And the Bride Wore Plaid (9 page)

Apparently, when she wasn’t surprised, Kat Macdonald was a bit shy of touch. He wondered if that was a result of the incident that left her “ruined” in the eyes of society, or because of Malcolm’s other guests continually groping her when they came to visit.

He plucked the wood curl from her hair, then showed it to her. “What
have
you been doing?”

She took the sliver of wood and tossed it to the ground. “Helping Hamish with the frames.”

“Frames?”

“Malcolm didn’t tell you everything, then. I am not a lady, St. John. I make my own way, I do.” Her firm chin lifted and she said with simple pride, “We are glassmakers, the lads and I. The best there is.”

“If you’re a glassmaker, why is there a wood shaving in your hair?”

“Because glass must be fit in a frame. And the right frame is as important as finding the right colors for the picture.”

“You and the ‘lads’ do this by yourselves?”

“Aye. And we’ve more work than we can fill.”

His gaze roved over her, from the pride in her eyes, to the strength of her body, to the broad grace of her hands. She was a conundrum, this woman, a strange mixture of strength and ... was it vulnerability? Or pride? Something sweet and delicate rested deep in her eyes, and he was determined to discover what it was.

Despite Devon’s determination to merely establish a dalliance with Kat, he had to admit that he was somewhat fascinated. Not too much, of course. He was no wet-eared halfling to think interest was love. It wasn’t, of course. But it did promise to make the flirtation something special, which was fine by Devon. It had been a long time since a woman—any woman—had truly intrigued him.

Devon reflected that of all the women he knew, with the exception of a housekeeper, laundress, or maid or two, none had had professions of their own. Truly, everything about Kat Macdonald was larger than life—her size, her blazing color, even the gentle rasp of her husky voice—all were
more
in some way. More than he expected, and far more than a proper lady should be.

The thought was rather exciting. “Do you know what I think?”

Though her expression didn’t change, he felt her withdraw, as if in expectation of a blow. Devon placed a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face to his. “I think you’re an exceptional, astounding woman, and I want to know more of you.”

Kat discovered that it was possible to stop breathing even while panting. And she was panting. There was a fey magic about the stranger, something that made her body quiver the second he was within range.

If she looked back in her memory, there was only one other time she’d been so affected by a man. The memory tightened about her throat and halted her voice.

“Furthermore,” Devon St. John continued, his voice low and smooth, “I wonder why you are the way you are.” His gaze wandered over her, from her head to her feet, a question in his blue gaze. “Who are you, Katherine Anne Macdonald?”

She stiffened. “I am who I am. And I would prefer it if you did not call me by that name.”

“Katherine? Why not?” His eyes twinkled. “It’s your real name, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But my mother never used it unless she was angry, so I prefer Kat. Or for you, Miss Macdonald.”

He laughed. “Miss Macdonald it is. But only if you’ll call me Devon.” His gaze darkened the slightest bit. “I want to hear my name on your lips.”

Kat had to rub her arms to stop the goose bumps that traveled up her skin at the silken tone of his voice. It took all of her composure to answer in a steady voice. “I hope you aren’t counting on such. I will never say your name.”

He leaned forward, his eyes so rich a blue that she couldn’t look away. “Is that a wager?”

“No, Mr. St. John. It is a fact.”

The man smiled then, a faint curve to his well formed mouth that drew the gaze and sent heated thoughts through her mind. “Miss Macdonald, may I say that I look forward to the challenge of our continued friendship.”

Friendship ... was that what this was? Kat was held by the thought. It had been a long time since she’d thought of having a friend—any friend, even a dangerous one like Devon St. John. And he was dangerous. She stole a glance at him from beneath her lashes.

Kat was used to seeing rather robust men appear pallid beside the likes of her lads, especially Alistair and Simon, who had to dip their heads to enter the lower barn door. But this man carried himself with such masculine ease that she caught herself looking at his legs, his hips, his hands ... wondering what he would be like in bed. She already knew his kisses were hot and lethal, a fact that only made her wonder the more about the rest of him.

Kat’s cheeks heated. Bless her, but she was worse than Annie’s cousin, Jane.

Well, perhaps not
that
bad, but bad enough. “I am exactly what you see, St. John. Can you say the same?”

“I think so,” he answered, nodding thoughtfully. “I have never been one to dissemble.”

Before she could stop herself, she snorted in disbelief.

His brow jerked lower. “I am serious. I do not lie.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Have you ever told a woman she had beautiful eyes for no other reason than to tempt her into your arms?”

He opened his mouth. Then closed it. After a long moment, he puffed out a sigh. “Up until now, I hadn’t thought of that as a lie.”

“No? What would you call it?”

“A hard-won compliment.”

Her own lips twitched, but she swallowed the smile before it could blossom. “That is the problem with men like you. You lie so much and so oft that you no longer know the truth. Now if you’ll excuse me, St. John, I’ve work to do.”

She turned to go, but his hand was about her wrist before she could take a step.

“I came for a reason, Miss Macdonald. I came to ask you if you’d do me the honor of taking a ride with me.”

“A ride?” She tried to pretend that the feel of his strong hand about her wrist wasn’t making her stomach heat in a most disturbing way.

“A ride,” he repeated. He gave her a rueful, lopsided smile. “That’s all. One simple ride. I’m here alone, you know. And I’ve no place to go for three weeks. Surely you can spare a few hours of your time for something as innocuous as a ride.”

For one blessed mad moment, Kat thought of agreeing. She could almost see the two of them, riding across the fields, laughing and talking. But then reality returned and she remembered another time, another man, also pleading for nothing more than “a few hours.” At the time, she’d wondered what harm could occur in a few hours. Now she knew.

She pulled her wrist free. “No thank you, Mr. St. John. You’ll have to find someone else to pass the time with. I’m not available.” With that, pride stiffening her weakened will, she turned on her heel and quickly made her way into the shop.

Malcolm climbed the stairs to his wife’s bedchamber, his boots landing heavily on the grayish runner. He tried to ignore the small puffs of dust that swirled with each footfall and the dusty slickness of the railing beneath his hand, just as he tried to ignore the cobwebs that hung unattended from the branched chandeliers displayed overhead, and the faint musty odor that was slowly permeating his once orderly household.

Though he’d been unable to explain the entire situation to Devon, the truth was that Malcolm and his wife were not arguing. Oh no, it had progressed far beyond that. They were now at war. What had begun as a difference of opinion had escalated into something far worse.

It was a simple matter, really. He wanted children; his wife did not. Worse, he wanted to stay here, at Kilkairn, and enjoy life at the castle, while she was determined to drag him to Edinburgh.

Normally, Malcolm had nothing against Edinburgh. He rather enjoyed a taste of town life on occasion. But after Fiona had denied his request for a child and refused to stay at Kilkairn for more than two weeks at a stretch, he’d dug in his heels and refused to go anywhere. Better yet, he’d refused to allow her to travel, as well.

He’d thought to wear her down, make her agree to his wishes—once she had his son, she could travel all she wished, and with his blessing. It seemed a fair enough request, but she’d been far from agreeable. What was worse was that he’d underestimated one small facet of his lovely wife’s character—her overgrown sense of pride. It was equal to his own, if not larger and far more entrenched.

In response to his ultimatums, she’d done what she could to make Kilkairn Castle the uncomfortable mess it was today, irritating the capable servants until they left and neglecting to oversee the ones that stayed. Malcolm had uneasy dreams of Fiona dancing through the castle, tossing dust in the air. Then, once she tired of that game, resting in his favorite chair by the fire to knit cobwebs of every shape, size, and color.

Malcolm paused outside a wide oak door and straightened his shoulders. “Do not give an inch,” he muttered to himself. His father would have never put up with such nonsense, and neither would Malcolm. Still, it was difficult to maintain his pride because he loved Fiona ... didn’t he?

A cold grip of uncertainty held him in place. As always, it was the one question he couldn’t answer. What if his love for his wife only lasted as long as his father’s love had lasted for his mother? Malcolm remembered his mother’s pain each time his father strayed.

It was a long moment before he lifted his hand and knocked on the door and then entered.

The room was decorated in delicate blue and white, Fiona’s favorite colors. A large bed sat in the center of one wall, an ornate dressing table across the room, near the large fireplace.

His bride sat at the dressing table, a lace gown tossed over her shoulders, her hair streaming down her back as her maid brushed out the long curls.

Fiona’s gaze met Malcolm’s in the mirror and a stubborn flush rose in her cheeks as she looked away.

Malcolm flicked a glance toward the maid. “Marie, I wish to speak with Lady Strathmore privately.”

Marie’s gaunt face reddened and she gripped the back of Fiona’s chair in a protective manner. “I was just brushing Her Ladyship’s hair and—”

“That will be all, Marie,” Malcolm said firmly.

The maid sniffed and then looked at Fiona. “Madam?”

Fiona sighed. “You may go, Marie.”

“
Oui
, but—” Marie glanced at Malcolm as if to ascertain his trustworthiness.

That irked him. By the saints, he was the man of this house, and he wouldn’t stand for such impertinence. He spun on his heel and went to the door and held it open.

Head high as if she were on her way to the guillotine, Marie slowly went to the door. The second she crossed the threshold, Malcolm kicked the door closed behind her.

Fiona jumped. “Malcolm!”

“Sorry. My foot slipped. I meant to plant it in her arse.”

Fiona’s cheeks pinkened. “There is no need to be crude.”

“I disagree.” He met her gaze in the reflection of the mirror. “I came to speak with you about this morning. You, madam, are out of hand.”

Fiona adjusted the cut-crystal decanters on the dresser. “I am no such thing.”

“I sent you a request to join me and a guest for breakfast. You refused to attend.”

She picked up the brush and began brushing her hair. “I was not yet up.”

“Then send word that you had to dress! I asked you to attend us and you should have.”

Her chin lifted. “You know how I prize my mornings.”

Mornings
. The thought echoed in his mind. At one time, he’d loved mornings. Mornings when he’d come into this very room and climb into Fiona’s bed to find her warm and soft, snuggled deep beneath the blankets. A pain tweaked his heart. “It has been some time since I was allowed to share mornings with you.”

Her cheeks turned a deep pink, though her gaze met his steadily. “You know the cost of returning to my bed.”

Malcolm paused. A part of him wished to end this ridiculous standoff. To return to the warmth of their previous relationship. But he could not bend. “And you know the cost of returning to Edinburgh. I will have a son, madam.”

Fiona pulled the brush through a long strand of hair. It was thick and as brown as the forest floor, with threads of gold glimmering in the silken mass. “As before, we are at an impasse.”

Malcolm rubbed his neck where an ache was beginning to form. “Look, Fiona, I didn’t come here to argue. I came to ask that you be polite to St. John.”

“Oh!” She tossed the brush to her dresser where it clattered to a stop among a mass of crystal bottles. “When have I ever been rude to any of your guests?”

“Never. It’s just that I happen to think that perhaps St. John is interested in Kat.”

“They all are, at first. But you know what will happen. St. John will take one look at Kat and she’ll set her fist in his eye for his impertinence. And then he’ll want nothing more to do with her. Her attraction never seems to last past the first meeting.”

“This seems different.”

Fiona’s delicate brows rose. “Oh?”

“They met this morning, and if I’m not mistaken, Devon is quite interested.”

“But Kat is—” Fiona bit off the rest of the sentence.

Malcolm’s gaze narrowed. “She’s what?”

Her cheeks glowed. “Nothing.”

“My sister may be a tad unusual, but she is right as rain. Give a man a chance to get to know her, and he’ll come up to snuff. See if he doesn’t.”

“I’ve nothing against your sister, you know that. It’s just that a man like St. John would be more comfortable with someone like ... oh, Murien.”

“
Your
sister?” Malcolm almost stuttered.

Fiona flounced in her seat. “You have
never
liked Murien!”

“That’s not true—”

“Oh, just admit it!”

He paused, fighting to control the tight ball of anger that burned in his stomach. “I’ve never been fond of Murien and well you know it, though that has nothing to do with us.”

Fiona met his gaze a moment. “Except that it is yet another way in which we differ. I vow, but I am sick unto death of our squabbles. If only there was a way to—” She paused, a light coming into her eyes. “Malcolm.”

“Aye?” he answered, a faint quiver of alarm dancing up his neck. “What is it?”