And the Bride Wore Plaid (2 page)

James brought the last of the baggage, bowed, and then left.

“Whot’s this?” the housekeeper demanded, her affronted gaze on the pile of valises.

“I wrote to Viscount Strathmore,” Devon said coolly, deciding he was too tired to deal with impertinent servants. “He is expecting me. I assume you have a place for my servants and horses?”

The housekeeper’s sullen expression did little to assure him. Devon stifled a sigh and turned to Paul. “Return to that inn we passed down the road. Have you money enough left for room and board for yourself and the others?”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

Devon nodded. He was not a man who was miserly with his blunt. When the time came to spend it, he spent it and regretted not a penny. “Thank you, Paul. Return in the morning, then.”

“Yes, sir. At ten?”

Devon’s brows rose. “I said in the morning. My morning will not begin until well after noon.”

Paul managed a reluctant smile. “Yes, sir.”

“And Paul...”

“Sir?”

“See to it that everyone gets a hot meal and all the ale they can hold. We made excellent time, and I am most grateful.”

Paul brightened. “Yes, sir.” He bowed, sent a sharp glance at the sulking housekeeper, and then left, the door closing behind him with an ominous thunk.

Devon shrugged out of his wet coat. Thank God he was only staying for three weeks before continuing on to see to some business for Marcus. “May I ask when Lord Strathmore is expected?”

“Expected? Why, he’s here now.”

Devon couldn’t help glancing back at the shambling state of affairs in the main room. From what he remembered of Malcolm Macdonald from their school days, this disorganization was a bit of a surprise. What had caused Kilkairn Castle to be in such a state of disarray?

The housekeeper harrumphed, the keys about her neck jangling. “I wisht Davies was here.”

“Davies?”

“The butler.”

“Ah.”

The housekeeper made a face. “The wretch is off a-sleepin‘ somewheres, if I know him.”

Devon immediately had an image of an elderly individual reeking of gin.

“I suppose ye’ll be wantin‘ a room to sleep in.”

“Please,” Devon said, removing his gloves and laying them, with his wet coat, on the table in the entryway, ignoring the thick layer of dust that was sure to cling to the fine wool. “And some food, if it is not too much trouble.”

The housekeeper shook her head. “There’s nary a crumb to be had till breakfast. Cook locks up the larder each night.”

Wonderful. Devon began to think, with something akin to envy, of his servants holed up in that dry, snug inn. “Just a bed, then. My valet will be arriving shortly in another coach.”

“Och dearie! Ye brought a valet? Whotever for? This isn’t Edinburgh, ye know.” The housekeeper scratched her chin. “Ye’ll be needin‘ a room, won’t ye? Blast Davies fer dodgin’ his duties.”

Devon swallowed a sigh. “I’m certain you know better than he which rooms are ready and which aren’t.”

That appeared to mollify her some, for she nodded. “‘Tis unlikely the gold chamber is ready, though it might do in a pinch. Mayhap the green one isn’t too bad off. I suppose we can put yer man—”

“I wrote Strathmore last week,” Devon broke in, a little frustrated. “He should have received my letter stating the date of my arrival and—”

“Don’t ye fash‘ ’bout His Lordship. I’m sure he forgot aboot it, whot with—” The housekeeper clamped her mouth closed, as if swallowing something unpleasant. Devon waited, but she just looked away. That was interesting. What was happening at Kilkairn Castle? Devon wondered if perhaps he’d made an error in coming to Scotland after all.

The woman sighed. “Come with me, if ye please. Let’s find ye somewhere to sleep.” She picked up one of the lamps and began walking up the stairs, not once glancing over her shoulder to see if Devon followed or not. “No one ever said whist to me aboot a visitor, and I’ve too much to do to go guessin‘ as whot needs to be done and whot doesn’t. I suppose we’ll make a go fer the green chamber first and see if ’tis clean enough. I’d put ye in the gold chamber, but the sheets haven’t been turned in I don’t know how long and ...” She rambled on and on, only pausing for a quick breath now and again.

Devon followed her up the stairs, realizing with each step just how tired he was. His back ached from traveling so far, his shoulders were stiff, and his temper was wearing thinner by the second.

They reached the landing and walked down what seemed an interminable length of dark, dank hallway before the housekeeper stopped. She held the lamp high and opened a large oak door. Thick, dusty air crept around them. Devon looked about the large chamber and noted that not only was the fire unlit, but a swath of cobwebs stretched in every corner. Worse, there was a damp spot beside the window, the rug black where water had seeped.

The housekeeper caught the direction of his gaze and waved a dismissive hand. “Whist! ‘Tis naught, that leak. Ye should see the one in the dining hall. It fair gushes when there’s a good rain.” The housekeeper moved forward to finger the linen on the bed. “Seems to me ’twas three months or so ago when last we changed this bed, so it can’t be too bad.”

Months? Devon raised his brow.

Before he could form a reply, she sighed. “It won’t do, for ye might catch yer death of the ague. I daresay the linens could do with an airing.”

To say the least. Devon struggled to control his impatience. “Are there no other bedchambers?”

“This is a large castle, make no mistake,” she said proudly. “There are ten guest chambers on this floor alone.”

“Good! Surely one of them is made up.”

“Och, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. Indeed, ‘tis a sad truth to admit, but as Her Ladyship prefers to stay in Edinburgh, we’ve no reason to upkeep every room.”

Devon had to clamp his mouth over a curse. “It’s late. I’m tired. There has to be one room, at least.” He took the lamp from the housekeeper and began walking down the hallway, throwing open doors and peering inside. “I’m not picky, I just want something dry and—” He paused inside a doorway. Unlike the other rooms
, it didn’t smell musty.

Best of all, an especially large bed draped with thick blue velvet curtains and piled high with white lacy pillows filled the center of the room. While there was no fire, logs were already in place, ready to be lit. The air, too, was refreshingly clean and spicy, smelling of lavender and something else.

“Perfect,” he said. And it was.

The housekeeper appeared at his side. She took the lamp, grasped his arm, and firmly led him out of the room. “Perfect or no, ye canno‘ stay here.”

Devon planted his heels in the doorway. “What’s wrong with this room?”

“Nothing but—”

“Are the linens clean?”

“I changed them meself just yesterday, but—”

“Any leaks in the floor, walls, or ceiling?”

“No, but—”

“I’ll take this one.” He reclaimed the lamp and held it over his head to better illuminate the room. “Yes, this will do nicely.”

“Yes, but the room is—” She bit her lip, faltering at his stubborn expression. “I suppose one night won’t hurt. I can always get another room ready on the morrow.”

“Of course you can,” he said, though he had no intention of giving up what he suspected was the only decent room in the entire castle.

She eyed him sullenly, then walked past him, pausing at the candelabra that decorated the night-stand. “If ye promise not to move anything, I’ll let ye stay here.” She lit the candles. “That door leads to the suite for the mistress of the house, though Lady Strathmore prefers the new part of the castle and has never slept there. This room was built to be the maid’s room, which is why ‘tis so small.”

“I don’t mind that it is small.” Devon wondered why it was so clean while the others were not. “Small rooms are easier to heat.”

The housekeeper nodded. “Ye’re right aboot that. And it doesn’t smoke, neither. Lord Strathmore had the fireplace rebricked to keep it from wheezing.”

“Wonderful,” Devon said. He smiled his most winning smile. “Thank you for your assistance. I am so dreadfully tired that I would have fallen flat on my face had I been forced to wait for that Davies fellow to appear.”

Her expression softened as if she’d just conjured the room on her own. “Then off to bed wid ye, my good sir. As soon as yer man comes, I’ll send him up. And in the mornin‘, when Lord Strathmore awakens, I’ll tell him ye’re here.” She curtsied, and then left, closing the door behind her.

Devon was all too glad to finally be alone. He lit the fire and, to his immense satisfaction, the wood took instantly, blazing a toasty warmth.

Bone-weary, he kicked off his boots and pushed them under the bed. Then he shrugged out of his coat, untied his cravat, and tossed them into the far corner of the room. Tilton would collect them in the morning and see that they were washed. Yawning, Devon removed his waistcoat. Just as he pulled it from his arm, a faint plink sounded and something silver fell from his pocket and rolled across the floor.

Devon followed the small circlet, catching it just as it headed for a wide crack in the hearth that led to God knew where. “Oh no, you don’t,” he muttered, picking up the ring and tossing it into the candle dish on the night table. Heaven knew he didn’t want the blasted thing, but the ancient ring was an heirloom of sorts, and if he lost it, his brothers would kill him. Worse, they’d do it one at a time just to make certain it hurt.

He glanced at the St. John talisman ring, a feeling of unease tightening about his throat. Blast his brother Chase for hiding the damned thing in his carriage. Devon had thought that if he was nowhere to be found, then Chase would be forced to trick their oldest brother, Marcus, into taking the ring.

Devon, of course, didn’t believe in curses. It was all nonsense. Just a fairy tale his mother had woven to entertain her six busy children.

But still... Devon paused, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the ring, a pinch of disquiet nipping at him. So far, the legend had proven itself true. Three of Devon’s brothers had fallen victim to the ring already; Chase, Anthony, and Brandon were all three married. “Good for them,” Devon told the ring. “But not for me.”

Some men were made for the wedded state. But not Devon. Sometimes, late at night, on the few occasions he happened to be alone, a horrid thought would creep in. One he never spoke aloud. He was almost thirty years old and so far, the grand passion had missed him. Completely. Oh he’d fallen in love numerous times, but he had never been in
love
, the kind of passion his parents had had, the kind that might last forever... or at least longer than two months, which seemed to be the maximum length of time he was able to stay interested in a woman no matter how beautiful, how witty, how acceptable she might be.

Every time Devon thought he’d found the perfect woman, the second he won her and held her in his arms, he found himself looking over her shoulder for another challenge. It disturbed him sometimes, far more than he cared to admit.

Which was why the ring rattled him. What if he succumbed to the ring and got married, only to wake up a month later to the heart-chilling realization that he’d made a horrid mistake.

Thus it was, on the trip to Kilkairn, Devon had formed a plan designed to protect himself; he would eschew the company of women—all women. At least until he could return to London and deliver the ring into Marcus’s unsuspecting hands.

Devon removed the last of his clothing and tossed them along with his waistcoat into the farthest corner with the rest. Then, naked and warmed by the fire, he fell into the bed, pulling the covers up over him. The pillows were plump and lace-edged, the sheets soft and cool against his skin. He turned his head and took a deep breath of the feminine scent of lavender, thinking how nice it would be to twine his legs with the smooth, rounded legs of a wo—He caught himself. No, damn it. Not until he got rid of that blasted talisman ring.

Pushing the thoughts away, he snuggled deeper and closed his eyes.

But sleep eluded him. Tired as he was, the thought of being without a woman, any woman at all, for several weeks, depressed him. He loved women. He loved their smiles, their fascination with ribbons and bows and jewels, the way they’d get irked over something trivial, yet had large enough hearts that they could forgive the grossest indiscretion with just a few well-chosen words. He loved the scents they used, the sound of their laughter. He loved the feel of their soft skin, the taste of their rosebud mouths. He loved the giggles and the sighs and the ease with which they showed their feelings. He loved them all.

Only... it wasn’t real love. It couldn’t be. But it was the only kind of love Devon was able to feel— exciting, thrilling, and lamentably brief.

He thought of the way his younger brother, Chase, had looked at his soon-to-be wife, Harriet, at their wedding. There had been something intense and almost magical about it. Devon had asked Chase how he’d known Harriet was the one, and he’d answered, “Because life without her would be worse than death.”

“Drama,” Devon said disgustedly, even as a flicker of jealousy touched him. Drama or no, it seemed as if Harriet and Chase had indeed found something special, something lasting. Something forever.

But that was not for Devon. The backs of his knees itched with a sudden yearning to burst into a full out-and-out run, away from the thought of being leg-shackled to a woman who would eventually come to bore him. Once the magic of discovery was over, there simply wasn’t enough feeling left to sustain a relationship of any kind. Perhaps that was an ugly truth Chase had yet to discover.

Tiredness pricked at Devon’s lids, and he pulled the curtains more tightly closed about the bed, hoping the pitch blackness would lure him to sleep.

Perhaps he didn’t need to give up
all
women. Perhaps he could avoid only the ones who might be a threat to his heart.

Hm. Now that was a far more worthy plan. All he would have to do was define exactly what qualities were common among the women he tended to develop feelings for, brief as they might be, and avoid prolonged contact with those types of women. In his mind, he made a list of his past conquests and began comparing traits.