And the Bride Wore Plaid (4 page)

It had been all she could do to appear bored, though she’d managed. It was the best way to depress unwanted attentions, something Kat excelled at. Something she was far too familiar with, as it was. But in a way, that was her own fault. She’d sold her reputation for something that had seemed far more important, only to discover that she’d been wrong, dead wrong. Now she was forced to deal with the repercussions of that decision, one made so hastily eight years ago.

He lifted a finger and traced the curve of her cheek, the touch bemusingly gentle. “You are a lush, tempting woman, my dear. And well you know it.”

Kat’s defenses trembled just the slightest bit. Bloody hell, how was she to fight her own treacherous body while the bounder—Devon something or another—tossed compliments at her with just enough sincerity to leave her breathless to hear more?

Of course, it was all practiced nonsense, she told herself firmly. She was anything but tempting. She looked well enough when she put some effort into it, but she was large and ungainly, and it was way too early in the morning for her to look anything other than pale. Her eyes were still heavy with sleep, and she’d washed her hair last night and it had dried in a most unruly, puffy way that she absolutely detested. One side was definitely fuller than the other, and it disturbed her no end. Even worse, she was wearing one of her work gowns of plain gray wool, one that was far too tight about the shoulders and too loose about the waist. Thus, she was able to meet his gaze and say firmly, “I am not tempting.”

“I’d call you tempting and more,” Devon said with refreshing promptness. “Your eyes shimmer rich and green. Your hair is the color of the morning sky just as the sun touches it, red and gold at the same time. And the rest of you—” His gaze traveled over her until her cheeks burned. “The rest of you is—”

“That’s enough of that,” she said hastily. “You’re full of moonlight and shadows, you are.”

“I don’t know anything about moonlight and shadows. I only know you are a gorgeous, lush armful.”

“In this?” She looked down at her faded gown with incredulity. “You’d call this gorgeous or lush?”

His gaze touched on her gown, lingering on her breasts. “Oh yes. If you want to go unnoticed, you’ll have to bind those breasts of yours.”

She choked.

He grinned. “And add some padding of some sort in some other areas.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but please let me up—”

“I was talking about padding. Perhaps if you bundled yourself about the hips until you looked plumper, then you wouldn’t have to deal with louts such as myself attempting to kiss you at every turn.”

She caught the humor sparkling in his eyes, and it disarmed her a bit more.

“Furthermore,” he continued as if he’d never paused, “you will need to hide those eyes of yours and perhaps wear a turban, if you want men like me to stop noticing you.”

“Hmph. I’ll remember that the next time I run into you or any other of Strathmore’s lecherous cronies. Now, if you’ll let me go, I have things to do.”

His eyes twinkled. “And if I refuse?”

“Then I will have to deal with you myself.”

“Oh ho! A woman of spirit. I like that.”

“Oh ho,” she returned sharply, “a man who does not value his appendages.”

That comment was meant to wither him on the vine. Instead he chuckled, the sound rich and deep. “Sweet, I value my appendage, although it should be
your
job to admire it.”

“I have no wish for such a job, thank you very much.”

“Oh, but if you did, it would then be my job to wield that appendage in such a way as to rouse that admiration to a vocal level.” Devon leaned forward and murmured in her ear, “You have a delicious moan, my sweet. I heard it when we kissed.”

Her cheeks burned. “The only vocal rousing you’re going to get from me is a scream for help.”

A bit of the humor left his gaze, and he said with apparent seriousness, “I would give my life trying to earn that moan yet again. Would you deny me that?”

In all her years of avoiding the clutching hands of her half brother’s friends, never had any attempted to woo her with words. Not a single one. The tactic surprised her, and very few things did. “Please let me go. It is very improper of me to sit in your lap.” Improper, but comfortable for all that.

He pursed his lips. “I’m not sure I can. Not without a toll.”

“A toll? To gain release from my own bed?”

His eyes glinted suddenly, a smile on his sensual mouth that left her heart trembling in her throat. His hands, so warm before, now seemed even warmer, almost hot through the material of her gown. “My sweet,” he said, “you aren’t in bed, but in my lap. Were you in bed, I’d demand much more than a kiss for your freedom.”

She frowned. “That is not fair.” And it wasn’t, not in any way.

“Life is rarely fair,” he retorted.

Kat couldn’t very well argue with him there. Life had already proven that. Blast it, it wasn’t fair if he was going to use logic. “I already gave you one kiss,” she pointed out reasonably.

“You didn’t kiss me—I kissed you.”

“That’s all you’ll get from me.”

“Really?” His lids lowered, and he regarded her with a sleepy, sexy look that quite stole her thoughts. “What a pity, for I enjoyed that kiss. More than I should have. Without a doubt, it was the most intriguing, most delicious kiss I’ve ever received.”

Despite Kat’s determination to appear unmoved, a tiny flicker of pride tickled through her. From the stranger’s manner and appearance, she was certain he was quite used to being kissed ... in fact, there had been something of a master kisser in his manner and ability. And yet
he’d
been impressed with
her
efforts. She hadn’t even tried to impress him, either. She wondered what he’d think if she
did
try. He would be completely astounded and—

Kat blinked. St. George’s Dragon, but if she continued on this line of thought, she’d talk herself into kissing him again. And all without him saying another word!

Her gaze narrowed on the stranger and she noted that he was watching her expressions intently, a pleased smile on his lips as if he knew exactly where her thoughts were taking her.
I’m playing right into his hands, blast it
!

“Enough of this. I will give you until the count of three to free me.”

Amusement laced his blue eyes. “Or?”

“Or I will be forced to hurt you.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Really? And how will you—”

“One.”

“Oh come now. All I want is a kiss. You’ve already given me one, what can be the harm in—”

“Two.”

He shook his head. “I vow, but you are a stubborn thing. Far more stubborn even than my sis—”

“Three.” She lifted her foot and swung it back, hard. There was a solid thunk as the heel of her boot hit his bare shin. His arms loosened instantly. Kat was on her feet and across the floor before her captor finished a rather colorful string of invectives.

Once she reached the door, she wasted no time hurrying out and slamming it behind her. Then she continued on her way down the steps, through the great hall, and out the door, where she hurried on to the stables.

She didn’t think Mr. Devon St. John would follow— he’d have to stop long enough to find some clothes.

But still, her heart was pounding as if he were hard on her heels. And perhaps, in a way, he was.

Kat found the stables thankfully quiet. She hurried by the nearly empty stalls, the scent of hay and oats mingling in the cool air. She went straight to the tack room, where she locked the door and then stood with her back against it, fighting for breath and the return of her usual calm thinking.

In all the times she’d fended off the groping hands of Kilkairn guests, never had Kat allowed anyone to touch her, much less hold her in his arms and kiss her. This man had merely caught her by surprise with his soft words and smiling eyes. But now she’d be cautious around him; very cautious indeed.

Certainly Kat had never
enjoyed
the attentions of any of Malcolm’s other miscreant friends, yet this time she had to admit that she’d felt a definite trill of excitement. In fact, she’d felt many things while in Devon St. John’s arms, and none of them was safe.

That thought firmly in mind, she waited only until her breath returned to normal before leaving the tack room and finding her horse. Then she mounted and left, riding through the forest and hills as if the hounds of hell were indeed following her.

I am not here to argue, sir. I am here to inform you of my wishes and to see to it that you consent in all matters forthwith.

Viscountess Mooreland to her mirror, practicing for an upcoming “conversation” with His Lordship regarding his wasteful gambling habits

The chit had kicked him. Hard. Devon’s temper went from amused interest to astonished outrage in the space of a few seconds, his irritation complete when she swept from the room in seemingly righteous indignation, slamming the door behind her.

All told, it was a new, and unpleasant, experience. Women rarely refused his requests for a dalliance and never bothered to kick him before leaving the room.

Damn it, what was wrong with the woman? A simple “No, thank you” would have sufficed. Although ... He rubbed his shin and winced. Perhaps he’d been too determined to keep the damned effect of that blasted talisman ring at bay by holding the chit in his lap. Truly, he had meant no harm. It was just the realization that she was so absolutely perfect for his plans—and right there, at arm’s length— that had made him reluctant to heed her request for release.

Of course, most women he knew wouldn’t have complained had he kept them in his lap for much longer than a few miserly minutes. Had he offered, many would have stayed and even suggested additional amusements to accompany such a luxuriously naughty position. But apparently London misses were something less particular than Scottish misses. Perhaps some small part of that was due to his position in London society ...

An insidious idea crept into his mind and latched about his thoughts. What if all the women who had bedded him had done so merely because they had known who he was, that he was a St. John?

He glanced down at his ready “appendage,” as the chit had called it, and relief swept through him. His name might have been the reason some women had tumbled into his bed, but it wasn’t the reason so many of them clamored, cajoled, and begged to return.

Feeling a bit more himself, Devon rose and began to dress. He didn’t have Tilton’s way of decreasing wrinkles, but Devon managed quite well. His cravat was sadly crushed, of course, but here in the wilderness, who would know? He tied it as best he could and then pinned it in place with a sapphire pin. He’d just bent over to fish his boots from under the bed when he caught sight of the St. John talisman ring where it still rested in the candle dish on the night table. His gaze narrowed, and he reached out and touched the slender metal band.

The ring was warm beneath his fingertips, and surprisingly smooth despite the runes carved on the side. For some reason, the feel of the silky metal reminded him of the maid. She was every bit as prickly on the inside, and then just as surprisingly soft to the touch.

He traced the curve of the band, his mind lingering on the memory. Suddenly he caught himself, stepping hastily back from the table and ramming his hands into his pockets. Bloody hell, if he wasn’t careful, he’d be bedded and wedded before the day was out.

Not to the saucy maid, of course—not only was she completely unsuitable, but she had also apparently developed an unreasonable dislike for his presence, as indicated by the bruise on his shin. He realized that she’d bruised far more than his shin; his pride was injured as well.

He shrugged into his waistcoat. Devon knew there had to be other unsuitable women to dally with, though he doubted any of the others possessed the creamy skin, red-gold hair, or pure audacity of the one he’d let escape.

Damn. He turned his back on the ring and pulled his boots from beneath the bed, grimacing at the mud on the once shiny leather. Sighing, he crossed to a window and opened it, pausing as he leaned out to dust his boots onto the gardens below. The scent of the flowers and herbs rose to meet him. For all the mismanagement inside Kilkairn Castle, the gardens were glorious. The green of the grass reminded him of the eyes of the wench who’d kicked him.

Damn. I’m doing it again
. Apparently he had a weakness for women with green eyes and pointed shoes. He closed the window, then held up his boots to the light. They were now mudless, but covered in some sort of gray grime. Tipton would not be pleased.

Devon swiped them with the hand towel on the night table, stomped his feet into the boots, and shrugged into his coat. The sooner he lured the serving maid into his bed, the sooner he could relax and stop worrying he might meet a paragon of feminine virtues—the exact type of woman one might feel compelled to marry.

A woman he might not be able to refuse.

Fate might be conspiring against him, but she had not beaten him yet. Devon whistled softly to himself as he stepped out of the cozy confines of the room into the hallway, pausing a moment to get his bearings.

If he had thought Kilkairn Castle disreputable during his brief view of it the night before, it was even more forlorn in the bright sunlight. At first glance, the wide stone-lined hallway benefited from a brace of large, high-set windows, the tall ceiling arching gracefully over a set of elaborate iron chandeliers. But closer inspection revealed the layering of dust that piled in the corners of the hall, and the thick bracket of cobwebs that stretched from cornice to chandelier bracket. He followed a particularly long cobweb where it stretched down to the corner of the rug that ran the center of the hallway. In all probability, the runner had once been a rich red, though now it was an indiscriminate brown.

All told, it was a strange state of affairs considering that while at Eton, Malcolm had been so fastidious about his possessions that he’d taken a ribbing from his classmates on more than one occasion. It had taken the force of Malcolm’s hot fists and ready temper to silence most of the naysayers.