And the Bride Wore Plaid (8 page)

Annie’s hand closed over Kat’s. “Just leave the knife there. I’ll take care of the rest of these.”

“Are you certain? I can at least—”

“I’m certain. Besides, aren’t the lads waitin‘ on ye?”

They would be, of course. Since housework had never held any appeal, Kat readily washed her hands in a bucket and dried them on a towel Annie kept nearby. “You’re right. We have to finish the windows by the end of this week or we’ll be good and behind.”

“There is no ‘good and behind.’ There’s only ‘behind.’ Get to work, Miss Kat.” Annie flashed a smile, her angular, usually morose face lighting. “I’d never let the lads alone for a minute. You canno‘ tell what they’ll be into.”

Kat agreed, smiling in return. The men they’d gathered as glassworkers were a singular lot, all of them strong on personality. Simon had collected most of them, scrutinizing them carefully. Kat paid more than a fair wage, and she rewarded quality work, which meant the best of the best were drawn to her cottage.

Waving good-bye to Annie, Kat left. She lifted her face to the sun as she walked across the clearing to the workshop where the pleasant sound of hammering and male voices made her smile. All in all, it was a good thing she wouldn’t be going to Kilkairn Castle any more this week. She’d spent far too much time mulling over the handsome Englishman as it was, and all for no more than a little kiss. Heaven only knew what state she’d be in if he’d done more. So to preserve her own peace, she’d stay away from Kilkairn. At least until St. John was on his bonny way.

The carriage swept into the drive and pulled up in front of Kilkairn Castle much as it had done the night before. Paul leaned forward and caught a glimpse of a solitary figure standing on the front portico.

“Mr. St. John’s biting at the bit, ain’t he?” John the coachman said.

“So it appears.” Paul jumped down the second the coach came to a halt. He hadn’t been entirely certain he’d find the master up and about. It was only eleven, after all. But there he was, pacing the front portico, hat in hand, dressed for riding.

As soon as Paul approached, St. John smiled. “There you are! How was the inn?”

“Adequate, sir.” Barely. But it was better than staying at the castle.

“Excellent. I find Kilkairn just as satisfying.”

A smile hovered over St. John’s mouth, and Paul found himself responding. “I’m surprised ye’re up so early, sir.”

“What? Me? Why, I love mornings!” Devon waved a hand. “Just smell the fresh air. Taste the crisp coolness of the dawn.”

Paul didn’t point out that dawn had been hours ago. “Indeed, sir. I hadn’t noticed.”

“You’d better wake up, Paul. Such glorious mornings do not come often.” St. John’s eyes twinkled. “Almost never, where I am concerned.”

Paul grinned. “No, sir. Did you wish us to take you somewhere today?”

“Actually, yes. But I’m not sure where.”

“Sir?”

“I want to find a house located in the woods. A smallish house, from what I understand.”

“A small house? Ye want one to let?”

“No, no, no! This house belongs to someone, and I wish to pay a visit.”

Things suddenly became clear to Paul. He was beginning to smell a petticoat. “Sir, who might this house belong to?”

“Miss Katherine Macdonald.”

From the look on the master’s face, this was obviously a promising errand of a romantic nature. “If Miss Macdonald lives hereabouts, I daresay someone in the stable will know how to get there.”

“Excellent idea! Furthermore, I believe I should ride there myself. All I need are the directions.”

“Of course, sir. Shall I have the gelding saddled?”

“Yes. I daresay Thunder could use a stretch.” Devon had paid a small fortune for the horse, and had never regretted it. Especially today when he could ride up to Kat’s cottage astride a horse worthy of carrying a knight.

Paul bowed, then went on his way. In a relatively short time, he returned with directions, leading Thunder to the steps. The animal was huge, all gleaming black muscle and streaming mane and tail. Devon pulled on his gloves. Miss Katherine’s head was bound to be turned.

Moments later, Devon galloped across the green fields of Kilkairn toward the forest. He was spurred forward by the memory of Kat’s lush body in his lap.

Devon considered briefly the information Malcolm had let fall. There was an unspoken code of gentlemen that averred that one did not attempt to seduce the sisters of one’s best friends. Malcolm must have decided that any flirtation of Devon’s was nothing more than that—a flirtation, begun and ended with a kiss. Of course, Malcolm also knew that Devon would never go beyond the line of the acceptable, not without the permission and encouragement of the lady in question. What stung was that for some reason, Malcolm seemed to think his sister was immune to Devon’s particular charms— that Kat would want nothing more from Devon than a kiss.

But Devon was not so sure; Kat seemed to possess a very passionate nature. Whatever the truth, it would certainly take more than a kiss to ease his lustful thoughts of Kat Macdonald, and to satisfy the curiosity and heat he’d seen burning in her eyes.

But the real beauty of it all was that the more time Devon spent with Malcolm’s ineligible sister, the less chance there was that Devon might fall victim to the talisman ring’s magical powers.

With Kat and her ruined reputation, Devon was completely safe, no matter how far their flirtation went. More proof that he was smarter by far than any ring ever made. Smiling to himself, he urged Thunder farther into the woods, certain he was on his way to dislodge an evil fate.

It’s really quite easy. As soon as you see the fires of wrath in their eyes and know your time has come, you begin the seduction. A brush of your hand across theirs when they reach for the crème pot. A heated glance. A lingering appreciation for how they look... smell... taste. Just try it, sir. I’ve been married fourteen years, and not once has she managed to ring a peal over my head without stammering and blushing like a school girl.

Viscount Mooreland to his uncle, the Earl of Stempleton, whilst viewing the horses for sale at Tattersall’s

Devon had always believed that one’s greatest strength was also one’s greatest weakness. Such was his case, anyway. From the time he’d been a child, he had never been known for his lack of persistence.

Once, when he had attained the ripe age of five, his parents had left for a brief visit to London. Devon had begged to go with them, but had been refused.

Looking back now, he could see that perhaps his parents had desired some time alone. Even though they employed a squadron of governesses and tutors, six children had to have been a drain on their marital reserves.

But at the time, all Devon had known was that he was being left behind. Thus he’d waited until the trunks for the upcoming journey were sitting in the front hall and he’d opened the largest one, removed one of his mother’s voluminous gowns and stuffed it beneath the settee in the front sitting room, and then paid his brother Chase a shilling to close the trunk and lock him in.

Moments later an unsuspecting footman had carried the trunk to the waiting coach and strapped it on the back. Neither Devon nor Chase had thought of such mundane things as food or air. Within thirty minutes of rumbling out of the long drive, Devon had begun to realize the shortfalls of his plan.

He became increasingly hot, the air stifling and then thin, and all the while he was aware of a horrid need to relieve himself.

By the time the first hour had passed, he’d begun to panic and tried to gain the attention of the coachman, but the noise of the creaking, swaying coach and the clopping of the horses concealed the thumping of his small fists on the trunk lid. No one heard him.

It was a good thing the trip to London was a mere three hours, though by the time Devon was discovered, he was ill from the heat and the confinement. It took almost two days before he could get out of bed.

Of course, he’d been thankful for his convalescence as it prevented him from receiving the switching that should have been his. As his father would later say when the incident was brought up, “Devon’s determination will be both the making and the breaking of him. God only knows which.”

Now here he was, not in London, but in a clearing in the forest, looking at what had to be Kat Macdonald’s cottage, and that same determination that had caused him to ride in a trunk all the way to London was urging him forward.

The sun shone on the house and lit the clearing until he almost expected the door to fly open and little men in matching tunics to come tumbling out, turning buttercups into gold, or making mushrooms into sweet cakes, or some such nonsense.

“Either that or seven beautiful maidens,” Devon said to himself, trying to remember the fairy tales his mother had so delighted in telling. Something about seven pairs of shoes and dancing ... He frowned. Whatever the tale, he’d forgotten most of it. Not that it mattered. It was all childhood nonsense anyway.

Devon urged Thunder across the clearing. The gelding frisked and frolicked, prancing as if afraid of the splotches of sun that trembled across the ground in unison with the breeze. They were only about halfway to the cottage when Devon realized they had an audience.

A group of men stood outside a long, low building. The group was small, but the men were not. They were all huge. “Giants,” Devon muttered. “One. Two. Three—good God. Seven giants.”

He pulled Thunder to a halt. He wasn’t afraid of the giants. The tall ones always fell the hardest. Still, it wouldn’t do to be rude.

He led Thunder up to them and dismounted. “Good day,” he called. “I am looking for—”

Kat stood in the doorway behind the men, dressed in the same drab gown as before. It hung gloriously on her curves, molding itself to her slants and slopes. The sunlight dappled her hair gold, muting the red and making her shine like a new guinea. Standing with the men, she looked petite.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, one hand propped on her hip.

It was hardly the welcome he wished. “I came to ask you a question.” He glanced at the men, offering a smile to offset their glares. “In private,” he added.

They didn’t move. Neither did Devon.

“I don’t wish for a word in private with y—” Her gaze wandered past him to Thunder, her eyes widening. “What a lovely horse!”

Devon hid a smile. Malcolm had been right; Kat loved horses. “Thunder is a lovely animal. And he knows it, too.”

One of the men—a red-haired, burly sort with disapproving eyes and a grim expression—said, “Miss Kat, we’ve work to do.”

“Aye, Simon,” she said, though she continued to walk toward Thunder. “How long have you had him?”

“I purchased him a year ago.”

She reached them and placed a hand on Thunder’s neck. The horse pretended to shy. She laughed and grabbed the bridle, holding him still while she patted his side. “He’s a high-strung one, isn’t he?”

“Miss Kat!” Another of the men chimed in, a large, brown-haired man with a beard and thick brows. “We’ve glass to do and time’s a-wastin‘.” He glared at Devon the whole time he was speaking.

“Glass?” Devon said quietly so that only Kat could hear him.

She started to answer, then hesitated. “It doesn’t matter. A business concern, no more.” She turned to the brown-haired man. “I wish to speak to Mr. St. John. Go ahead and begin on the next brace of cuts.”

The men eyed him sullenly, apparently blaming him for Kat’s answer. Devon took the opportunity to eye them all back. It was a strange assortment. Some were brown-haired, some red; some had freckles, some didn’t. Except for their size and the glares on their faces, they were as different as the day was long.

Devon wondered if they were going to allow Kat to stay and speak with him. Hm. How did one deal with seven giants? He didn’t recall a single one of his mother’s fairy tales that gave instructions. If only he had some magic beans. The thought made him grin, a fact that did not sit well with the giant conclave one bit.

“Miss Kat,” snapped the redheaded one. It was quickly becoming apparent he was the leader. “I don’t think ye should be standin‘ aboot, talkin’ to a stranger.”

“Simon, for the love of—what could happen? We’re here, in the middle of the clearing. If the man is foolish enough to attempt to molest me, I’ll black his eyes and send him on his way.”

Devon had to bite back a smile for the calm way she spoke. He didn’t know of another woman who would have made such a statement in such an unemotional manner.

“Simon,” Kat said. “Take the lads back inside; I’ll be in shortly.”

“We’ve two more windows to make,” he answered, though his gaze never left Devon.

“I realize that,” she answered, a note of steel in her voice. “Which is why you all need to get back to work. I cannot do the cuts until you’ve got the glass ready.”

Whatever that meant, it must have been true, for the men began to shift uneasily. Finally Simon flexed his shoulders and nodded once. “Very well. If ye need us, ye’ve but to call.” He cast a last, cold glance at Devon and then turned to the others. “Back inside, lads. The sooner we get the glass ready, the sooner Miss Kat can get it cut.”

As soon as they shuffled back into the building, Devon glanced down at Kat. “Your servants?”

“No. Apprentices. Except Simon.” She gave Thunder one last pat, then stepped away, her gaze meeting his. “Why are you here, Sassenach?”

“Sassenach?”

“Englishman.”

He wasn’t sure he liked the way she said that. “You’re English, too. At least half.”

Her mouth tightened, her green eyes accusing. “You’ve been talking to Malcolm.”

Devon nodded.

A faint line of color touched Kat’s face, and she turned away, facing the building. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Devon eyed a large wood curl in Kat’s red-gold hair. He reached out to untangle the sliver of wood, but Kat yanked away.

She eyed him suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

He smiled and reached again, only this time more slowly. She held still, though her body was so stiff he could almost feel the tension seeping from her.