty, so he took what she offered and brought it to his mouth. But before the rim could touch his parched lips, the scent assailed his nostrils, and he smiled. “This smells like a lemon tart.”

  “It’s a tonic and it tastes horrid, so don’t get your hopes up.”

  “Horrid?”

  “Horrid.”

  He put the glass down, though it took him some time to make it land on the floating table. “Don’t want horrid tonics. Not today, anyway. Maybe tomorrow when I’m more the thing and horrid tonics won’t make me want to vo—”