Kilt Trip: (Scottish Historical Romance) (Scavenger Hunting Book 1)

by L. L. Muir

  The door swung toward his nose. He avoided injury by shoving his foot in the opening and paid a wee price for his persistence, but perhaps for the best--the pain in his toes might sober him.

  “Pardon, Mister Macpherson. But we'll be fine now.” The one claiming to be Phin Kennison kept her damned blue hat tilted forward, over her face, as she pressed the door against his foot, and he was again robbed of a good look. But he’d never been one to submit to robbery.

  “I'll just be sure they've prepared things as I ordered, if you'll give me but a peek inside the room, Kennison.” He gave the door a shove and nearly set her on her arse. It took quick thinking to keep from reaching out to help her as he would have any other woman. Thankfully she caught her balance, then stood aside and let him pass.

  He thumped the pallets a few times each. They were thick with clean blankets. The floor had been scrubbed and a wee puddle here and there gave a wink in the light of fresh torches on the walls. A cheery fire crackled in the hearth and the long table had been pushed to the side. The maps and books had been packed away and heavy locks hung on the trunks.

  A piss pot and wash basin were set up behind a dressing screen and all considered, there was no reason for him to hang about. He was having no luck looking at any of their faces as the three seemed to be looking about the room as he was, but always facing away from him.

  “You see? We're all set here.”

  No reason to stay. Nothing more to say. Then a puddle winked up at him.

  “Baths. I'll have a bath brought and filled.”

  The three gasped like women. Had they not a brain among them?

  “That won't be--” The blue one hissed when the red one kicked her low on the leg.

  “Thank you, your lairdship. That would be grand,” the red one squawked. He wondered if her idea of a manly voice might get her plucked and roasted over a large fire if she didn't hold her tongue.

  He quit the room, dragging his comrades along behind him.

  After he and his friends helped lug buckets of hot water to the cleanest war room since the beginning of time, they were herded out the door so quickly that the last of them, Ian, had to jump to keep from leaving his arse on the inside.

  Then no one moved.

  There was no sound of water sloshing. Neither boots nor weapons hit the floor. No voices. The men held their breath, as the women must have done—things above stairs were that quiet. Rory imagined the three of them standing stark still on the other side, eyes wide, listening for their hosts to walk away. If he didn’t do something soon, the great lot of them might be getting light in the head.

  “I'm thirsty,” he said loudly, then nodded for the stair.

  “I'll be along presently,” Connor whispered.

  “They'll not make a peep until they think we're away, ye daft bugger,” Rory whispered back. “Now the two of you agree and come along. Let them hear us leave, aye?”

  “Aye. Aye, I fancy a drink meself.” Connor trudged toward the stair.

  Ian raised a hand and knocked on the door. “Do ye gentlemen fancy something in your belly?”

  A moment later, Kennison's imposter answered. “It seems a tray has already been brought, but we thank you.”

  The wee liar. There had been no tray.

  “Good even to ye then.” Ian stepped away from the door and the three of them descended to the great hall.

  Connor turned his chair and straddled it. “Rory, I saw no tray.”

  “Nor did I.” Ian stared at the food before him on the table.

  “There was no tray. No food. No drink. And we forced them to leave their packs in the stables to prove their trust.” Rory remembered a row of perfect white teeth biting on a rosy lip for a moment before the woman had agreed. In the dimness of the shed, he'd seen nothing else. The memory of it made him a bit ill. He must have stood far too close to have seen it. Even now, the poison of all things English was creeping into his blood.

  “We can't let the wee lassies starve.” Ian whispered.

  Connor gave a solemn nod, and Rory couldn't help but sneer

  at the pair. A missed meal never hurt a body, but his friends acted as if they'd sentenced the women to die an agonizing death. Then Rory had a thought.

  “I'm of a mind to let them get good and hungry, truth be told.”

  Ian and Connor turned identical frowns on him. It was the first he could remember them agreeing on an expression, let alone anything else. Ian was forever light-hearted. Connor was ever sober. When they were drunk their demeanors would change and they'd turn into each other, but never had they united against him.

  It would take an Englishwoman, or three, to do such a thing.

  “Good and hungry? Why?” Ian's voice rose, but he checked himself. “What plagues you?”

  “I'll admit what plagues me is a serious need to see the face of my enemy.”

  Connor cheered to hear it. “I've a similar illness, only I'd rather see behind a darker beard.”

  “It's settled then. I'll take the fair.” Ian got to his feet.

  “Are ye daft, mon?” Rory grabbed the man's arm and brought it back to the table. “Just where will you be talking her?”

  Ian sputtered and sat.

  “I've a debt to pay. I've promised a wee escort to them all. If we reveal their secret, I'll still owe a boon.”

  “So we let them go? Rory, you canna mean it! It takes no wit at all to tell they're women. No wit at all! And you'd send them on up the glen?”

  “Settle ye, Ian. I'm sure Rory's got a plan we'll be happy with.” Connor leaned in and waited. Ian did the same.

  “I've promised an escort, aye. But I've not promised how many in the escort, have I?” Rory took a long swallow of ale, then a bite of mutton. His appetite was returning. “We'll each follow one. We'll let the lads ken we're staying close. Then we'll herd them where they want, make sure they all reunite in Edinburgh, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Connor shook his head. “You’ve yet to tell us what comes from letting them starve.”

  Rory grinned. “You ken that a mouse will no' come out o' his hidey hole until he's hungry.”

  “Nor while he smells a cat.” Connor shook his head.

  “Weel then, we'd best make sure the mice can smell nothing but food.”

  After some kind words to the French cook, Connor stood watch on the stair while the other two fanned the smell of a hearty meal under the door of the war room. They could hear splashing a-plenty, but the Englishwomen stayed mum while they bathed.

  Rory's imagination nearly drove him mad. Then, after wafting about the steam from an apple tart, he heard a happy sound.

  A stomach growled from near the door.

  “Bridget, please,” one woman whispered. “Let one of us go ask for food.”

  “I have to agree with Mallory. Can't you smell that?”

  Rory held his breath as he waited for this Bridget's reply.

  “I can't let you risk it. I'll have to go myself. I turned down their offer, it’s only right that I should go.”

  “But you'll be careful, won't you? Of course I can wait if it means real danger.”

  “I'll wait until everyone's asleep. Can you hold out that long?”

  “We'll try, dear. If I die first, just slip a piece of apple tart between my lips. It may bring me back from the dead.”

  Rory decided a wee nap was in order. It looked to be a long night.

  A man came bounding up the steps, but Connor caught him in time. Rory rose from the floor and lead the man back down the steps, out of hearing.

  “What need you, Mister Graham?”

  “Well, laird, it seems we have more Englishmen on our doorstep.”

  Rory's gut clenched. There was little chance of more women dressed as men, but he was finished predicting what Englishwomen might do. What madness was infecting the Borders to bring so many English to his grandsire’s door?

  “I don't suppose they're wishing to wait outside the gates?”

  �
��Nay, sir. They're insistin' on being presented to Ol' Alistair himself.”

  “Oh? And did any of the fools give his name?”

  “Oh, aye. The man with the large feather.” Mister Graham grinned. His eyes were wet with suppressed mirth.

  “And what name did he give?”

  “You'll not believe it when I tell it.”

  Rory let the man know, with just a look, that his patience was at an end.

  “He claims to be none other than Phineas Kennison. Grandson to the same.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Rory denied the second Phin Kennison entry until he was sure none in the clan would mention their other guests. He didn't know why, but he had a sudden aversion to just handing over The Pretender. She had to be a sister or cousin to the real Phin, to know of the debt between the two old men.

  He’d likely rid himself of English company much sooner if he merely put the two Phins in a room and let them have at it. But he couldn’t! A fact that made no sense to him whatsoever.

  Didn’t his blood run cold when stood in the same room with them, man or woman? Hadn’t he lost his supper when he first thought of coming to the Graham keep, so close to the border? Then why had he suffered only a pained stomach with the lass in blue? Of course, he discounted the other two for the simple reason that he’d paid neither of them much heed, but that he’d not embarrassed himself when among all three gave him a bit of hope. Perhaps he was recovering from the English Plague.

  Perhaps his reluctance to let the three out from under his thumb had more to do with testing the new limits of his illness.

  As he waited near his grandfather’s body for The Kennison to be brought to him, he realized he would soon find out if the aversion to the English had only been a passing thing. But it didn’t take so long as that; his stomach turned when he heard the man’s voice coming up the chapel steps.

  Rory looked about for a place to vomit, but found nothing. Then he decided the best alternative would be to empty his gullet on the Englishman himself. The idea cheered him but also settled his gorge some. A bit disappointing, that.

  Leading Kennison was Ozzie Graham, a man with hair as orange and bright as a sunset that poked stiffly out from his head on the top and from both temples. Only his orange beard grew in the correct direction so that all his hair radiated from him like a child’s drawing of the sun.

  “This Anglishmon demands the hospitality of Laird Alistair Graham.” Ollie stepped aside and gestured toward the wood box holding the remains of his former laird. “Here ‘e is, sir, but dinna be offended if he doesna answer ye right away.”

  Kennison had at least removed his hat before entering, but his good manners went no further. He took one look in the box and gave Rory an accusing glare.

  Rory folded his arms and waited for the man’s sense to catch up to him. Either he was a fool, or he had no reason to fear insulting an entire clan of Scotsmen.

  Then it came to him. Kennison knew he’d not be harmed because of the damned boon! That boon had hung over his grandfather’s head for the whole of Rory’s life and his father’s. Now that someone was come to collect it, he’d have given anything to be able to tell him to go to Hell. But Alistair Graham’s word must be honored. If not, they’d be able to watch the old man rise from the grave but a pace away.

  Too bad it wasn’t an Englishman owing the Grahams. Oh, what a pleasure it would be to have the Kennisons awaiting with dread to discover what the Scots would demand!

  If The Kennison owed Rory a favor...

  “Come, Kennison, if that’s truly who ye are. We’ve a bit to discuss, and if ye’re through payin’ yer respects to me grandsire, we’ll find a whisky and a chair.”

  “Kennison? Kennison!” Ozzie stood wide eyed, clutching the wall behind him when they moved toward the chapel door. “Weel now,” his voice rang out behind them as they crossed toward the hall, “on behalf of the entire Clan Graham, may I say, it’s about bloody time!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Ozzie, it seemed, was quick to spread the word and the hall was filled with a more elderly collection of Grahams than was probably usual. Even the womenfolk had hustled from their cottages to hear The Kennison’s request. Some looked as if they’d been old when the boon was promised, over forty years before.

  The great hall door was propped open and from the sound of things, the rest of the clan was camped in the bailey waiting for word to pass outside.

  After arranging for whisky, Rory finally sat in his grandsire's chair. The Kennison sat across from him with his back exposed to the crowd, though he seemed not to notice, daft man.

  Connor sat to Rory’s left. His posture remained relaxed, his left arm hanging off the back of his chair as he sat at a lazy angle. Others in the hall would never notice the way his right hand flexed near his sword hilt; Connor was well aware of the enemy in the room.

  Ian sat to his right, arms folded, shoulders back, poised to be entertained, as always.

  The serving woman brought a tray with two bottles. She poured and passed around the dark glasses. When Connor tasted his drink, which was more water than whisky, he didn’t so much as blink.

  Neither did Ian, but he gave Rory a kick under the table.

  Kennison didn’t choke on his perfectly un-watered drink, but had only a sip before setting his glass next to his hat.

  “I must be heard, sir.” His blond hair, curled only at the ends, bobbed like the feather on the equally silly hat before him. “I apologize, but my business is urgent.”

  Rory nodded permission to continue.

  “I am the grandson of Phineas Kennison. My grandfather—”

  “I ken well enough of yer grandsire. And I’m the man to honor his debt. But what would you possibly want?” Rory winked slyly at Ian then turned back. “Have ye perchance lost something in Scotland and doona dare go huntin’ for it...without a kilted escort?”

  Kennison blinked.

  Rory blinked back.

  Kennison laughed. “Phineas McGuire Kennison at your service, sir.” His voice now reflected respect, but as he was a Lord himself, he would never bend to a man he assumed his equal. “And what I have lost...is my sister.”

  Some in the crowd laughed, then whispers swept like a tide out the door and beyond.

  “And?” Rory took another drink.

  “And you’re quite right. I require a Graham escort to help me find her. Unless you already have. Found her, that is. Your Lairdship.”

  “I’m no’ laird, Kennison.” Rory smiled when that fact didn’t change the other’s demeanor, nor did he protest being addressed so informally. “And whom else have ye lost?”

  The man grinned. “You’ve found them! I expected as much. Are they here?” Kennison looked around as if the women might be hiding in the shadows. His relief hung in the air, awaiting the right words to allow it to fall into place.

  “Is one of the other’s your woman?” Rory brought the man’s attention back around.

  “Our cousin, Lady Mallory Naylor, and their childhood friend, Lady Vivianne Kenton accompanied my sister on her silly ques...journey. Neither belongs to me, but Bridget is betrothed. Are they safe?” Kennison braced his hands on the table.

  “Aye. They are untouched for the now.” Rory’s mind had just been decided by the near slip of the Englishman’s tongue. He’d meant to say ‘quest’, not ‘journey’, and the quick correction intrigued Rory, since he’d been thinking of his own quest, only just.

  Now, how to put Kennison off while he discovered the prize that would lure three unprotected Englishwomen across the Scottish border?

  “They’ve come and gone, but they are watched...and protected.” He didn’t lie, he just omitted the fact that the only place they’d gone was above stairs.

  “Direct me to them, if you please.” Kennison stood, fixed his silly hat atop his head then his arms stilled and hung in the air. “What do you mean untouched for the now?” He lunged forward. His hands slammed down on the wood. “Where are they?”

&nbs
p; Rory ignored the man for a moment to allow him to appreciate his own danger, insulting his way to within reach of Rory’s shortest dagger.

  “They were here nearly a day ago.” More like half, but he needn’t be too specific.

  “Then I demand, as the favor your grandfather owed mine, to be taken to them as swiftly as possible, regardless of the hour.” Kennison straightened and put his fists to his hips, as if there were no room for argument.

  “As sweet as ye asked, Kennison, and as much as I’d love to oblige ye, I won’t be doing ye a favor a’tall.”

  With all the gasping that followed that remark, it was a wonder the torches didn’t go out for lack of air. And once again, whispers swept out the door where the rest of the clan had less need to be quiet about it. It took a few moments for the noise to ebb away.

  Phin Kennison showed great patience, holding his tongue while his head turned red and threatened to explode. Finally, after staring down Rory and his friends, trying to guess the game at hand, he gave in and sat once more. He tossed back the rest of his whisky and braced his hands on the edge of the smooth wood.

  “All right. Why will you not honor your grandfather’s debt?”

  Rory grinned. Until but a moment before, he’d not been sure what he would say. He’d but prayed for inspiration.

  “Oh, I’d honor the debt, if there was one. But ye see, the debt you’re wantin’ to collect has already been paid.”

  “To whom?” Kennison sat up straight.

  “To a man who presented himself as Lord Phineas Kennison.” Rory continued while Kennison sputtered. “And a fine looking gent he was, too. His two friends were dressed just as fine. Long beards, all.”

  Kennison’s heavy hand pounded the table once again. It was a wonder the ancient thing wasn’t in pieces at their feet.

  “Bridget! I knew it! She was the blasted highwayman! She stole my clothes for court!” Kennison stood and paced, oblivious to the crowd all but applauding the entertainment. He rounded his stool and sat again. “I bet she wore the blue.”