And the Bride Wore Plaid

“My brother, Devon, left for Scotland in an effort to escape a foretold marriage. I only hope he has a very, very fast horse. He’ll need one.”

Sara Montrose, the Countess of Bridgeton, to her friend, Sophia Hampton, Viscountess Easterly, while playing billiards at Chiswick Manor.

Once upon a time, a beautiful woman locked away her heart from all who might try to enter...

Katherine Macdonald once tasted the bitter poison of a broken heart. To protect herself, Kat put her feelings into a deep slumber. Now she lives in a cottage in a mystical wood where, assisted by seven hulking Scotsmen, she makes stained glass of magical beauty, happy in her isolation until...

One day, a charming prince with black hair and deep blue eyes came riding into the mist-shrouded forest...

Devon St. John has found himself in possession of the St. John talisman ring that curses the holder by clasping a wedding band on his finger when he least expects it. Devon vows that he will never give up his beloved freedom—even when an impulsive kiss from a beautiful Scotswoman with red gold hair casts a tantalizing spell...

And so, the tale begins...

And The Bride Wore Plaid

“More than anything in the world, I want to kiss you. Right now. May I?”

Kat blinked. “A kiss?”

Without giving her time to react beyond a simple gasp, he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, expecting shocked surprise.

But instead, despite her flushed cheeks, she met his gaze directly and said in a rather breathless voice, “Bloody hell, not again.”

He pulled back so that he could see fully into the maid’s face. “I beg your pardon, but did you say, ‘Bloody hell, not again’?”

“Aye,” she said, her gaze even with his. Her lips were swollen slightly, her chest still mov-ing rapidly up and down.

“What do you mean ‘again’?” he demanded.

She merely sighed. “Every time Strathmore has a guest, I get mauled. I am damned tired of it.”

Devon’s lips twitched. The maid’s breath might be sweet, but her language was not. “If you don’t wish to be mauled, then perhaps you should try to be a little less tempting.”

By Karen Hawkins

And the Bride Wore Plaid
H
ow
to Treat a Lady
Confessions of a Scoundrel
An Affair to Remember
The Seduction of Sara
A
Belated Bride The Abduction of Julia

AVON BOOKS
An Imprint of
HarperCollins
Publishers

I pity people who think to fool their fellow man. Take poor Mary Gillenwather. She stuffed the front of her gown with paper in an effort to appear better endowed
. We
all knew she’d done it, but no one said a word; you simply cannot work that sort of thing into a genteel conversation. But it wasn’t necessary after all. Last night, at the Pooles’ dinner party, she sneezed and dropped an entire issue of the
Morning Post
into her soup
.

Lady Mountjoy to her friend Miss Clarissa Fullerton, while sipping chocolate at Betty’s Tea House

It was raining. Not a soft, whispering rain, the kind that mists the world into a greener, lusher place, but a harsh, heavy deluge that sopped the earth and saturated the very air with unending grayness. Water pooled, collected, swirled, swelled, and then burst into fields, raged through ditches, and rampaged across roads.

It was in this heavy, unending torrent that the lumbering carriage finally reached its destination late at night. The driver and footmen were exhausted, the horses straining heavily as they pulled the mud-coated ornate wheels through the muck and mire that had once been a road.

Ten minutes later, around the curve of a hill, appeared a looming stone castle that stretched up into the blackness of night. The coachman didn’t even bother to wipe the rain from his face as he halted the carriage at the door. Too wet to do more than tilt his hat brim to empty it of whatever water had collected, he squinted at the dark edifice that loomed in front of them. “Gor,” he said softly, awe overwhelming the tiredness of his voice.

Beside him on the seat was Paul the footman, a relatively new arrival to Mr. Devon St. John’s rather considerable staff. Paul was inclined to agree with John the coachman. “Dark, it is. It fair makes me shiver in me boots. Are ye sure we’ve come to the right place?”

“Mr. St. John said to go to Kilkairn Castle and to Kilkairn Castle we’ve come.” The coachman shook his head disgustedly. “Though to tell ye the truth, I think Mr. St. John has bumped his noggin.”

“Why do ye think that?”

“Just look at the facts. First he leaves his own brother’s weddin‘ afore it even begins and then he orders us to bring him here, drivin’ through godforsaken rain fer days on end. And when we do get to this lumbering pile of stone, there’s nary a light on!” He sourly regarded the bleak building in front of them. “Looks deserted and hainted by ghosties, if I ain’t mistaken.”

Paul stood, stealing yet another glance at the dark edifice before them. While he wasn’t a great believer in ghosties, the castle definitely left him with an uneasy, spine-tingling sensation that was as unnerving as the constant pour of rain.

Biting back a sigh, Paul made his way down from the seat, landing in a huge puddle of muck that sank his wet boots up to his ankles. “The drive’s a rank mess.”

“I only hopes they’ve a barn, though I daresay it is as leaky as a sieve, judging from the looks of things. Didn’t they knowed we was comin‘?”

“They was tol‘. I posted the letter for Mr. St. John meself.” Paul tugged his hat lower, though it was so wet it no longer protected him from anything the elements had to offer. He hoped the owner of the castle was not as ramshackle as his edifice and had a place prepared for them all.

Holding this warming thought in place, the footman trudged back to open the door for his master, stopping to collect a lantern from a side hook. It took a while to get the blasted lamp lit.

He carried the lantern to the door and hung it on a hook there, the golden pool of light greatly diminished by the weather. He tugged on the door handle, opened it, and then let down the steps.

Inside the plush carriage sprawled a long, elegant figure dressed in a well-fitted coat and breeches, sparkling top boots, and a perfectly starched and folded cravat, set with a blue sapphire. The jewel echoed the master’s blue eyes in an uncanny manner. There was no mistaking a St. John—black hair and blue eyes, a square, determined chin, and a sharp wit marked them all.

At the moment, though, Paul couldn’t make out his master’s face in the shadows, which left him momentarily anxious. Though it was rare that Mr. St. John took an irritation, he could be cold and cutting when occasion called for it. Paul cleared his throat. “Mr. St. John, we have arrived at Kilkairn Castle.”

The figure inside stirred, stretching lazily. “It’s about time. I fear I had fallen into a stupor when— good God!” Mr. Devon St. John’s blue eyes widened as he looked at Paul. “You’re drowned!”

“Just a bit wet, sir.”

“That is an understatement if I’ve ever heard one. Go ahead and say it— it’s wretched, horrid, awful, godforsaken rain and you wonder why we’re arriving so late at night.”

Paul hesitated, then nodded. “Aye, sir. All that and more.”

“Indeed,” the master said. “The reason I pushed us so hard was because I mistakenly thought we’d be able to outrun the family curse.”

“Curse, sir?”

“The St. John talisman ring. It’s a curse if there ever was one. It seems that whoever holds the bloody thing is doomed to wed.”

Paul had heard of the St. John talisman ring, and it sounded horrid indeed. “Do ye hold the ring, sir?”

“Unknowingly, I’ve held it since before we left England. My brother Chase hid it in the blasted carriage. He must have known I’d flee before the wedding, the bastard. I didn’t discover it until we were well on our way.”

Paul shook his head. “Then ye’re doomed.”

St. John smiled, a peculiarly sweet smile, one that made Paul stand a little straighter despite his tiredness and the wetness that trickled down his back. “Like hell I’m doomed. I was not made for marriage. Not now, not ever. I’m afraid the fates will have to wait a few weeks to deliver their verdict.”

“Weeks, sir?”

“Until I can get this blasted ring into my oldest brother’s hands. Marcus is the last of us to remain unwed other than myself.”

“God help him then, sir. Marriage is a horrible thing indeed.” Paul shuddered, thinking of all the near misses he’d had. “I don’t envy you, sir.”

The master’s blue gaze twinkled. “I don’t envy myself, Paul. At least not on this occasion.”

Not a single one of Paul’s previous employers had bothered to remember his name, so he was impressed that Mr. St. John had bothered to do so. Not that his new master was overly familiar in any way; he wasn’t. He might stand for an occasional exchange of quips, but he brooked no nonsense when it came to disrespect, thievery, or slovenly behavior.

It was that special combination of familiarity and stern but fair grace that made Paul and all the other servants loyal unto death for Mr. Devon St. John. It was well known throughout the servant circles in London that there was no more plum spot to work. Had Mr. St. John’s last footman not succumbed to an unfortunate stomach complaint that had turned fatal, Paul would not now be in such a wondrous position. Even with the rain, he could scarcely believe his luck.

Smiling, Paul opened the door wider. “The rain has let up, so ye shouldn’t get too wet.”

“Thank God.” St. John placed his hat over his black hair, grimacing as he stepped into the thick mud. “Tipton will be appalled when he beholds my lovely new boots.”

Tipton was Mr. St. John’s valet, and a more starched, outraged person Paul had yet to meet. “Indeed, sir. Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if the sight of yer boots don’t put him to tears.” Paul grabbed the lantern and held it aloft to light the way as they proceeded to the large wooden doors.

“I am sure Tipton will not hesitate to tell me what he thinks of the mud upon my boots. He has a tongue in his head that could scorch your soul if you were so silly as to bare it.”

They reached the portico and stepped beneath the overhang, the rain dripping steadily behind them. St. John stood on the covered steps and frowned up at the stone castle. “Bloody hell, the place looks deserted. Is no one up?”

Paul set aside the lantern and went to the large knocker. “Per’aps they thought ye’d be delayed ‘cause of the rain. I’ll knock and see if we can’t rouse someone.” He grasped the knocker firmly and rapped. After several more raps, each progressively harder, a light finally appeared between the cracks of the large oak doors.

After what seemed an eternity, the door creaked open to reveal a rather scrawny-looking woman wearing a coat hastily donned over a night rail, large unlaced boots sticking out from beneath the hem. An assortment of keys hanging about her neck on a cord proclaimed her the housekeeper.

She stood in the opening, a brace of candles in one hand, her thick, gray braid flopped over one shoulder, squinting at the two men as if they were gargoyles come to life. “What do ye want?” she asked in a thick Scottish brogue.

“Is this Kilkairn Castle?” Paul asked in a haughty voice that made Devon smile.

“Indeed ‘tis. And who might ye be?”

The footman drew himself up to his most impressive height and announced, “Mr. Devon St. John to see Viscount Strathmore.”

The housekeeper’s gaze traveled from Paul to Devon. After a grudging moment, she stepped out of the doorway and motioned for them to follow her. “I don’t know any St. Johns, but ye’re welcome to step inside a bit whilst we sort it out.” She set about lighting the lamps in the hallway, muttering as she went. “Where is that blasted butler? Never where he should be, that’s where.”

James, one of the St. John underfootmen, came with the luggage. Devon watched as James stacked the valises beside the door, bowed, then left. Really, it had been a simple plan—all Devon had wished to do was leave England for a few weeks. A few simple weeks, and all would be well.

But fate was not cooperating. First the rain, then he’d found that blasted ring hidden among the carriage blankets on the seat, and now no one was awake to greet him at Kilkairn Castle. What was supposed to be a haven was rapidly becoming something quite different.

Devon met the minatory stare of the housekeeper and managed a smile. She sniffed and turned away. Devon had to hide a grimace of his own as he gave the castle a quick appraisal. They were not in a foyer, but a great hall of some sort. Heavy timbers hung overhead, while stone made up the outer wall. In contrast, the inner walls were heavily plastered and hung with battle antiquities, augmented by a scattering of standing sets of armor.

But what stood out the most was the fact that the whole room was thick with dust, a faint musty odor permeating the air. Two mismatched chairs stood by the fireplace, one sporting a broken arm. One of the tables by the entryway had a dirty glass left on it, the scent of soured wine evident even from where Devon stood. And the rugs were ashy in color as if it had been years since they’d been cleaned.