Mad for the Plaid

by Karen Hawkins

  As soon as he saw Nik approaching, Max pulled apart from Ailsa and bowed to her. “Thank you for the dance. I’m sorry about your toes.”

  “Och, ’twas my fault. I moved the wrong way.” She managed a smile, though Nik thought he detected the slightest limp as she turned into his arms.

  Max bowed and then went to where his wife, Murian, stood waiting near the refreshment table, her eyes twinkling with laughter.

  Nik swung Ailsa around the dance floor. She was a remarkable dancer, light on her feet, and unerring in step. “It was kind of you not to blame Max for his awkwardness.”

  “Murian warned me he is a horrid dancer, but I dinnae listen. He was so eager to dance, too.”

  “He always is, but his partner always regrets it. Murien won’t dance with him anymore. She says she only has ten toes and she needs them all.”

  Ailsa laughed, her gray eyes sparkling. She looked lovely, her rose silk gown clinging to her curves, her skin flushed and dewy in the candlelight. And she was his. All his.

  He pulled her closer and she obligingly stepped into his embrace. They still danced, but at their own pace, without regard to the music.

  He bent and kissed her nose, and then her forehead. “You look tired, my dear. It’s been a long day.”

  “So it has.” She leaned closer. “The Austrian ambassador’s wife wishes me to ride with her tomorrow. She is quite clever, you know. I think I should go, for if we can get her to encourage her poor befuddled husband to accept the new treaty to limit the tsar’s power, we would have enough votes in the coalition to—”

  He kissed her. He’d loved every word she’d said, that she was here, in his arms, and by his side. He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers. “Before you came into my world, I was alone. I was that way on purpose, thinking it would protect me from the hurts and betrayals that are everywhere.”

  Her hands came to rest on his, her silver eyes shining with love. “And now?”

  “And now, I don’t know what I’d do without you. I love you, Ailsa Mackenzie Romanovin. I love you and I trust you and I will never keep anything from you.”

  She closed her eyes and leaned against him. “I love you, too. So long as I breathe, you will never again be alone.” The whispered words warmed him.

  Around them, people danced, talked, whispered, and—yes—perhaps even plotted. But none of them would ever part him and Ailsa. Never.

  He bent and picked her up, her silk skirts fluttering over his arm and trailing on the floor. “It’s time we retired, my love.”

  And ignoring the shocked expressions of those around him, and the amused guffaw from Tata Natasha, Nik carried Ailsa away.

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  The Prince Who Loved Me

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  When “The Scottish Robin Hood's” true identity is uncovered by a battle-savvy prince , she’s afraid that he might be the real thief . . . of her heart.

  The Prince and I

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  The Princess Wore Plaid

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  CAUGHT BY THE SCOT

  Coming Fall 2017 from Pocket Books!

  Turn the page for a preview of Caught by the Scot. . . .

  Chapter 1

  Never had an elopement been so poorly planned or so shabbily executed. Theodora Cumberbatch-Snowe, huddled in a wooden chair hastily pulled up to the fire in the parlor of the Wild Boar, pressed her hand to her uneasy stomach and hoped she wouldn’t spoil an already horrendous day by retching.

  Though her fiancé—the esteemed and quite handsome Squire Watson—possessed many admirable skills, driving an elopement vehicle was not one of them. When not racing haphazardly down the straight portions of the bumpy roads found so frequently in the north, Marcus oversteered the curricle, leaning wildly through each and every corner, the entire equipage swaying sickeningly while the wheels groaned in protest.

  Which explained why they were not traveling at this moment.

  She’d first suggested and had then demanded he slow down, or better yet, allow her to drive, but Marcus had refused, saying that while he acknowledged her greater skill with both horse and carriage, he was determined to do his duty by “sweeping” her away under his own power “or naught.”

  Predictably, ever-fickle fate chose the “naught” and one of the coach’s wheels gave way and sent them both tumbling in a most undignified manner. Marcus and the curricle had ended up sprawled on their sides in the middle of the muddy road, while Theodora and her portmanteau had landed in a dirty water-filled ditch.

  She had kicked at her wet gown where it clung to her legs, wincing at the twinge in her ankle. How, oh how, had she convinced herself that eloping would be a romantic, exciting endeavor? She was twenty-and-seven and well past the age of foolishness, and yet when presented with the opportunity for “romance,” she’d leapt at it like a callow girl of sixteen.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered to herself and reached for the glass of whisky she’d demanded when she and Marcus had first arrived at the inn, muddied and bruised and riding, in the most ignominious way possible, in a hay-filled farmer’s cart. Marcus had done what he could to smooth the situation over—bespeaking the parlor, pulling a chair to the fire for her, and procuring the requested glass of whisky. He’d then hired two of the innkeeper’s strongest postboys to return to the curricle to see if it could be righted and repaired.

  “This is not how elopements occur in novels,” she said under her breath. She shoved a wet curl from her cheek, wincing when her fingers brushed the scrape on her jaw.

  That’s a reason to drink. She took a sip of her whisky, the smooth tones soothing the ire bubbling through her veins. Taking a deep breath, she put her feet upon the footstool in front of her chair, struggling to free her uninjured foot from the torn flounce and flinching when her bruised knee protested.

  There’s another reason to drink. She took another sip and leaned her head against the high back of the chair. She’d first doubted the wisdom of her decision to elope when her erst-while husband had met her at their prearranged location in an antiquated curricle that had once belonged to his grandmother. For some reason, Marcus had thought the lumbering, faded orange, silk-lined contraption would add a certain luxurious touch to their pragmatic flight to the border.

  Sadly, he hadn’t taken into account that the main springs were completely ruined, so that each bump in the road had been more of a thud, while the faded leather seats reeked of hen droppings and moldy hay. Marcus had unwittingly explained these unfortunate circumstances when he mentioned that the creaky contraption had been abandoned in the barn “for some time” until he’d “revived it.”

  Judging from the odor wafting from the seats, Theodora could only imagine that “for some time” was well over a hundred years, and his “reviving” had not included a thorough airing out.

  Which is yet another reason to drink. She took a bigger sip than usual, glad her stomach was no longer protesting.

  She realized she was already woefully low on whisky. If she kept this up, she’d have to get up a
nd fetch more, as the decanter was on the other side of the room, a move her ankle would protest mightily.

  But it wasn’t her fault that the whisky was so welcome. As kind and well-meaning as Marcus was, there were times when he seemed oblivious to simple comforts. Conner would never have been seen in such a curricle. He would have brought his new cabriolet, or perhaps that sleek blue coach he bought in Bristol just a year ago, or—

  She caught her thoughts and grimaced to herself. As if Conner Douglas would ever plan an elopement. Oh, he’d abscond with someone’s wife without a thought, yes. But marry? Never.

  Which was why she was here now. Conner Douglas was not the sort of man a gently bred woman would usually meet, and with good reason. Though he came from one of Scotland’s leading families, by the time he was twenty he’d firmly established himself as a society outcast. Theodora wasn’t entirely certain what he’d done to keep his name off the eligible bachelor list for most of England’s acceptable families, but she’d heard whispers of sordid affairs, bare-knuckled brawls, outlandish wagers, and misty-dawn duels. One story held that he’d had a duel over a popular, sought-after actress in the middle of the Duke of Devonshire’s ballroom, which had left a mirror shattered and an unsightly ding in a precious suit of armor.

  The stories were endless, and while she was certain many of them were embellished, there was enough truth in them to label Conner the rakehell he was.

  But to her, he was her brother’s best friend, and the man she’d been in love with since she’d been a young, starry-eyed girl of fourteen.

  She still remembered the day they’d met. He’d come to visit her brother, a classmate of his at Oxford. She’d been a leggy, flat-chested, deucedly awkward girl, and he’d been a twenty-year-old, handsome, athletic, slumberous-eyed rogue. She’d been lost the second he’d strode into her mother’s sitting room—with his dark hair that fell to his shoulders, ice-blue eyes, and a lithe grace as intriguing as his smile was charming. He’d bowed over her hand and smiled, murmuring some polite greeting.

  She looked at her hand now and curled it into a fist. That’s how young girls fall in love—instantly, and with no more reason than a handsome face and a set of broad shoulders. Of course, Conner never saw her as anything more than his best friend’s little sister, and so paid her little heed. At least, he had at first. Eventually, over the years, by dint of always being available to listen whenever he had something to say, never offering a critical comment without adding some sort of helpful addendum, and hiding her always present desire to fling herself into his arms, they’d become friends. As they did so, she was more honest with him, too, which he seemed to appreciate.

  But though their friendship had kept Conner returning to her side throughout the years, it had also ended any hopes she’d had for romance.

  It had taken her time, but she’d learned to deal with her unruly feelings, and now she could say with believable firmness that she saw him as a friend and no more.

  Sadly, no one else had caught her attention with the same fervor, and she’d never married. Lately, she’d realized that perhaps she had been foolish to hope for passion at her age. Perhaps compatibility and the hope for years of pleasant and reasonable discourse were reasons enough to marry?

  Thus, last week when Squire Watson had begged her to elope and join him in his beautiful manor house, she’d found herself tempted. The squire was a worthy man, his affections genuine, his character flawless. She could do worse.

  And so she’d accepted. And now, here she was, wet, bedraggled, and bruised.

  The best reason of all for another sip. She finished the glass and then eyed the decanter from across the room.

  She needed more whisky. A lot more. Conner Douglas wasn’t an easy man to forget, and right now, after such an uninspiring start to her elopement, he seemed even more attractive than ever. He possessed—something. She wasn’t sure what it was, but he could just walk into a room and every woman would turn his way and wonder. It wasn’t just his looks, which were prodigious. No, it was something else; something dark and dangerous, a make-your-heart-pound-until-you-beg-for-me sort of thing. He was the kind of man most women dreamed about, but never admitted to.

  Why, even now, if Theodora stared out the window long enough, she could almost imagine that the man who’d just ridden into the innyard was Conner. The figure swung down from his horse, a bold black gelding with a long, flowing mane, and tossed the reins to a waiting postboy. The man was as tall as Conner, his shoulders as broad, his hair just as dark, and slightly long—just the way Conner wore his. Why, the man was even dressed in a kilt—not odd, as they were riding the North Road to the border.

  As she watched, the man raked a hand through his hair, the afternoon sun touching his handsome face—

  Theodora bolted upright. “Conner?”

  Heart thundering in her chest, she set down her glass without noticing that she missed the small table and it went tumbling to the rug as she stood. Bloody hell, what is he doing here?

  It had to be a sad coincidence; her own parents didn’t realize she was eloping, and wouldn’t until they returned from town next week and found the letter she’d left them. She looked around the small parlor and wished she could hide, but the sound of his deep, lilting voice in the hallway put that thought to rest.

  Cursing feverishly, she limped to the mirror and tried to do something with her wet hair, which had long since fallen from its pins, wincing at the sight of the bloodied scrape on her jaw. Good God, I look a fright!

  The door flew open and Conner strode into the parlor, escorted by the maid, a young lass with red hair who couldn’t seem to stop staring at the Scotsman, her eyes full of longing.

  Theodora couldn’t blame the poor girl. The striking Douglas looks were hard to resist. And today with his face half-shaven, he looked as wild as the pirate he was often accused of being.

  His gaze flickered over her now, taking in her wet, muddied gown, her bedraggled hair, and finally finding the scrape on her jaw. His gaze turned icy. “Bloody hell, what happened?” Conner’s voice was deadly cold. “If that fool laid one finger on you—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. The wheel broke on our curricle and I was thrown out.”

  His mouth thinned, but he didn’t look quite so furious. “I’m sorry to hear tha’. Have you nae dry clothes, lass?”

  “Sadly, no. My portmanteau was thrown into the same ditch as I. My gowns are being cleaned and dried now, although it will be hours before one is ready.”

  “Bloody hell. I expected to find you snug in a parlor, but having tea, nae bloody and shivering.” As he spoke, he stalked across the room toward her, his brogue rippling through his deep voice like a velvet stroke. He stopped before her, tugged off his overcoat, and swung it about her shoulders.

  “I don’t—”

  “Pssht. Wear the damned thing; you’re shaking fra’ the cold.”

  “Fine, fine. I’ll wear it, but it’s not in the least necessary.” She pulled it more snuggly about her. The long coat reached only to Conner’s calves, but it pooled at her feet, the faint scent of his cologne unsettling.

  The events of the morning hit her with fresh vigor and she swallowed the desire to both burst into tears and throw her arms about his neck, neither an acceptable reaction. It took several hard gulps, but she managed to say in a voice that trembled only a little, “Would you like some tea?” She fixed her gaze on the gawking maid. “Tea for two, please.”

  The maid struggled to rip her gaze from Conner, who was oblivious to the young girl. With a long sigh, the young lady bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, miss. Shall I bring some for the squire, too?” The maid’s tone was stubborn, and she sent a secretive glance at Conner to see if he was surprised to hear that Theodora was not at the inn alone.

  Conner didn’t so much as blink, but continued to look at Theodora with intense concern. He knows. That was good, wasn’t it? She would be spared the need to make explanations. She turned to the maid. “The squire is seeing to
our overturned curricle, so I doubt he’ll return within the next hour. Two cups will be enough, thank you.”

  The maid looked disappointed at Theodora’s aplomb, but bobbed a curtsy again and, with a last longing gaze at Conner, left.

  You poor girl, Theodora thought. He looks like every hero you’ve ever imagined, doesn’t he? And yet he’s far, far from that.

  Conner’s gaze slid over her to the floor. He raised his brows. “You dropped something.”

  She looked down. Her glass lay on the rug on its side. Irritated, she scooped it up. “It must have fallen when I stood. The coach ride made me ill, so I was trying to still my stomach.”

  His blue eyes, as changeable as the weather, flickered over her, resting for a long moment on her face. Without a word, he reached out and took her chin between his fingers and turned her cheek. He tsked and pulled a kerchief from his pocket and gently pressed it to her wound. “Och. Theodora, what ha’ you done to yourself?”

  He said the words more to himself than to her.

  But the kind words made her long all the more to feel his arms around her. Which is an understandable reaction. I’m so banged and bruised by this journey that I’d accept comfort from anyone.

  She pulled back, ignoring the warm flush that had rippled through her at his touch.

  His gaze flickered over her, taking in the grass stain on her knee, concern darkening his gaze. “Are you injured elsewhere?”

  She started to shrug, but the ache on her left side forbade it. She thought of her bruised knee, the ache in her side, and the soreness of her ankle. “No.”

  “Guid,” he said. “For had you been seriously injured by tha’ fool’s ham-fisted driving, I’d have been forced to kill him.”