And the Bride Wore Plaid (11 page)

“What?” Devon asked before he could stop himself.

Malcolm’s gaze darkened. “The truth. She needs someone who will never lie to her, no matter the cost.”

The quiet words sifted through the silence. Devon looked at the glass he held in his hand, the edges smooth against his fingers. “I hope she finds him.”

Malcolm opened his mouth as if to reply, but then shut it. “So do I.”

“I don’t mean to pry, but it seems as if your sister is doomed to spinsterhood.”

Malcolm sighed. “I know. I have worried that—” He bit his lips, his shoulders slumping. “It doesn’t matter what I think. Or you, for that matter. Kat is even more stubborn than you, and there aren’t many who can make that claim. A pity you are the type of man Kat avoids the most. Otherwise... but no, I don’t think you have a chance. She won’t like you at all.”

Devon slowly lowered the glass from his lips where he’d been about to take a sip. From the time he’d been old enough to marry, he’d been used to people trying to fix his interest with their sisters, cousins, family friends. This was the first time someone had told him that his sister, or even half sister, would not like him. Whatever else he was, Devon was always likable.

He opened his mouth to say something more when Malcolm unexpectedly asked about Thunder, mentioning that he’d seen the horse from the window earlier in the day.

The conversation never returned to Kat and her self-imposed banishment to the cottage in the forest. But Devon’s mind remained firmly fixed on the woman, even more so than before. No one told him he couldn’t do something—even his own brothers knew better than that. And Malcolm’s words, as offhand as they’d seemed, had set up Devon’s back a bit. Could he win another kiss from Kat Macdonald, one earned without surprise? Without guile? The thought was intriguing.

Across from him, Malcolm hid a smile behind his glass. Devon’s answers were becoming increasingly vague, a clear sign his mind was already dwelling on Kat. Which was good because Malcolm feared that once Devon saw Murien Spalding, he might forget about Kat. Lovely as Kat was, Murien was exquisite.

Which was why Malcolm was determined that Devon spend as much time in Kat’s company as possible. Murien might be beautiful, but she was no match for either Kat’s force of personality or her intelligence. The problem was that most men felt with their eyes first, and their brain last.

If his wager with Fiona worked, then Malcolm would have all he desired—his wife back at his side, a son, and Kat happily married. As for his feelings for Fiona.... Malcolm frowned. Surely he was not so fickle as his own father. The love Malcolm felt for Fiona was so vivid, so much a part of him, that if he lost it, he thought perhaps a part of him would go with it.

Was that what his father had felt, too? A heavy weight seemed to press on Malcolm’s chest, and it was with difficulty that he turned his attention back to Devon. His friend would make a fine brother-in-law. A fine one, indeed.

Other men might hesitate to put their sisters into the notice of a man who bluntly stated that he had no intentions of marrying, but Malcolm had three things in his favor. First, he knew that for all of Devon’s philandering ways, he was a man of integrity. All of the St. Johns were, whether they realized it or not.

Second, there was the talisman ring. Those who didn’t know any better might scoff all they wanted, but Malcolm believed. And when all was said and done, so would Devon.

And last, if by some miracle Devon was successful in breaking through Kat’s rock-steady defenses, her brother Malcolm would be there to make sure the right thing was done. Friend or no, if Devon compromised Kat Macdonald, he would marry her, whether or not she or he wished it.

All told, it was a good, solid plan, and only Fiona and her be-damned sister could ruin things. Keeping his thoughts to himself, Malcolm got up to pour more brandy in his and Devon’s glasses. It wasn’t time to celebrate. Not yet. But judging from the thoughtful look on Devon’s face, things were getting off to a fine start.

The next day, as afternoon approached, a coach and six rumbled up to the front door. As usual, the door was not answered on the first knock. But eventually the housekeeper came and let in the sole occupant, then sent a note to my lady’s room, informing her of her visitor.

Moments later, a flurry of footsteps sounded on the landing. “Murien!” Fiona flew down the steps to the main hall, her dressing gown floating around her, a froth of pink and lace. Her slippered feet barely touched the worn runner. “You came!” She threw her arms about her sister. “And so quickly! I am so glad to see you!”

Murien grimaced. “Fiona, my hair!” She disentangled herself and then glanced at the dusty mirror beside the front door. What she surely saw had to have pleased her, for there was not a more beautiful woman in all of Scotland. Delicate blond hair swept back in a mass of shiny curls from a face of such perfection that no portrait painter had ever managed to quite capture it. Her skin shimmered white even in the dull light that shone through the dust-ridden windows, her figure perfect in the white pelisse and blue gown with matching bonnet.

Fiona clasped her hands together. “I am sorry! I was just so excessively glad to see you that I didn’t think. Your hair still looks lovely.” And it did. Every blond curl was in place, a ribbon artfully tied about the whole.

Murien patted an especially fat curl that hung to one of her shoulders. “It turned out better than I’d hoped, though I’m not sure why I bothered. There is no one in the whole of Scotland worth such effort.”

“Oh!” Fiona gave an excited hop. “That’s exactly why I asked you to visit!”

“Yes, well, I can only stay one night. I am on my way to Duart to stay with the Macleans.”

“Can’t stay? But—” Fiona bit back a sigh. “I really wanted you to stay at least a week. I
need
you to stay at least a week.”

“Don’t look so dispirited! We still have a good portion of the day together.” Murien stripped off her gloves and looked around for the butler, the expression in her green eyes hardening. All she found was an elderly footman who stood half asleep on his feet.

Murien walked up to him. “You, whatever your name, pray put these in a
clean
place. And I hope you’ve washed your hands sometime in the last few days. The last time I left my gloves here, they looked as if someone had stored them up the chimney.”

The old man blinked a few times, as if confused by her instructions. But after a moment, he bowed and took the gloves with but one finger and thumb. “Yes, miss.”

Fiona barely waited for him to turn away before she took Murien’s hand in hers. “Perhaps once I explain things, you will change your mind and stay for awhile.”

“As much as I enjoy chatting with you, I simply cannot remain out here in the middle of nowhere without getting a headache. It’s the quiet, I think. It won’t let me sleep.”

“Yes, but—” Fiona bit her lip. How was Murien to ensnare Devon St. John if she wouldn’t stay at Kilkairn? That was if Murien could be persuaded to make the effort at all.

The truth was, though Fiona had been brazenly confident in front of Malcolm, she wasn’t sure she could count on her sister’s cooperation in this venture. Murien was notoriously sure of her own worth and had turned down every offer of marriage that had been made to her. From beneath her lashes, Fiona regarded her sister for a covert moment. There really wasn’t a more beautiful woman in all of Scotland. And Murien knew it, too; her confidence radiated from her like a beacon.

Filled with pride, Fiona hugged her sister yet again. “Come up to my room. I’ll have tea brought and I’ll explain why I asked you to visit.” Talking rapidly, Fiona led the way upstairs.

Moments later, they were seated before the fire in Fiona’s chambers. She poured some tea for her sister and handed her the cup. “How you are, Murien? Are you well?”

Murien’s brows rose. “Don’t I look well?”

Fiona sensed a rebuke and she instantly flushed. “Of course you look well! You look lovely—radiant, in fact. You always do, you know. Even when we were children, you would—”

“Fiona.” Murien frowned over the edge of her cup, then placed it back in the saucer. “What do you want? Your note said it was dire. Have you decided to leave Malcolm?”

Fiona blinked. Leave Malcolm? Where had Murien gotten such a crazed notion? Had Malcolm said something? Panic flooded her. “Of course I’m not going to leave Malcolm. Why would I do such a thing?”

“Come, Fiona. Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it. The two of you haven’t ever gotten along as you should. He treats you abominably.”

This was distressing indeed. Malcolm had treated her poorly? Had he? Fiona looked down at her teacup. “I don’t think you understand how Malcolm and I care for one another. We’ve just had some ... disagreements. That’s all.”

Murien looked unimpressed. “He’s a monster to try and keep you locked up here, at Kilkairn. It’s a wonder he doesn’t make us climb up your hair just to visit you. It’s my opinion that your marriage is already over.”

Fiona gave a watery giggle, tears clouding her eyes. Good God, did Murien see what she, Fiona, did not? Had she and Malcolm grown so apart that they were doomed? Her throat tightened. Worse yet, was that what Malcolm thought, as well?

The thought pained her, a splinter shoved into the tenderest morsel of her soul. All she had was hope ... hope that somehow, someway, Malcolm’s feelings for her would return to the fervid passion he’d once had. Back when they’d been courting. Perhaps if they returned to an atmosphere not unlike that when they’d first met—surrounded by gay, happy people; brilliant amusements; and the constant thrill of a filled social calendar. It was a thin hope, but all she had.

Murien gave a graceful shrug. “Don’t look so crestfallen; I daresay everyone knows how it is.”

“Do you mean to say that a lot of people are discussing this?”

“I suppose so. Not to me, of course. No one would dare. But I hardly think it a secret that you and Malcolm do not see eye to eye on anything. It is certainly the first thing I notice whenever I come to visit.”

The words had a strange effect on Fiona’s heart, hollowing it out and making it thud painfully against her ribs. She managed a belated laugh. “Murien, you are so silly! Malcolm and I are fine. I just wrote you because... Well, I have a favor to ask.”

“Favor?” Murien’s pretty mouth turned down. “Really, Fiona, I hope this is not about money. I only have what Father left in trust and it’s hardly enough as it—”

“No, no!” Fiona said hastily. “It has nothing to do with money. Murien, did you find anyone to interest you in Edinburgh?”

“Hardly. Provincials, every one.”

Thank heavens! Just to be certain, Fiona said artlessly, “What of Lord Davies? He has been to Paris, and I’m certain he’s the most sophisticated gentleman I’ve ever seen.”

Murien sent her a fulminating glance, a frown on her pouting lips. “That shows how little you go in public. Once you’ve been to London, as have I, you will know there is little in the way of eligible men to be found in Scotland.”

“You prefer Englishmen?”

“I prefer well-titled, wealthy, handsome, sophisticated men,” Murien said, dissatisfaction radiating from her. “There are none to be found in this backward country. If I had the funds to stay in London, I would take the place by storm. I just know I would.”

This was good news indeed. Had it not been for that depressing thought that perhaps her marriage was in dire straits, Fiona would have been ecstatic. As it was, she barely managed a smile. “That is precisely why I invited you to visit. Malcolm has an old friend from Eton visiting him, and I thought the man would be just the thing for you.”

“
A
friend of Malcolm’s?” There was just the tiniest hint of a sneer to Murien’s voice.

Fiona stiffened. “Malcolm has many intelligent, well-bred friends. Why, he is personal friends with the Earl of Argyll, and I know not how many times the Earl of Carlysle has invited us to visit his country estate outside of Sterling.”

“Really, Fiona, there is no need to be so argumentative.”

“Yes, well, I think Mr. St. John is excessively well bred and—” Something gripped her arm. Fiona looked down and realized that it was Murien’s hand. “Ow!”

Murien didn’t loosen her hold. “Did you say
St. John
?”

Fiona nodded, pulling on her arm.

“Black hair? Blue eyes?”

“I don’t know, as I haven’t yet seen him. Murien, my arm—”

Murien released her, eyes ablaze. “But which St. John? Marcus? Never say ‘tis the marquis!”

“No, it’s Devon St. John.”

“Devon. That is almost as good! He has no title, but—” Murien leaned closer, oblivious to the fact that the lace of her sleeve was now trailing in her tea plate. “Fiona, do you
know
who the St. Johns are?”

“No. I mean, Malcolm hinted that they were important, but I’ve never really heard—”

“They are the wealthiest family in all of England— all the world, perhaps!” Murien stood and began to pace about the room, the lace of her blue gown trailing the carpet behind her. Her green eyes gleamed.

“And to think that Devon St. John is here, of all places. I cannot believe—” She whirled back to Fiona. “For how long? How long will he be here?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t really said. I just thought that you might—”

“You don’t know?”

“A week, I think. Perhaps two—”

“I need more time.” Murien came to kneel by Fiona’s side, gripping her arm once again. “You
must
make him stay.”

“How?”

“Oh for the love of—must I think of everything? Plan something in his honor—a hunt or a ball—and he will be forced to stay until it is done.”

“Without asking his permission? Wouldn’t that be rude?”

Murien grimaced. “Don’t you
wish
to see me wed to one of the wealthiest men in the country?”

“Of course, but—”

“Don’t you
wish
to see me wed to one of the handsomest men in the country?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then you must do this for me.” Murien stood, swiftly walking to the mantel to inspect herself in the mirror that hung there. She rubbed her cheeks to give them more color. “This is fate, Fiona. I know it. He will be here for weeks, with nothing else to do. I cannot fail under such circumstances.”