by L. L. Muir
Kilt Trip
Scavenger Hunting Book One
L.L. Muir
Published by Lesli Muir Lytle
www.llmuir.com
Kilt Trip© 2015 L.Lytle
Cover art by Kelli Ann Morgan
All rights reserved
Contents
Kilt Trip
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
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Kilt Trip
Prologue
England, 1704
“Am I mistaken, or did Flora just invite us all to do something wicked?”
Bridget was surprised Mallory was able to keep her voice down. Following the Duchess’s secretive gift of advice for the newest female entrants to Society, Mallory had immediately dragged Bridget and their friend Vivianne from the arboretum and into the garden. Dozens of young ladies had flooded out the doors behind them, and the trio had barely escaped around the corner of the glass structure before her cousin posed the question.
They weren’t the only ones to have understood what was afoot. All along the softly lit paths, small clutches of ladies were bending their heads together like hungry hens going after the same handful of grain.
Handful of grain indeed.
Every young lady knew what every other young lady was discussing, so there was hardly a need for secrecy. But the enemy was afoot—men wandering about, wondering why all the youngest dancing partners had disappeared. They eyed the little groups curiously, then the wisest of them fled back through the balcony doors as if they’d sensed danger, which they had, truth be told.
Bridget turned to her cousin, satisfied they wouldn’t be overheard. “One would have to be both daft and deaf not to have understood. Grandmother said the duchess has been out of her mind for years, but then again, so is Grandmother.”
“She was daring us, then.” Mallory’s eyes were crinkled in mischief.
“To go to...Scotland?” Vivianne whispered ‘Scotland’ as if she were breaking the law to utter the word.
“To go anywhere, I’m sure, just as long as we play the game.” Bridget watched Vivianne’s teeth worry at her bottom lip. Her friend liked to assume the role of the timid mouse, but deep down, Vivianne loved adventure just as much as she and Mallory. She couldn’t remember climbing out of one window without her cousin and her friend there to catch her if she fell...or push her if she hesitated. Finally, she put a voice to what the others must be thinking. “It’s the best way to punish a man, Flora said. And if ever a man deserved punishing, it would be my fiancé.”
Mal and Viv exchanged a look. They understood. They didn’t condone her marrying Baron Braithwaite, even if Bridget insisted on bowing to the man’s blackmail. But since they couldn’t come up with a solution either, they’d stand by her—especially on an escapade that would cause the man severe humiliation.
Mallory placed her hands on her shimmering blue hips that glowed in the light from the arboretum. “If you think you’re going on an adventure without me, Bridget Kennison, you’re mistaken.”
“And I refuse to be left behind.” Viv crossed her arms, her play-acting finished.
“I wouldn’t think of going without the pair of you. But after tonight, we mustn’t ever say the words ‘scavenger hunt’ aloud, or surely we’ll be stopped before we start. Word of the dare will get out, I promise you. Someone will burst.”
Looking around the gardens just then, it wasn’t hard to determine who was tempted to play and who was only tempted to rat out the tempt-ees; the rats were watching the fluttering hens with interest
Bridget led her friends further into the shadows.
“And what will we hunt?” Viv clapped her hands silently.
“Men.”
“Mallory!”
“Well!”
Bridget held up her hands to stop the bickering. “I know just the souvenir an English Baron would never want his bride to bring home.” Bridget leaned in and lowered her voice. She felt sure she’d scream if she didn’t tell them immediately. “A kilt. From a Highlander.”
“Oh, that’s delicious!” Mallory grinned. “I’ll take the Highlander.”
Viv gave a pretty snort. “Don’t be silly, Mallory. You can’t keep a Highlander. It must be something you can keep, for a memento of your final act of defiance. What will you do, lock him up in the dungeon? Put a collar on him like a puppy?”
Mallory raised her brows and smirked.
Viv’s mouth fell open. “Mallory!”
Finally, her cousin dropped her smile and pouted. “Fine. I want a piece of a pirate’s treasure.”
“That might be a little dangerous, cousin, but I like it.” Bridget looked to Viv. “What do you want?”
“Something…romantic.”
“Obviously, Vivianne. That’s the point, isn’t it?” Mallory rolled her eyes.
“I can’t think so quickly.” Her friend frowned at the ground as she slowly circled the others twice, kicking her skirts in leisurely steps. She came back and shrugged. “For a memento, I think nothing could be quite as romantic as a letter from a poet.”
They all giggled but stopped short when they noticed Grandmother Kennison’s form looming on the balcony. In unison, they stepped even further into the darkness.
Due to the dark shade of her purple gown, Viv became a disembodied head of blond curls. “Do you suppose,” she whispered, “there are any poets to be found in Scotland?”
Mallory nodded. “Bridget’s Grandmother Kennison thought so. She said the Scot who kidnapped her was a poet. And he never returned to the Highlands. He waited, just across the border, in case she ever changed her mind.”
They all sighed in unison, staring at the balcony.
It was all decided but the details, but all three of them would go.
To Scotland.
For a scavenger hunt.
They’d be safe enough; Bridget had a secret weapon, of sorts. If they found themselves in any trouble, they would need only to call upon the Scot who owed the Kennison family a substantial favor—the Scot who’d kidnapped Faith Kennison over four decades earlier—a man named Laird Alistair Graham.
Chapter One
Alistair Graham was dead.
Alistair Rory Macpherson had arrived in time to give his grandsire a good shock, a good laugh, and a good burial. The shock had come when the old man laid eyes on his favorite red-haired grandson from the Highlands. The laugh had come after Rory had confided his purpose for his visit. The burial may or may not have come days later had Old Alistair n
ot laughed quite so hard nor so long.
His young widow was but content the man died with a smile on his face.
After surveying the crowd come to mourn his grandfather, Rory began to understand why the man had laughed so. There was nary a wed-able, bed-able, or even palatable lass to be found among the clan. The only suckling bairn appeared to be Old Alistair’s new son, or else such lasses of a breeding age were well hidden from the likes of Rory. He began to wonder if they’d caught wind of his arrival and hidden the womenfolk, but if that were true, his grandsire would not have been so surprised when he’d walked into the old man’s hall.
Besides the loss of his favorite relative, Rory was disappointed on two counts; first, he would have to look elsewhere for a wife; and second, his grandsire’s clan looked to be dying out. Living among the border reivers, they’d most likely had their fertile women carried off along with the occasional herd of cattle. If these Grahams didn’t do a bit of reiving of their own, they were doomed.
As doomed as Rory felt.
Perhaps somewhere between the border and his Highland home he could find a lass who’d never heard of him, and carry her off before his tragedy reached her ears. If he could please her enough, she either wouldn’t believe the lies, or wouldn’t care.
No lass from his own clan would have him now, and he’d have no Englishwoman, but he wasn’t quite prepared to leave his beloved island to find a suitable mother to bear his children. Not yet, anyway.
Standing on the wall walk surrounding the Graham keep, Rory was relieved the mourning days were coming to an end. With his grandfather’s home open to mourners, all kith and kin had been needed upon the battlements. No Elliot, or other border clansman could be trusted to keep their thumbs in their belts when paying their respects.
“Laird Macpherson!” A Graham spotted him from the ground and scrambled up to the narrow wall steps. “Laird—”
“I’m no laird, mon.”
“Yes, sir. Forgive me, sir. But I thought ye would wish to ken some Anglishmen are coming, all lather and leather.”
Rory’s gut clenched. He should have never ventured so far South.
“How many?” He forced himself to sound the confident Highlander he appeared to be.
“Three, Laird.” The man cleared his throat. “I thought that since ye’re grandson to auld Alistair...”
“Nay. Ye’ll need to settle on a new laird from among yer own. I’ll be leaving on the morrow.” Rory nodded once for good measure.
The man’s shoulders slumped.
“Ye should choose a mon who will go after things that have been taken from ye, ye ken?” He put a hand on the other’s shoulder. “If the Grahams are to survive, ye’ll need someone with fire in his belly, and a head on his shoulders. Someone young.”
“Someone like ye, then, laird?” The man grinned. “Are ye sure ye cannot be swayed into settlin’ here?”
“I’ve little taste for English air, Mister Graham.” Rory looked South and tried not to shudder. “And I’d not be much use as a laird if I sickened every time the South Wind blew.” He dropped his hand back to his side. “Tell the captain of the guard to make ready for the invaders. We’ll let the bastards come mourn, and then Heaven help them if they’re not back across the border when the black cloths come down in the morning.”
“Aye, laird.”
“Only for the day, Mister Graham. Dinna forget that. My friends and I will leave when my grandsire’s tucked in the soil.”
So Rory would play the part of laird until the Englishmen fled. It would not do to have their enemy see how poorly led the Grahams had become, especially if measuring the new Graham laird was the purpose in their coming.
Within the hour, Rory was wondering if he’d made a considerable mistake by sitting at the head of Alistair’s table with his two companions, Ian and Connor, at his sides. The Grahams had lined up for his attention to discuss matters that had been neglected since Alistair Graham had become ill and it would take days to sort through all the grievances, let alone hear witnesses. And Rory’d be damned if he’d judge a man unfairly, as he himself had been judged.
“Until the English are gone,” he announced, “and ye can choose a new laird, I will only hear concerns that cannot wait a day or two. I promised only to stay until the mourning cloths come down.”
The queue dwindled as one by one folks nodded and walked away. One lad stood his ground.
Rory called him forward and the lad shuffled close. He smelled of dust and pine. He looked as if he’d slept with the pigs.
“Yer lairdship.”
“I’m no laird, cousin Jamie.”
The boy’s face lit for a moment, then he took a deep breath and began.
“Since the men have been called to the wall, laird—I mean, Rory—I mean, cousin—” Jamie blushed.
“Go on, cousin.”
Seated to his right and left, his companions, Ian and Connor, hid their smiles behind their mugs.
“Aye.” The boy frowned, then must have remembered what he was going to say. “Since ye’ve needed the men on the walls, the lads and I have been riding patrol...and I have a message for ye from the three Englishmen, only they’re not Englishmen at all—”
“Take a breath, Jamie. Fill yer sails and take yer time, aye?” Rory took a deep breath too, relieved their visitors weren’t English after all. “I’ll have the message first.”
The food ushered into the hall was of much less interest than the tale the lad quietly told, and Rory and his friends gave the boy their complete attention until the report was finished.
It was all Rory could do to remain seated instead of flying out the gates to see for himself!
Chapter Two
The frame of Bridget Kennison’s beard rubbed a raw spot on her right cheek, but she dared not risk making an adjustment in the broad light of day. Besides, she expected one of those Graham boys to return at any moment with a reply from Laird Alistair and she couldn’t get caught with her disguise in her hand.
Her suit of clothes was the height of fashion for an English man these days. The padding under the shoulders of her waistcoat made her twice as broad at the shoulder, and the sword at her side would ensure that no one would be checking to see if her breeches were occupied. Her shadow, now skimming the ground to her right, showed a jaunty feather plume on her tricorn. Unfortunately, its dance coincided with the grating against her cheek so she slowed and turned her mount to avoid the reminder.
She grinned at Vivianne as her friend closed the distance sitting smartly atop one of her uncle’s fine white animals. If it weren’t for the twinkle in the other woman’s eye, none would suspect the pretty smile stretching beneath that smoothly combed mustache and lengthy blond beard. Her emerald velvet ensemble complemented those sparkling eyes, but Vivianne’s plume was no longer verdant, nor jaunty, under a layer of road dust.
“I don’t believe your cousin can travel much further, Sir.” Viv spoke in a quiet, somewhat manly tone and looked over her shoulder. “Whatever you do, don’t show her pity.”
Bridget stood in the stirrups to see further.
“Those lads will be able to find us easily enough. I see no need to get too near the Graham keep.” She managed a tone just lower than her friend’s, in case there was someone in the seemingly-deserted countryside who might overhear.
They’d gone to too much trouble with their manly disguises to risk it all on a careless giggle, even though their false voices tempted them to do just that. As soon as it was safe, they’d have a lot of laughing to do.
“No sign of Phinny.” Vivianne dragged a gloved finger across her lips and smoothed her mustache away from them.
“I told you not to worry.”
“Oh, Bridge, don’t be silly. I never doubted you. I just asked if you happened to make one of your lists, that’s all. And even a list wouldn’t worry me had you never taught Bertie to read.”
“If my maid couldn’t read, I couldn’t make lists for her, now could I?” No
t that Bertie ever followed those instructions. After serving as her nanny, the older woman hadn’t liked the sudden change of being ordered about by her recent charge.
“You’re perfectly correct.” Vivianne turned her mount to face the sound of Mallory approaching. “I’m just relieved you burned it.”
For the first time that day, Bridget was grateful for the beard so Viv might not catch the way her teeth worried at her bottom lip. She’d been foolish to write down their plans, but she’d been so excited. How else was she to have whiled away the days before their adventure was to begin?
She had tossed it in the fire. She remembered it clearly. But had it burned?
“Bridget?”
“Yes?”
“Why do you suppose the duchess did it? Why would she dare us all to play this dangerous game? Does she not care what might happen to us?”
“I think she has a great care for our happiness. As for our safety, I doubt she considered it much—she’s a bit strange-minded. But I believe I know precisely why she did it.”
“For you?”
“I’m sure of it. Her famous lecture has never been more than a bit of harmless advice before this year. And she extended the dare only days after she learned I was to marry. But foremost, she wants to punish my grandmother.”
