The glass was rudely thrust back into his hand. “Now.” Irritation colored Kat’s voice. “I haven’t all day, Sassenach. Drink your tonic or get on your horse and go back to Kilkairn now.”
The thought of riding a horse made his stomach queasy again. He waved a hand. “No horses.”
“Then drink the tonic.”
Devon held out his hand, and the glass was once again placed in his grip. He peered up at her through his lashes. “You sound angry.”
“Imagine that,” she said, waiting for him to finish the horrid beverage. Finally, after much hacking and wheezing, he managed to choke down most of it.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Bloody hell, what’s in that? Horse urine?”
She took the nearly empty glass. “No, but only because I didn’t have the time to collect any.”
He blinked, and she could see that her wit was wasted. Sighing, she pulled the covers back to his chin. “Go to sleep.”
“Oh I will,” he assured her in a thick voice, the tonic beginning to do its magic. “I will go to sleep for you, though I’d rather sleep with you.” His eyes cracked open, and he offered a devilish smile. “Can I convince you to join me on the settee?”
“There’s not enough room,” she said, her heart suddenly pounding.
“There’s plenty of room if you lay atop me.” He moved so that he was flat on his back. “See? You’d fit just fine.”
“I have work to do today. Now no more talking.”
“Very well,” he mumbled. “I will sleep and sleep and sleep…and…sleep…an—” His head lolled to one side, his long lashes cresting his cheeks.
Kat sat back on her heels, her knees unable to support her. She could scarcely believe it; Devon had said he loved her. Of course he was drunk, but still…had he meant it? And even if he did, would it last more than his usual month or two, if that?
Whatever he felt, her love for him would continue forever. A wave of loneliness struck her, and she had to wipe away a tear.
Simon stuck his head in the window. “How’s our Sassenach?” Behind him she could just make out Donald’s and Neal’s concerned faces.
“He’s drunk.”
An awed expression came over Simon’s face. “Do ye know that it took over seven pints to get him like that? Even Hamish cannot drink so much.”
“What’s more,” Donald added, “he’s not even a Scotsman.”
Neal pulled Donald away from the window, so he could have a better view. “’Tis a record at the pub. We carved his name over the door.”
Kat wondered if any man truly grew up. “Thank you for that wonderful information. If he casts up his accounts, I’ll let you think about that while you’re cleaning it up.” Kat gathered the glass and stood. “Come back in about three hours and you can return him to Kilkairn.”
“Aye, Miss Kat,” Simon said. “I’ll take him meself.”
“I’ll help,” Neal offered eagerly. In the background, Donald nodded.
That was the worst part, Kat decided. Whatever had happened last night, her lads were completely won over. Devon St. John had done more than drink his fill at the inn, he had also cajoled her men into believing him a man of epic proportions, or, as Simon had put it when he’d tenderly carried the Sassenach into the cottage that morning, “’Tis a good one, is St. John. The lads an’ I have promised to teach him the glasswork oncet he’s feelin’ better.”
With that, Kat realized she’d lost her only allies in her attempt to keep her heart in check. Thank God Annie was still on her side, else she would have been quite alone.
The thought cast her down, and it was with a heavy heart that she finally left Devon sleeping on the settee and made her way to the workshop.
Devon waved goodbye to Simon and Neal and…well, whoever the other one was, then wandered into the castle, his head still swollen, though thanks to Kat’s tonic, the world had ceased to tilt.
Malcolm had been wrong that winning the lads was the way to Kat’s heart. Devon had won the lads, but somehow that effort had only seemed to infuriate their mistress until she would barely speak to him.
Or was she upset about something else? He tried to think what it might be, but could not hit upon anything. Perhaps he’d said something, but his memory was somewhat fuzzy.
Sighing, Devon picked his way through the sumptuous preparations for the ball and then found his bedchamber, glad he didn’t run into anyone who might require him to speak in a complete sentence. Once Devon reached his room, he fell into his bed, hoping to fall back asleep. He was too tired to think. Somehow, he’d find a way to solve all his problems, but not now.
As soon as he closed his eyes, it seemed that Tilton was there, shaking him.
“I’m awake, I’m awake,” Devon mumbled.
“Excellent, sir. Perhaps you could prove that by opening your eyes.”
Devon rolled onto his back. “What time is it?”
“After seven, sir. I ordered a bath so you could prepare for the ball.”
Devon lifted his head to see a tub sitting in one corner of the room, already filled. “It can’t be that late.”
“Oh, but it is. Shall I open the curtains and prove it? The sunset is quite brilliant this evening.”
“No! Do not open the curtains. My brain would shatter if I had to see a drop of sunlight.” Devon collected himself and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. He waited for nausea or dizziness, but none came. Kat’s tonic had indeed helped; he felt much better. He managed to bathe and dress without too much fuss and allowed Tilton to assist him into his formal attire.
“Any word on the talisman ring?”
Tilton shook his head. “I don’t understand it, sir. You offered a substantial reward. I fully expected someone to come forth with some sort of information, but no one seems to know a thing.”
“Well, keep looking.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Tilton.” Sighing, Devon prepared to join his hosts, though all he really wanted to do was find Kat and make things right.
Soon, he told himself. Very soon.
The Strathmore ball was an unusual event. Not only was it being held out of town in the midst of the season, but it was also being held at His Lordship’s ancestral home. It was the first truly formal entertainment at Kilkairn in over one hundred and fifty years.
Added to that, the ball was given in honor of Mr. Devon St. John, and all of Edinburgh society was anxious to meet such a wealthy, eligible bachelor.
Fiona had planned everything carefully. She’d rented large pots of flowers in varying hues of violet and blue, so many that the room looked like a garden. Long silver swaths of material floated down the ancient walls, reminding one of waterfalls and reflecting the light of a thousand candles. She’d had the servants make bowers over each doorway and had threaded even more flowers there.
She’d also ordered ices, a large quantity of punch, and no fewer than three hundred iced cakes which were to be distributed at the first ring of midnight, each baked with a favor hidden inside. Most of the favors were worthless—small pairs of dice, a trumpery bit of jewelry, or some such nonsense—but three cakes had real jewels in them. The guests were already excitedly buzzing about the coming treat, many hovering over the table, wondering which cakes held the prizes.
The ball was bound to be a smashing success.
Devon caused quite a stir when he finally appeared. Fiona had been thorough in inviting all of society, and the great hall sparkled with beautiful people. Appearing somewhat harried, she introduced him to the guests. Devon instantly felt like a prize poodle on display, especially when he saw the avaricious gazes of the many unmarried women who had attended.
What was worse was that if Fiona had latched on to his left arm, Murien had positively stuck herself on to his right. He was most uncomfortable, especially when he read the possessive note in Murien’s voice.
Devon decided to let them have their way—for now, at least. He was far too busy looking for Kat to w
orry about Murien, anyway.
Kat, meanwhile, was still at the cottage. The dress Annie had made was beautiful; straw colored silk over sky blue…the colors made Kat’s hair gleam. She’d been astonished when she’d first caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror for Annie had altered the current style just enough to compliment her full figure.
She stood before the mirror in the sitting room now, trying hard not to glance at the clock over and over. She’d thought to go at ten, but Simon had not yet brought the cart. “Where is Simon? I’m going to be late.”
“’Tis fashionable to be late,” Annie said calmly as she pinned a blue silk flower in Kat’s hair. “He’ll be here soon. Just ye wait.”
“If he’s much longer, I shall saddle Trusty and ride over there myself.”
Annie snorted. “Ye wouldn’t dare! Not after I spent so much time a-stitchin’ that gown.”
Kat sighed. She really shouldn’t go. People would talk; they always did and Kat hated it. But this was her last chance to see Devon. Perhaps ever.
Her heart pained her at the thought and she realized that she’d been right not to spend any more time with him other than these few moments in public. She was no longer in command of her own heart; she hadn’t been since she’d realized she loved him.
A knock sounded on the cottage door and Annie bustled to open it. Simon stood on the stoop.
Kat blinked. He was dressed in his Sunday best suit of broadcloth, his hair meticulously slicked back from his forehead, his skin scrubbed fresh and clean.
“St. George’s dragon,” she said softly, blinking.
He reddened. “Aye, I look a fool. But Annie said ’twould be nice if’n ye had a way to the ball other than the old cart, so the lads and I got ye a surprise.” He stepped back and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
Kat peered past him into the dark. Neal and Hamish stood awkwardly beside an old carriage. The two lads were dressed in their Sunday best to match Simon’s. Kat raised her brows, first at her lads, then at the carriage. “Isn’t that Dr. Lambert’s?”
“Aye,” Simon answered. “The doctor loaned it on the condition that the lads and I help raise his new barn next week.”
Annie nodded her satisfaction. “Off with ye now, Miss Kat. Now ye’ve a carriage like a proper lady should.”
Kat shook her head, her heart filled to overflowing. “Simon…Annie…I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say a word,” Simon pleaded. “This collar is about to choke me. Just climb in and let’s be on our way fer we’re already late.”
Thus it was when Kat made her appearance at the Strathmore ball, it was to find Fiona already looking wan and pale, Malcolm nowhere in sight, and Devon surrounded by society beauties, with Murien purring along beside him, looking like the cat who ate the cream.
Though Kat had been expecting such a thing, it didn’t make it any easier to witness. Especially since nothing had prepared her for the sight of Devon in his ballroom finery.
Dressed in black breeches that hugged his muscular legs, and a coat tailored to fit his broad shoulders without a wrinkle, he stood out among the more provincial dressers. He’d done little to his hair except comb it back, but one unruly lock hung over his forehead, giving him a slightly dissolute look.
Added to that were the faint shadows beneath his blue eyes and the look of impenetrable boredom that he was sporting, and he was easily the handsomest and most intriguing man in sight.
Kat paused at the door, suddenly wanting desperately to turn and run. It was ludicrous to make an appearance in such a lovely ball gown; she wasn’t sure now why it had mattered. From the cold glances she was already receiving, she was a pariah no matter how she dressed.
As soon as she was identified, the rumors would begin yet again, and there would be more stares, more whispers, more innuendoes—the vicious circle never stopped. Her spirit quavered at the thought.
This was not the way she’d envisioned the night. She’d thought to make an impressive entrance of some sort. To be accepted where she never had been.
She wasn’t sure now why she’d thought that…perhaps because by falling in love with Devon, she felt new. Fresh. And even lovely.
But now, facing the harsh stare of society, she had to wonder…was that an illusion too?
Heart heavy, she decided to make a hasty retreat, but before she could move, Malcolm suddenly materialized.
He didn’t give her time to argue, but led her back inside, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm so she couldn’t escape. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Home,” she said flatly.
“But you look beautiful.” He eyed her up and down, growing appreciation in his gaze. “Where did you get this gown? It’s perfect for you.”
“Annie made it.”
“She’s a wonder. One day I shall steal her from you and I will never eat poorly prepared food again.”
“She’s a miracle,” Kat agreed. She knew what he was doing—making casual talk so she could regain her composure. She loved him for it, even though she wished he would just let her go.
“I didn’t even know Annie could wield a needle. Yet another reason to prize her over all other women.”
“Except one,” Kat said softly.
Malcolm’s gaze grew shadowed. He led her across the room, nodding at this acquaintance and then that. “Except one. At least have a bit of punch.”
“But I—”
“It has ice in it that cost me a bloody fortune. The least you can do is drink some of it and pretend it tastes as good as it looks.”
Kat had to smile. “Is Fiona driving you to ruin?”
“Oh no. I can stand the nonsense. I just wish—” He broke off, something crossing his face and then disappearing behind a bland smile. “At least let me complain. All good hosts do, you know. It’s their way of casually dropping their costs into the conversation.”
“Is that why they do it?”
“Lud, yes. See those large pots of violets by the door? Fiona ordered three hundred of them and they cost me five pounds each. What’s horrid is that the flowers will be dead by morning and we don’t even get to keep the bloody pots.”
He found the refreshment table and procured a glass of punch, then handed it to her. “Well?” he said with a challenging look in his eye.
“It’s wretched, but cold. Very cold.”
“There. You’ve made my evening better already. As much as this blasted affair has cost me, I demand to get the maximum enjoyment out of it that I can, so thank you, most lovely of sisters, for drinking my punch and admiring my ice.”
Kat returned the glass to him.
“More?”
“Oh no, thank you. Let’s save some ice for your other guests.”
“Very well, but at midnight, you must be in line to snatch up an iced cake. You could end up with a prize, you know.”
She followed his gaze to the tables where the cakes were set. “Why is everyone standing around the table now? There is still almost forty minutes before the clocks will chime.”
“Because some of the prizes settled to the sides and you can almost make out what prize is in which cake.” He lowered his voice. “I’m going for the third cake in the fourth row. You can see a jewel of some sort sticking out of the bottom.”
“You had the opportunity to see the cakes before anyone else, so I believe that is cheating. Are you certain you wish to compromise your values in such a way as to—”
“Malcolm—” came a deep voice. “And Miss Kat.”
Kat knew who it was without even looking. Blast it, it had been a trick. Malcolm had lured her into the room and then kept her busy until Devon could find them.
She closed her eyes and tried to move her heart back into place before turning and smiling. “Mr. St. John. How are you this evening?”
“My, that was frosty,” Malcolm said, sending her a frown. “Perhaps you had too much of the icy punch.” He glanced at Devon. “Have you come to claim Kat’s ha
nd for a dance?”
To her horror, she realized the band was playing a waltz. “I don’t dance.”
“Excellent,” Devon said. “I’ll teach you.” He took her hand in his, Malcolm slipping away without so much as another word.
“You cannot learn to dance while at a ball!” Kat said desperately.
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll look a fool. And you will, too.”
“Nonsense. I’m an excellent teacher. Just put your arm here, and your hand here.” He placed one of her hands on the tip of his shoulder and held the other one loosely. Immediately all the unease in Kat’s stomach grew warmer.
“Good!” he said, placing his other hand on her waist. A shiver immediately traveled through her, though she resolutely ignored it.
His eyes glinted into hers. “Now comes the easy part; all you have to do is follow me.”
“What?”
“Just follow me,” he repeated.
“But I—”
The music swelled, and he began to move. Aware that now, in reality, every eye was indeed upon her, Kat struggled to keep up, desperately counting. Several times she stumbled, and once she went left when he went right.
He sighed, his breath brushing her hair. “I can see we’re going to have to work on this.”
“There is no need,” she said stiffly, wishing miserably she’d never come. What had she been thinking? She should have refused. It would take more drastic measures to escape now. Perhaps she could fall to the floor and have a fit; she’d once witnessed just such an occurrence at a ball years ago and the unfortunate woman had been immediately spirited away. But apparently Kat’s boldness was back at the cottage along with her comfortable clothes.
How she hated that every eye was upon them. By now everyone knew who she was, and their entire dance would be scrutinized, analyzed, conjectured about, and exaggerated until it didn’t resemble the truth at all.
“Kat.” Devon’s voice was close to her ear. “Relax, my sweet. Trust me to get us through this maze of horrid dancers.”
She looked into his eyes. “What does trust have to do with dancing?”
“When you follow someone in a dance, they have to direct you because you are dancing backward and you cannot see where you are going. I’ve often thought men do not realize how difficult it must be to relax and let a partner you sometimes barely know lead you through a maze of dancers. But you and I, we do know one another. And if there is one thing we do have, it is trust.”
And the Bride Wore Plaid Page 25