And the Bride Wore Plaid

  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 nightstand. “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 yo
unger 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 kneesitched 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.

  Half an hour later, Devon had to admit that he had a certain inclination toward petite, very feminine types of women. Women of birth who knew the benefits of guile.

  Devon decided he wouldn’t have too much difficulty staying away from vixens of that particular cut. He would instead amuse himself with only ineligible, hoydenish women.

  There. That should take care of that blasted talisman ring. Life was not too difficult after all. His eyes slowly slid closed and he fell weightless into a deep, deep sleep.

  Chapter 2

  Devon St. John is no better than any other man. It’s true, I suppose, that he is quite handsome. And everyone knows his family is both wealthy and well connected. I suppose it is also accurate that there is something charming about a man who knows his own value and is so very willing to appreciate yours. And God knows I’m not immune to that smile of his; it quite melts me where I stand. But other than that…oh blast it! I suppose he is better than other men.

  Miss Clarissa Fullerton to her sister-in-law, Viscountess Mooreland, while watching the waltz at Almack’s

  Morning dawned, and with it a fresh, stiff breeze that rippled the grassy moors and chased the rain clouds to distant regions far beyond Kilkairn. Sunlight shone through the narrow windows of Devon’s room. Full of golden mischief, a beam slipped through the single crack in the curtain to tickle his nose.

  Devon rubbed his face with both hands. He yawned, then blinked into the sliver of light, slowly becoming aware of where he was. The standing ruins of Kilkairn Castle. He was suddenly glad for the shroud of bed curtains that kept out most of the sunlight. It would have been dismal indeed to have to face the wrack and ruin of his surroundings before breakfast. The door banged open, and footsteps sounded as someone entered his room.

  Ah, Tipton! Thank goodness. The valet had a knack for making things pleasant. By now he would have everything hung and ready for the new day.

  Devon lifted on one elbow and raised the edge of the curtain. But it wasn’t Tipton at all. A woman stood with her back to him, a housemaid from the look of her rather nondescript clothing.

  She threw open the wardrobe, the door banging against the wall. Just as he began to ask her what she needed, she sighed aloud and ran a hand through her hair, moving ever so slightly into the sunlight. Her hair gleamed brightly, red and gold threads vying for the light.

  Devon was caught by the sight, the color almost mesmerizing. He wondered if her hair was as soft as it appeared, so thick and curling, as if it had a life of its own. She bent over to drag a bandbox out of the bottom of the wardrobe. She yanked off the top and then began digging through a tangled waggle of ribbon, muttering as she did so.

  Devon raised his brows. From his vantage point on the bed, he was now at eye level with her rump. That was enough for the moment, for this particular rump was outlined very prettily by the thin, homespun material of the maid’s gown. It was almost as if she were tempting him.

  The red-gold hair…that lush rump. Was this what the arse of pure temptation looked like? It was certainly well rounded, he decided, cupping his hands at the approximate size of her cheeks. Lush. Sensual. Generous. Fleshy enough to make even his sleepy body stir to life. His manhood tightened in anticipation.

  His curious gaze dropped lower. Her rump, in addition to being full and curved, was attached to a very long pair of legs. An instant image began to form in his mind—of the maid’s firm, well-fleshed body against his own, of holding that rump while those long legs clutched at his waist. Beneath the covers, his manhood hardened even more.

  A warm smile crossed Devon’s face. This was something indeed! He’d gone to bed with the desire to pursue only the most ineligible women available, and then had awakened to find the perfect candidate within arm’s length—a simple housemaid with hair the color of fire and a rounded, curvaceous body. She was so unlike the sophisticated, petite women he’d pursued in the past that she could well be his salvation. He’d be so busy entertaining her in his bed that he’d have no thoughts of love or anything else, for that matter.

  He eyed her with new appreciation, suddenly anxious to get through the awkward first moments. She was deliciously different from his usual flirts. Not only was she a good head taller, but she was also wider of shoulders and hips. Quite a magnificent specimen, if he said so himself. Better yet, he’d never bedded a woman with quite that shade of red-gold hair. All told, it would be a daring, exciting new experience.

  “St. George’s dragon,” the woman muttered, her voice rich and husky, like the smoky roil of fog across a morning moor. She kicked the bandbox as if utterly disgusted before turning toward the door, her profile presented against the deep cherry wardrobe.

  Devon was given a glimpse of a straight nose, full, sexy lips; and long lashes shadowing eyes of an indeterminate color. Well! This was looking better all the time.

  Grinning, he pushed back the curtains. “Good morning, love.”

  At the first rustle of the velvet, the woman whirled to face him. “Who are you?” Her brows snapped lower as she seemed to regain her breath. “And who let you in here?”

  She didn’t have the rich brogue he’d expected. Indeed, her tone would not be amiss in London. But what really caught his attention was her eyes—a deep and verdant green, they sparkled angrily.

  Devon took the time to collect himself. “I am a friend of Strathmore’s.”

  She returned his look with a flat one of her own, completely unimpressed. “Does he know you are here?”

  Devon shrugged. “I sent him a letter, though it seems he kept the information to himself. No one seemed to know I was to arrive.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Devon St. John.” He waited to see if there was some flicker of acknowledgment in her gaze, but none came. Good. Curse or no curse, he’d be damned if he’d trade on the family name in an effort to win a chit to his bed. He’d never had to do so before, and he wasn’t about to start now.

  He gathered the pillows and piled them behind him so that he could lean back and still see the woman’s expression.

  She eyed him cautiously, but made no move to dash for the door. “Who let you in?” she repeated.

  “The housekeeper, I believe. Short woman, rather thin.” He held out his hand. “About this tall, with big feet and a thick, gray braid.”

  “That would be her,” the maid said grimly. “I wonder why the devil she didn’t show you into one of the guest chambers.”

  “None were ready.”

  “That is not surprising. Still, she had no right to give you this chamber.” She met his gaze and said stiffly, “I
t is mine.”

  The housekeeper had said that it was the room of a lady’s maid, which would explain the green-eyed woman’s rather polished tones. “So this bed is yours, is it?” He smiled his most winsome smile. “I love the scent of lavender.” And would have loved it even more if he had been inhaling the sweet scent from her bare skin and not just her pillows and sheets.

  “How pleasant,” she said in a tone that implied the information was anything but. “I’m certain someone has by now prepared a room for you. It is time you left.”

  The maid was as hospitable in manner as the housekeeper from the previous night. The help at Kilkairn Castle were poorly trained. They were, in fact, the worst Devon had ever experienced, with the exception of his brother Brandon’s coachman, a not-quite-reformed thief.

  Still, it behooved Devon to jolly the maid along, especially if he wished to visit her bed with her in it. He let his gaze travel across her, touching on the fullness of her breasts, the round curve of her hips. Rich like an oversoft mattress, her body beckoned him to while away a few pleasant hours. He imagined what she’d be like between the sheets and had to shift to get comfortable again. He didn’t know if it was the faint air of challenge that clung to her very generous curves or the curves themselves, but he was quite ready to sample her bounty.

  He stretched a bit, letting the sheet slip a touch lower. As soon as her eyes traveled over his chest, to his lap, he said, “This is a wonderful bed. The mattress is firm, the sheets sweet-smelling. Perhaps I should just stay here.”

  Her gaze jerked back to his face, and she plopped her hands on her hips. “Nay, you will not.”

  There it was, the faintest hint of a Scottish brogue. Apparently when my lady’s maid was irked, her accent began to show. Devon hid a smile and shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  “We won’t see anything. You will leave now.”