And the Bride Wore Plaid (7 page)

The cottage, if one could call a twelve room structure thusly, sat in the heart of the forest. It was a tall, two-story house with a steep roof and large, square windows. The building was of hand-thrown brick, covered with mud wattle, the walls a foot thick to protect the inhabitants from the extreme weather that graced this portion of the country.

But despite a severity of design, the house was ringed with welcome. The thickly thatched roof was braided into an intricate, cheery design. Every window sported a window box filled with lavender and St. John’s wort, while a bright red door beckoned one to enter. Most days, the shutters were thrown wide and singing could be heard, often a set of deep baritones, though more likely than not, Kat’s own fine feminine alto.

Kat loved the place with a fierce passion. Not because of its beauty, though that was part of it. But because it was hers. Every last blooming inch. A fact she made known to any who dared say nay about her or her chosen way of life. For some reason, for as long as she could remember, there had always been people telling her what to do, how to look, which way to act, and who to be. But not here. Here she was just Kat.

She smiled in satisfaction. “It’s a lovely place, isn’t it, Merriweather?”

The horse jangled her bridle bells in agreement.

It was a sad truth of life that those who were born on the wrong side of the sheets spent the rest of their lives in a state of “almost.” Almost an accepted part of the community. Almost a member of a real family. Almost, but never quite anything.

So it had been for Kat until she discovered her “gift,” as Malcolm called it. Then things had changed forever.

She’d found her gift by chance. She’d been searching for something useful to do with her time. One day, while sitting in church and admiring the beautiful colors that filled the windows, she began to wonder if perhaps ... just perhaps, she could find a pastime more significant than embroidery or water-colors, neither of which was bold enough to hold Kat’s interest. What she needed was a pastime that would produce something glorious and beautiful. Something like the stained glass windows that cast such gorgeous shadows of red and blue and gold across the floor of the church.

The thought took hold and grew. She began to make inquiries, and to her delight, she found that one of the groomsmen in Malcolm’s stable—a large, ruddy giant of a man by the name of Simon—had once apprenticed doing glasswork. Soon Kat was visiting that very glass shop and learning the craft herself. Though it took time, Kat had a natural instinct for color and design, and she found that she loved every painstaking minute.

The glasswork quickly became more than a pastime. It became a goal. With it, she would carve her own niche in the world.

The cottage had been a natural choice. Kat had grown up there, and though it needed some work after sitting empty after her mother’s death, it was basically sturdy. Though Malcolm had protested loud and long, Kat had moved into the cottage a scant month later, taking Simon with her. His sister, Annie, came along soon after that.

Kat guided Merriweather across the clearing to the barn. Sensing a carrot was waiting, the mare kicked up her feet and attempted to trot.

Kat laughed. “Easy now! You’ll get your carrot in good time.”

A large, red-haired man came out of the barn door, a plank of wood resting easily on his shoulder. He paused when he saw Kat, his craggy face softening slightly. “There ye be! Annie has been lookin‘ all over fer ye.”

Kat grinned at Simon as she kicked her foot out of the stirrup and stepped down. “What does she want?”

Simon lowered his brow. “I don’t know, but she has some of her bosom friends with her. Last I heard, they were talkin‘ aboot the new guest at the castle.”

Kat undid Merriweather’s saddle, hefting it off the mare’s back and onto the fence rail. “I met him this morning.”

“Did ye now? What do ye have to say aboot him?”

Kat had an instant image of mischievous blue eyes fringed in thick black lashes, her body tingling at the memory of strong hands moving sinuously over her body. She forced a casual shrug. “I don’t have much to say at all.” Not to Simon, anyway.

Why
had
she been so slow to react when the stranger had kissed her? None of Malcolm’s other houseguests had managed to weasel a kiss out of her. But this guest... Kat had to smile a little. Whatever the reason, she wasn’t really sorry it had happened. It was a lovely, warm memory, and as long as it went no further, there was no harm. No harm at all.

Besides, the man had been damned good at what he was about. The thought made her grin even more.

Simon’s gaze narrowed. He set the wood against the fence. “Out with it, lass. What has ye smilin‘ so big?”

Kat’s cheeks heated. “Nothing. I was just thinking about—” Good Lord what did she say now? “Things,” she finished weakly. Things like strong, well-defined hands that could cup one ever so intimately and make one’s stomach tighten with need. Things like a pair of firm, warm lips that knew all too well how to send one’s thoughts to places they were better not going.

“Hmph,” Simon said, eyeing her up and down as she rubbed down Merriweather and then led the mare into the coolness of the barn. Simon followed along, his gaze never leaving her. “Whatever ye’re thinkin‘ aboot, ’tis makin‘ yer cheeks turn red.”

Kat wisely ignored him. Though he was a scant two years older than she, she thought of Simon as a father. Certainly he’d been more involved in her life than her own father had been.

“I’m fine, Simon. Just a bit heated from the ride back.” Kat closed the stall door on Merriweather, and then left the barn. “Where is Annie?”

Simon followed her outside. “She’s in the kitchen with Fat Mary.”

Kat curled her nose.

Simon nodded morosely. “That’s what I thought, too. Fat Mary does nothin‘ but spread rumors, night ’n‘ day. I don’t know why Annie puts up wid it.”

Kat could have told Simon that his sister was addicted to gossip. While Annie rarely passed on any information she gathered in her meticulous cullings, she enjoyed knowing more than anyone else.

Simon crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels. “I’ve got the lads down in the workshop, finishing off the last window for the Earl of Argyll. I tol‘ the lads they’d best make it something to behold. If we do a good job, there’ll be more where that comes from.”

Kat nodded. “The earl has a new wife. She’ll be wanting to put her own mark on his household. She told me she wants to commission a window for every child they have.”

“Women,” Simon said, shaking his head. “They can think of more ways to spend blunt.”

Kat lifted her brows. “I’m a woman.”

“Aye, but ye ain’t all trussed up in the need to tell everyone what to do.” Simon glanced at the house for a moment, before adding in an undertone, “Take Annie. M’sister has a bad habit of bossin‘ a man aboot until he’s ready to bundle his clothes and run for the hills.”

“Just see to it that
you
don’t run,” Kat said, leaning over to give him a quick hug. “Or if you do, at least promise to come back after you’ve enjoyed a pint or ten of freedom. I can’t do without you more than one day. Perhaps two, if things are slow.”

Simon’s smile blossomed. “I have to come back, lassie. Who else’ll make the windows bearing the coat of arms fer those fancy earls and dukes?”

“Who indeed?” She kissed his cheek and turned to the house. “Tell the lads I’ll be with them directly. I just want to see what Annie bought in the village today.”

“I’ll tell them,” Simon promised. He retrieved his plank and hoisted it over his shoulder, then winked. “I’ll tell them ye’re in a rare mood, too. That should get them to hoppin‘.”

“I don’t want them hopping, just working. We’ve more orders to fill than there are hours in the day.”

“Don’t ye fash, Miss Kat. We’ll come aboot. See if we don’t.” He gave her a reassuring nod, then left, walking toward the workshop, a long, low building set on the other side of the cottage, back against the line of trees.

She watched him go, a fond smile touching her mouth. Simon possessed a heavy sense of responsibility and a natural tendency to step in and do what most needed doing. These were just two of the many things she loved about him.

Kat turned and crossed to the back door of the cottage. If there was any chance that mud or dirt was clinging to her boots, she always entered through the kitchen. As she stopped outside the open door to scrape her feet, Kat heard voices from inside.

“I seed him meself, I did!” said a woman in a breathless voice. Kat recognized Fat Mary, a kitchen maid from Kilkairn. As round as a barrel, there was no mistaking her rough voice. “He’s as beautiful as Lucifer, all black hair and blue eyes.”

“Is he tall?” asked another woman. That sounded like Lucy, who came from the village to help Annie with the cooking.

“Tall he is,” Fat Mary agreed with so much enthusiasm that Kat found a scowl upon her face. “He has a fine arse, too.”

Arse? How on earth could Mary know that? Kat leaned closer to the open door and tried to peek around the corner.

“Och now, how do ye know aboot the man’s arse?” Annie asked, her voice sharp.

God bless Annie, Kat decided with rising satisfaction. The housekeeper never stood for any nonsense.

“Why, I walked into his room to stoke the fire and there he was, lying on the counterpane, sound asleep and as bare-arsed as the day he was borned.”

Kat took a hasty step forward, then caught herself. St. John had arrived in the middle of the night, and Kat herself had been there when he’d awakened, so it was highly unlikely Mary knew anything more than the man’s fully clothed appearance. Mary was lying; she had to be. But Kat knew that bursting into the room, ringing with indignation, would only draw undue attention to herself.

In the time Kat had known her, Fat Mary had launched and sailed several hot air balloons’ worth of gossip. None of them landing anywhere near the truth. But if Fat Mary started such a rumor about Malcolm’s new guest, every single maid in the countryside soon would be making excuses to visit Kilkairn in an effort to glimpse the handsome stranger. For some reason, Kat found that very annoying.

Lifting her chin, she walked into the kitchen and looked directly at Fat Mary. “I was at the castle this very morning, and you did not light the fires in any of the bedchambers.”

Fat Mary flushed. She was a large, fleshy woman with pale, stringy hair and watery gray eyes. “I did the guest chamber!”

“Oh?”

“Yes. That’s when I seed him, whilst I was lighting the fire.”

Kat lifted her brows. “Which chamber did you say St. John was sleeping in?”

“Which—” Mary shifted uneasily. “I don’t remember, exactly—perhaps ‘twas the green one.”

Lucy frowned. “But ye tol‘ me on the way here that he was in the gold room and—”

“Ha!” Annie plopped her fists on her narrow hips as she glared at Mary. “Ye were fashin‘ us, weren’t ye? Tellin’ us fibs aboot one o‘ Lord Strathmore’s guests. Ye ought to be ashamed o’ yerself.”

“I’m not tellin‘ fibs,” Fat Mary said, though her gaze shot to the door and back as if she were considering running for her life. “I seed him, I did. And his arse, too!”

“I don’t know who you ‘seed’ or whose arse, but it wasn’t St. John’s,” Kat said. “He was in the blue room because none of the others were ready.”

“There!” Annie eyed Mary with disgust. “Isn’t it time ye returned to Kilkairn? I daresay they’ve more dirty pots fer ye to scrub.”

Mary stiffened, her plump shoulders rising almost to her ears. “I was just tellin‘ ye what I seed, was all.”

“What you
wished
you’d seed,” Annie amended. Though a good head shorter than any other woman in the room, she managed to maintain control of every conversation, simply through sheer force of her character. Even now, her hair tucked beneath a cap, her whip-cord thin body covered with a gray gown, and solid, plain shoes on her feet, she was plainly in command. “Off with ye. Mary, ye know where ye’re wanted ... and where ye’re not. I’ll have yer cart brought around. Lucy, thank ye fer the jelly. Tell yer mum we’re grateful.”

Kat watched while Annie bustled her guests out to their cart and waved them on their way. Then, wiping her hands on her apron, Annie returned and pulled out a wooden bowl and a sack of potatoes and began peeling them.

Kat found another knife and joined in. “I’m sorry your visit turned out so unpleasantly.”

“Och, don’t think on it. Fat Mary is as Fat Mary is. By this time tomorrow, neither of us will remember who was mad aboot what.” Annie finished off a peeling with an expert twist of her wrist.

“She’s a braggart, all right,” Kat agreed.

“Indeed. Actin‘ as if she was the only one who saw him in the castle.” Annie turned to Kat and eyed her up and down. “Well?”

“Well what?” Kat asked uneasily. She kept her gaze on the potato she was peeling so she wouldn’t have to meet Annie’s gaze.

“What do
you
have to say aboot the stranger at the castle?”

“I know his name is St. John.” And that he had a mouth made for kissing. Kat cut the potato with more force than was necessary, the knife thunking soundly on the cutting board.

Annie eyed the flashing knife with some misgiving. “Indeed?”

“Aye. If I remember what Malcolm told me a while ago, I believe they met whilst the two were down at Eton.” Or so she thought.

“Indeed?” Annie said. “Is that all ye know?”

“Aye,” Kat said.

“Hm. I suppose I’ll have to wait until my cousin Jane gets a look at him. She’s ever had an eye for a handsome man.”

Kat didn’t like that at all. Jane was the upstairs maid at Kilkairn, and a more lascivious woman was difficult to find.

In fact, Kat was quite certain that Jane had bedded most, if not all, of Malcolm’s guests. “I daresay St. John isn’t the sort of man Jane would like to dally with.”

Annie looked astounded. “He was breathin‘, wasn’t he?”

“Aye, but—”

“Then Jane would enjoy dallyin‘ with him. She’s not particular, is our Jane.”

Kat cut another potato in two, this time slicing it so thoroughly that she buried the tip of the knife in the table top. “Oh! I’m sorry.”