Kilt Trip

by L. L. Muir

  Rory grinned. Until but a moment before, he’d not been sure what he would say. He’d but prayed for inspiration.

  “Oh, I’d honor the debt, if there was one. But ye see, the debt ye’re wantin’ to collect has already been paid.”

  “To whom?” Kennison sat up straight.

  “To a man who presented himself as Lord Phineas Kennison.” Rory continued while Kennison sputtered. “And a fine looking gent he was, too. His two friends were dressed just as fine. Long beards, all.”

  Kennison’s heavy hand pounded the table once again. It was a wonder the ancient thing wasn’t in pieces at their feet.

  “Bridget! I knew it! She was the blasted highwayman! She stole my clothes for court!” Kennison stood and paced, oblivious to the crowd all but applauding the entertainment. He rounded his stool and sat again. “I bet she wore the blue.”

  “’Tis a fact, she did.” Rory signaled for more whisky. “But we’ve more important things to discuss.” He held up his glass for a toast. “Such as the terms of the debt. To be owed me and mine...by The Kennison.”

  The whole of the Clan Graham erupted in a noisy celebration so great as to scare any lurking Elliots back to their own land.

  Chapter Four

  A stomach growled like a nervous dog and Bridget sat up, instantly awake. She'd bathed until the water had turned cold, then warmed before the fire and fallen asleep on the rug. Some guard she'd turned out to be. She hadn't been able to stay awake through a single watch since they'd left home, thus she'd not wakened the others for their turns...thus none had suffered from a lack of sleep. But the danger was unforgiveable.

  Mallory rolled over on her pallet and looked her in the eye.

  “I don't suppose you're too tired to eat,” Bridget asked her cousin.

  “I suppose not, no. But I doubt we’d get much sleep anyway, with Viv’s stomach demanding attention.”

  Vivianne's eyes were shut, but her mouth moved fine. “I've been dreaming of cinnamon apples. Make my dream come true, Bridge. Would you?” Her eyes snapped open and she lifted her head. “You know, there’s a perfectly fine kilt somewhere in this household. We wouldn’t begrudge you taking advantage.”

  Mallory sat up. “She's right. And if you got your Highlander’s kilt, you could be spared a journey into the mountains. You’d be free to accompany Viv or me—”

  “No. I'm going to the Highlands. I didn’t just come for a kilt. I want nothing left of my reputation. I’ll be no flag for the baron’s proud sleeve.”

  Vivianne gave her a sad look. “Whatever you want, Bridget. You take it, you hear? When I think about what you're willing to sacrifice, well...just you do what you want while you can. That's all.”

  “Thank you, dear. And I’ll fetch us something to eat, so you can feed that noisesome stomach. It sounded as if the entire clan might be drunk, what with the celebrating we heard below. I’m sure they’re all unconscious by now. If anyone stops me, I’ll merely tell them I’m one of the guests staying above stairs.”

  Mallory tapped her finger on her lips. “And what if that Rory fellow catches you, cousin?”

  “The maid said the man’s just a visiting grandson. If he or the other two notice me, dressed as a woman, they may assume I live here. I should be able to bring up a tray with no problem.”

  “You’ll have to keep your mouth shut. Even I know your Scottish is terrible.” Vivianne rose and moved to the door, then unbarred it.

  “True.”

  “So you'll keep your mouth shut?” Her cousin sounded doubtful.

  Bridget bit her lip and nodded.

  “Good. Now. Food.” Mal pointed to the door.

  Rory was awakened by his head falling off his shoulders. Or at least he'd thought so, but perhaps it was the opening of the war room door. A bit squeaky, that.

  He'd propped himself against the wall at the bottom of the stairway, sure he could protect the lasses from any curious Grahams since the only other bodies above stairs were his grandsire's wife and son.

  His head rested against the wall at his back and he watched through the slits of his eyes for a long while before he saw movement. There. At the top.

  With but a mild glow from the coals in the center hearth, the steps were doused in shadow and he suddenly feared for the lass's footing. But she moved slowly, dark as the shadows around her.

  While intent on discerning her form, he grew disgusted with himself—instead of being repelled by her, he willed her to come closer. But perhaps it was out of fear. If something unfortunate befell another Sassenach woman while he was nearby, his name might never recover.

  Truly, it might already be too late, but he’d do nothing to make it worse. Just because the Grahams had been kind to hold their tongues, didn’t mean they didn’t wonder.

  The Pretender turned her head sharply. He could see a chin; no beard then. She'd come as a woman. As she neared the bottom step, her skirts billowed around her. Thin, pale material. She looked a spirit come to rob some poor soul of his dreams.

  Ian’s boot silently nudged his foot from the left. His friend, lying on his side with his arm for a pillow, wanted to be sure Rory was awake to see.

  Rory nudged him back.

  To his other side, Connor snorted and snored; he’d seen her as well.

  But she'd stopped at the sound and blended in with the shadows once more. Was that her hand on the banister? Or was she closer to the wall? He couldn't tell.

  She moved again. Quicker this time. She had to be frightened out of her mind. But then again, she'd already made it into Scotland with none to guard her but two like fools. Perhaps nothing frightened this woman.

  When she faced the hall, a courageous flame sputtered to life, etched her profile with light and turned her hair to fire. Rory held his breath and willed the flame to fight on, but it faded and died so quickly he thought he might have dreamed it. It wasn’t possible for her to be the angel his imagination had conjured. He was tired, that was all. The real Phin Kennison had robbed him of the wee nap he’d needed.

  The man’s sister sidled into the shadows and was gone. He counted to ten, much slower than he thought possible, then stood, shucking off the grasping hands of his friends.

  “Trust me,” he whispered, then disappeared into the shadows himself.

  Bridget marveled that none of the Scots in the hall were awakened by the pounding of her heart. She tried to be silent, but couldn’t be sure if she’d succeeded. The only noise loud enough to reach her was the snore of someone sleeping at the bottom of the steps. Even with her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she’d been unable to tell how many bodies lied there. She was damned lucky she hadn’t stepped on anyone.

  The thought of bodies reminded her that the corpse of Alistair Graham was laid out in a box, on a table in the small chapel. If she’d remembered sooner, she’d have never left her room!

  But Old Alistair was only a threat to her peace of mind, since someone would be sitting beside him throughout his last night above ground. The real threat was his grandson and his friends. She really wished she’d learned more Gaelic from her grandmother so she might pass for a Scottish lass who’d missed her supper.

  Bridget made her way to the hearth and lit a small candle she’d brought from the room. There were just too many bodies lying about to try and feel her way to the kitchens.

  A wide arch opened in the back wall and she let her nose lead the rest of the way. She’d always had an excellent sense of smell, and once she got past the stench of un-bathed men, she followed a trail spiced with cinnamon and apples. Her stomach rumbled and a dog barked nervously from the hall behind her. She swallowed her spit, hoping that might satisfy the traitorous organ for a few moments more.

  The circle of candlelight on the wall shook beside her, but steadied after a few deep breaths. She was nearly there. If there was a god in heaven, there would be something edible left. She needed but a few moments to gather, and another to return to the stairway. Three heartbeats later, she’d be saf
ely behind her door.

  Not long at all.

  The walls ended in a cavernous room and her meager light dropped to one of three large tables. Three bare tables. To the left was a door. To the right, another hearth with a few coals glowing like red eyes in the darkness. The small bodies of half a dozen children were piled like sleeping puppies on a rug before the warm opening.

  Bridget smiled. She remembered being such a child, sneaking out of her large cold bed to sleep with her friends. But now her friends were waiting, up in their toasty room, for something to keep their own bellies quiet.

  She went to the door. When she first pulled on the handle, it wouldn’t move. It was caught, near the top. Raising her candle, she saw a small piece of wood turned against the door. It wasn’t much, but it might be enough to keep out a sleepy child, wandering in the dark.

  She turned the obstacle until the door was free, then opened it quickly, lest it squeak like the one above stairs.

  Air rushed past her wick and put out her candle.

  Damn!

  She listened intently for breathing, but heard nothing near, so she put her candle on the nearest surface and began searching with her hands.

  Shelves. Bottles, they were empty. Large sacks of grain stacked in the center of the small larder—she hurt her toe twice before she found their edges. Large chunks, wrapped in cloth, would be cheese. She took the smallest of three. Her wrist bumped a basket and it slid off the end of the shelf with a crack! Bending carefully, and protecting her face, she felt the floor and found what she’d been hoping for. Bread. She set three loaves aside and put what she could find back in the basket. Locating its former spot on the shelf risked spilling something else, so she set the basket on top of the grain sacks.

  Bread and cheese would keep them until they had their supplies back, assuming they’d get everything back. But then she got a strong whiff of cinnamon and apples. She slid along the shelves to the right, inhaling quietly.

  The odor that assailed her nostrils was unmistakable. She was no longer alone.

  “What ‘ave we ‘ere? Someone trespasses in my larder?”

  It was the last place Bridget expected to find a Frenchman—pressing up behind her in a Scottish kitchen.

  “You do not smell like a child. Shall we see how you taste?”

  His hands were to each side of her waist clutching at the fabric of her shift.

  While Bridget considered her options, the room began to glow. The space was much smaller than she’d imagined. In the doorway stood Alistair’s grandson, holding a candle, his demeanor furious again. This time, however, his glare wasn’t directed at her.

  “Take yer hands off her, Frenchie.”

  “But monsieur, surely you realize what you interrupt here.”

  “No, Frenchie. Ye dinna ken what ye interrupt here. She was here to meet me, weren’t ye, darlin’?”

  Bridget couldn’t imagine why Rory Macpherson would say such a thing, but she was terribly grateful to be rescued from the sticky handed Frenchman. The latter had claimed ownership of the larder; he had to be the cook.

  “Ah, but she hesitates. Perhaps you were mistaken, monsieur.”

  Bridget shook her head and pulled out of the man’s grasp, but he wouldn’t give up. Even with another man standing there, claiming her company, the cook tugged at her gown and tried to corner her.

  A large hook hung against the wall. It was a wicked looking thing, likely for hanging large portions of meat. But it wasn’t secured, so Bridget reached up and slid it from the leather loop. Holding it before her, like a pitchfork with no handle, she lashed out at his undeterred hands.

  “Ah, no need to pretend for the Scotsman.”

  Something blocked the candlelight from her eyes and a large round shadow descended, landing on the Frenchman’s head with a clang.

  Rory Macpherson stood over the body with his candle in one hand and a large flat pan hanging in his other. “Hard head. I’m sure he’ll be fine for the nooning meal. Looks like parritch for breakfast, though, aye?”

  He hung the pan with others against the wall. “Ye don’t speak much. Are ye frightened, then?”

  Brilliant! She looked at the floor and nodded, her auburn locks nearly closed a curtain around her face. She tossed the meat hook away from her as if it, too, frightened her.

  “Weel, gather yer things and come away, now. None will harm ye while I’m here.”

  She could have easily gotten away from the cook, perhaps without even drawing blood, but if the big Scot wanted to play hero, it was all right with her.

  She gathered up the cheese and the little loaves, then took a quick glance around while Rory held his candle aloft. Just below his elbow was a platter covered with a cloth. Small items beneath pushed up in little mounds. She breathed deeply in their direction. Apple tarts, she was sure of it.

  She bit her lip as she looked about her, searching for some reason to delay.

  “If ye’re hungry, ye must have some of Frenchie’s apple tarts. I’m sure, if he were awake, he’d insist upon it. An apology of sorts.” After setting his candle on the shelf, he took the small bundle of cheese from her, opened it, and added three apple tarts. After further consideration, he added a fourth, then tossed in the bread and tied it all up neatly and handed it back. “Ye’ve no meat, lass. Shall we hunt a bit longer?”

  Bridget shook her head, too pleased to look at the floor any longer. He hadn’t seemed too curious. No need to hide her face. However, she needed to get away before an English accent slipped from between her teeth.

  He took up his candle and led her out, shutting the larder door and flipping the small piece of wood into place as if he’d done it a hundred times before. His shoulders filled her vision, his scent washed away all thoughts of apples.

  “Well then, let’s get ye home.”

  Bridget stopped.

  Voices came from the hall, moving toward the kitchen. It was too early still for breakfast fires or anything else. It had to be guards. She looked up into the big Scot’s eyes, and saw her own panic reflected there.

  He put a finger to his lips, then held out his hand. When she took it, he nodded and blew out his candle.

  In the darkness, the voices grew nearer and she had no choice but to trust the man. He pulled her along, leading her carefully to the other side of the larder. The air changed and she realized he’d closed a door behind them.

  He backed up against the wall and pulled her against him. His right hand snaked its way under her hair and held her still, then he bent and pressed his head against hers, his warm breath very near her ear. She was glad of the darkness, so he wouldn’t see the surprise on her face.

  “Ye’re too fair a maid to be found wandering about the keep in the middle of the night, with or without me.” His mouth brushed against her cheek. “We’ll just bide in here until the guards bed doon, aye? Then I’ll take ye home.”

  He straightened, but his hand remained. Chills chased away all but the memory of his warmth, and she could think of nothing while she waited for him to bend toward her again. Only when she realized her face was only a finger’s breadth from the center of his chest did she truly come to appreciate how tall he was. She glanced up, looking for his eyes, but there were only dark shadows looking back at her. After a long moment of laborious, but silent breathing, a low growl began, then turned into a moan.

  She was relieved to find it came from the other side of the wall.

  Rory put his mouth to her ear again. “It’s Frenchie. Be still. And no matter what, let me do the talking, aye?”

  Bridget nodded, though it was not easy to do so in such a firm hold.

  “Good lass,” he whispered into her hair. Did he kiss her head? She was certain he’d just kissed her head!

  No matter that he’d done it absently, as one kisses a child. She melted against him like clotted cream on a hot spoon.

  It was so tempting, tired as she was, to lean into his warmth. She felt quite like a piece of metal in a blacksmi
th’s control, taken from the cold water and thrust back into the fire. She shivered at the thought of being dropped into the cold again. Her hands ached to take his arms and wrap them about her like a heavy blanket and take him with her.

  Light seeped between the boards that separated the larder from their hiding place.

  “It’s Frenchie,” one of the guards said casually. “He must be sotted. We’ll have to put him to bed before we raid his hamper.”

  Rory’s arms crushed a little harder. Looking around the room, Bridget realized why. Their hiding place had to be Frenchie’s room. A large bed stood against the far wall.

  The guards grunted as they lifted the cook from the floor.

  Rory took her face in his hands and with the added light, she clearly saw the dreamy smile in his eyes. “Ye’re going to get behind me and stay quiet, aye?”

  She nodded, but he didn’t release her. For a long, wonderful moment, he stared at her mouth, then bent to meet it with his own.

  All thoughts about guards and Frenchmen left her head like a swirl of steam from the center of a pie. She thought she could happily hang there, from his hands, until the sun came up. Perhaps longer.

  As wonderful as the kiss was, all warm and wet and soft, the ending was equally horrible. The door swung open and bumped her rump before Rory could swing her around him. The candle from the larder was still the only source of light.

  “Who’s that, then?” The men hadn’t yet entered the room. They couldn’t possibly see her and Rory behind the door.

  “Don’t know what ye’re doin’ in the larder, Frenchie, when someone’s warmin’ yer sheets.”

  Finally tucked behind Rory’s back, Bridget looked past his shoulder to see the lump under the blankets. The lump didn’t stir.

  Bridget’s stomach growled like an angry frog but pressing a hand against it did nothing to smother the sound.

  “Let’s heft ‘im in and have done. Yer belly’s like to raise the roof before we toss it a bone.”

  “My belly?” The two stumbled through the doorway with their charge. “I thought it was yer’s.”