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

by L. L. Muir

  She looked to Rory and found him admiring the same tableau, as if he was thinking the same.

  He squeezed her hand and nodded over his shoulder. “Which way to home, lass?”

  Dear Lord, he was still going to see her home!

  She couldn’t run, he had a firm hold on her hand. And if she did get outside, how would she get back above stairs? If she tried to explain her way out, he’d know at once she was English and that would lead to disaster. Since no one knew where she and the others had gone, this Scot could get away with anything. He could claim her, take her and Mal and Viv into the Highlands and no one would ever know.

  She might live happily ever after.

  But how many would suffer because of it? How could she possibly have hoped for a little bit of adventure, a little taste of revenge, without jeopardizing everything?

  She looked back at the sleeping children and imagined their faces smudged and black. It helped her think clearly again. She would not fail now. A door, off to the left, would buy her the time she needed. She led Rory to it and he pushed it open. It didn’t squeak, but neither did it open to the outside.

  “Surely you don’t sleep in here?” Rory looked into the dark room beyond.

  Bridget pulled her hand from his and used every bit of muscle in her body to shove him sideways. In the confusion, the Scot tipped and went down with an “Oof.”

  The rough wood barked his exposed legs as she forced the door closed.

  Then she ran.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  While scurrying up the stairs, Bridget decided that if her friends were asleep, they’d wake up to tarts between their blasted teeth. But they weren’t asleep. They were hovering, petrified, by the door. It was gratifying, truly.

  “You were gone so long we were about to put on Phinny’s clothes and come looking for you.” Vivianne squeezed Bridget’s hand as they sat on the floor before the stoked fire and ate their hard-won picnic.

  Bridget was no longer so hungry, but she nibbled some cheese.

  “Tell us what happened.” Mallory brushed crumbs from her lap.

  “Well.” Bridget decided she wanted to think about the events below stairs before she shared them with her friends. They would ask her how she felt about it all, and she didn’t yet know herself. “Two guards came in and I was forced to hide for a little while until they moved on. But I already had the food.”

  “Hmph. Well, I suppose safe and sound is more important than something interesting happening.” Mallory examined the tarts. “Why did you get four?”

  “Hm?” Bridget shook her head. “I must have lost count.”

  Mallory handed the extra tart to Vivianne. “She’s made your cinnamon apple dreams come true, dear. Tomorrow we shall have to do something daring for Bridget.”

  Bridget fell asleep with one hand on her head and the other to her lips, trying desperately to forget the lovely feel of a man’s kiss—a man who was probably married with at least one son who looked just like him.

  ~ ~ ~

  Rory’s lips burned.

  He could smell her hair in his nose, her face on his hands. But it was late and he was already prone. He’d just have to wait until morning to wash away the offensive tastes of England.

  He did fall asleep with a smile on his face, however, remembering how clever he’d been to allow the lass to topple him and get away. And he did need his sleep...if he was going to earn the Kennison’s favor on the morrow.

  When the dawn came in all its misty glory—deciding as it was wont to do, which Scots would be able to see the distance, and which would not—the Grahams were not favored. Rory could see but the length of four horses from his face as he looked down the steps to the bailey below. Planting Alistair Graham in the soil had taken a wee while and still the thick clouds lingered.

  But perhaps the mist would be a boon, he admitted, since the male version of Phin Kennison was back to torture him further, and The Pretender and her friends would be appearing at any moment.

  As the Englishman approached, Connor and Ian stood beside him, but Rory was in no need of their support just then. Surprisingly, he suffered little that morning from his Southern Ague. He determined not lower his guard, however, or dangerous thoughts might enter his head—notions of kisses being cures, for instance.

  Kennison was still atop his horse. Not expecting breakfast, then. Good. The pale lord would have a hard time keeping any food in his belly after his sotted condition of the night before. Even though Kennison had realized their intention to get him drunk, the fool had continued. But Rory admitted he likely would have done the same, if he were making the same bargain.

  Luckily, the Englishman had little choice; with delicate situations to see to at home, he’d hardly had the time to come to the Graham Keep, let alone to continue merrily chasing after his sister through the whole of Scotland. Now, he could return to his pressing business.

  As soon as he ceased instructing Rory how to handle the bratling.

  “Kennison you surprise me. I thought our business was finished last eve.” Rory headed toward the stables, forcing Kennison to follow in order to be heard.

  “There is more you should know,” the Englishman urged. “It might prove important.”

  Rory turned. “Fine. Tell it and get on. I’ve need to be on my own way, aye?”

  Kennison looked about nervously, as if he didn’t wish to be overheard. But the mist pushed up around his horse like white shadows eager for some gossip, and no matter how low he spoke, his words would slide easily through their forms. As one who lived near the moors and mist, the Englishman could hardly expect to keep a secret that morning.

  As if reaching the same conclusion, the southern man nodded and leaned forward in his saddle.

  “Bridget knows the sword.”

  Rory waited for more, but it seemed Kennison was done.

  “She kens the sword.” Rory repeated.

  “Yes.” The Englishman blushed pink in the cool grey world.

  “I take it she kens it weel, then?”

  Kennison nodded. “Our grandfather taught her. He said if she was so much like her grandmother, she’d best know how to wield a blade.”

  “Your grandmother? So your sister’s a hellcat is what yer sayin’?”

  Kennison’s nostrils flared, but eventually, he nodded.

  “By the by, does the auld woman yet live?” The idea of Auld Alistair being recently reunited with the woman for whom he’d pined the better part of his life would almost be a comfort on the day he was laid low.

  “Not much longer, I’m sure, since she’s taken up dueling.”

  Rory snorted. “Oh? And has she killed anyone yet?”

  “The only casualties have been one duchess’ davenport and a vase of which my grandmother was notoriously not fond.” Kennison laughed. “I have no doubt the vase had been her target all along. You see the woman is nearly as good with a pistol as Bridget is with a blade.”

  “Ye’ve wasted yer morning, mon. I supposed as much from a woman who played the highwayman to steal your wardrobe for her escape.”

  The man shrugged, apparently past his pique over his stolen clothes. “But she’s very good, Macpherson. Be warned. I could not, in good conscience, leave without alerting you to it. I wouldn’t wish you all dead for your trouble.”

  Rory had started on his way, but stopped and laughed. “Oh, we’ve been warned, Kennison. She’s already asked for our names!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Bridget looked about the room to see if she’d forgotten anything, then sighed. There was no more reason to dawdle. Time to be brave.

  “We’ve got everything but Vivianne, I suppose.” Mallory inclined her head and gestured toward the door. “After you, Lord Kennison.”

  Bridget tried not to giggle. Dear heavens, but she’d been giddy all morning. Every time she remembered the dreamy night before, air would fill her lungs and then try to escape in little bursts. It was a fact—her moustache was the only thing keeping her sober.
With her lack of sleep, she’d have laughed and hummed until breakfast had arrived without the tickly reminder.

  Songs she’d not remembered for years kept popping into her head.

  “Let me in!” Vivianne pounded on the door.

  Mallory ran forward and lifted the bar. The door burst open and Vivianne entered in a flurry of green velvet. She slammed shut the portal and replaced the bar as if mad deerhounds were on her heels.

  Bridget drew her sword. “What’s happened?”

  Viv put her back to the door and slid until the floor stopped her bottom with a smack.

  “You...you.” She frowned at Bridget while she gasped for air. “You, my dear, did not burn the list.” She paused for a deep breath. “Phinny. In the mist.”

  “Are you positive?” Mallory’s hand also went to her blade.

  Viv nodded and her hat bumped against the door at her back. “Positive. Not three paces away.”

  Bridget wished, for a moment, she was the type of female to swoon and sleep while others righted her world for her. But she was not. After a few deep breaths of her own, she sheathed her sword. She wished she could reseat her heart as easily.

  “I’m sorry, ladies. I take responsibility of course.”

  “You’re forgiven, dear.” Mallory patted her forearm, then gripped it. “But you don’t plan to simply give up do you? I don’t know how Vivianne and I could possibly forgive a surrender. Especially to Phinny.”

  “Women against men. Sounds marvelous.” Vivianne reached up and Mallory helped her from the floor.

  Bridget’s eyes were awash with tears. She couldn’t have better friends if she’d had them tailored. She was going to miss them dearly once it was over, once she became Lady Braithwaite. She was positive her husband-to-be would not suffer her friends to visit often, if ever.

  She wondered if they realized the significance of their farewell, if indeed they were able to continue and then separate as planned.

  Overwhelmed, she leaned back against the table. “Did you hear anything?”

  “I heard that Macpherson fellow call your grandmother a hellcat. Or was it you? And Phinny told them you’re good with a sword.”

  Her heart skipped. “He said I was good?”

  Viv nodded again, then swept off her troublesome hat in annoyance. “Actually, he said you were very good and he hoped the Scots wouldn’t end up dead.”

  Phinny said she was very good! Praise from Phinny was rare. It made her feel all...sisterly.

  “Don’t get all maudlin, Bridget.” Vivianne snapped her fingers. “We’re at war, remember?”

  She shook away all thoughts of praise of brothers and the kisses of Highlanders.

  War. Right then.

  “All right. What did the Scots say?”

  Viv looked from Bridget to Mal and back again. “They laughed.”

  Mallory whipped off her beard and tossed it on the table. Her red hat followed, then she loosened the ties at the neck of her jack. “They gave us the right room then.”

  Vivianne didn’t appear to have understood either.

  “This is the war room, is it not?” Mallory grinned. “Where do you suppose they keep the maps?”

  ~ ~ ~

  The morning mist and the Englishman fled as the sun peeked over the hills. And just to prove his good mood, the sun decided to grant Scotland a warm, dry summer’s day.

  The horses pawed lines in the dirt. The young lads had packed, pissed, and were ready to go—they’d been given their instructions. And three additional horses were prepared and waiting where no English lass might notice and wonder.

  Ian left to piss once again. Connor went with him. A couple of more anxious lads Rory had never seen.

  Truth be told, one last trip to the privy himself wouldn’t be amiss. He’d had no word yet that the English ‘gentlemen’ had so much as left their room, so he had the time to spare. It was going to be an interesting day, if they could but get started.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “So, they know we're not men.” Bridget leaned her elbows on the table and hunched her shoulders.

  They'd been such lovely beards, made from the hair they'd pilfered from their own heads. And the clothes, after a few alterations, had fit beautifully. There was nothing wrong with their disguises, but their voices might have given them away.

  Or perhaps it was the fact that the real Phinny had shown up looking for them. Of course the louse would jump at the first chance to collect the Graham debt.

  Then again, so had she.

  “But did they know it before Phinny showed up?” Vivianne rubbed behind her ears, where her own beard might have made her sore.

  Mallory slapped the table. “They've known all along! They knew when they offered to bring us a bath. I'd bet money on it.”

  Bridget thought back to what had been said, the fact that they'd lingered outside the door for a few moments, listening. Had they been listening because she and her friends were English, or had they waited to hear women's voices?

  When a maid had come to collect the tub, Bridget had asked the cause for the loud celebration, and the lass had confided that after forty-odd years, every Graham was happy they no longer owed a boon to an Englishman.

  That had made sense, had even been a relief, to think the big Scot had believed she was Phinny, enough to honor her request. But now she wondered if they'd been cheering because the Scot had paid the debt to the real Phinny. The idea made her mad enough to spit. But her next thought froze the breath in her chest.

  “If he knew I was a woman last night, then he would have guessed who I was when he...” Her stomach dropped.

  Vivianne touched her arm. “When who did what, Bridget dear?”

  What a large, loose tongue she had.

  “When Rory Macpherson kissed me in the cook's bedroom.”

  “I knew it.” Mallory sat forward. “I knew you'd left something out. I thought you'd had a scuffle and didn't want to worry us.”

  “No. No scuffle. Not yet, anyway.” Bridget got up and went to the window. She intended to open the shutters and give them a good slam shut, but the sight of people below helped her catch her temper. She was bare-headed and bare faced. And in case the whole of Clan Graham didn't yet know they were Englishwomen, she didn't want to share her secret with them all.

  She backed away from the bright sunshine and watched for a moment. The privy house was off to the right. A little too close to the keep, she thought, but clearly away from the rest of the small buildings. The breeze would come down the glen, from the left then.

  Not that she cared.

  What would satisfy her presently would be for Rory Macpherson, his companions, and Phinny, to be dropped, from a height, through the roof of the privy and into the mess below. That would satisfy her indeed.

  In answer to her imaginings, the forms of all but her brother emerged from that same building and walked in the direction of the stables, a path which would lead them before the window where Bridget currently stood.

  “Give me the chamber pot! And quickly,” she hissed over her shoulder. “The first battle in this war is about to be fought, but only if we’re quick about it.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Rory forced himself to walk sedately back to the stables. Since Connor and Ian kept pace with him, he expected they were doing the same, wishing not to look too anxious for the meeting that was surely to take place at any moment. But just in case they imagined he was enamored of Kennison's sister, he thought to throw them off that scent.

  “I've been thinking,” he said.

  His friends moved a bit closer as they walked.

  “I'm thinking Connor should follow the Kennison lass. And since Edinburgh’s a fine place to look for a wife, I should follow this Vivianne, so as to have more time in the city, aye?” Rory realized he was suddenly walking alone and turned. “Do you no’ agree?”

  If their faces were any indication of their opinions, then what literally befell Rory was answer enough—a torrent of water, wh
ich he soon discerned was the contents of a chamber pot, was tossed on his head from an upper window of the keep.

  After wiping his eyes, he looked up, expecting to find a maid hanging out the window of Lady Graham's rooms ready with an apology. But the window was not Lady Graham’s. There was no maid, nor an apology.

  Shutters banged shut on the window of the war room.

  He moved away from the building, both for a fear of another volley, and to see the window better. If the hairs on the back of his head were to be trusted, he was being watched. The wee vixen had done it a' purpose! And she watched him still!

  Had it been a simple act of English against Scot?

  “They ken...that we ken they're women.” Ian backed away from both the building and Rory.

  “If she can hear you, idiot, she kens it now.” Connor started walking past them both in disgust. “I'll guard their horses. The first thing they'll do is flee.”

  Connor was right.

  “A woman scorned.” Ian read Rory’s mind and shuffled, grinning, after Connor.

  Only Ian didn't know the particulars of just how thoroughly he'd scorned Bridget Kennison in Frenchie's room.

  He looked at the window once again, at the dark hole through which he was certain she watched.

  He crooked a finger and invited her to come to him.

  There was movement behind the hole.

  He pointed to the ground at his feet, demanding that she come.

  Laughter—the intriguing laughter of a woman—echoed about the keep.

  ~ ~ ~

  Their demands came an hour later.

  Even the horses had given up any hope of travel and hung their heads. By the time Rory was bathed and back at the stables, the young lads had run off, though he was sure they hadn't gone far.

  Connor lounged in the shade of the feed shed, his eyes on the horses as he'd promised. Ian teased a wee lassie who sat on a kitten to prevent its escape, but he stopped to join Rory and Connor in the shade.

  “Anything?” Rory looked at the keep steps.