And the Bride Wore Plaid Read Online Free PDF Page B

didn’t think Mr. Devon St. John would follow— he’d have to stop long enough to find some clothes.
    But still, her heart was pounding as if he were hard on her heels. And perhaps, in a way, he was.
    Kat found the stables thankfully quiet. She hurried by the nearly empty stalls, the scent of hay and oats mingling in the cool air. She went straight to the tack room, where she locked the door and then stood with her back against it, fighting for breath and the return of her usual calm thinking.
    In all the times she’d fended off the groping hands of Kilkairn guests, never had Kat allowed anyone to touch her, much less hold her in his arms and kiss her. This man had merely caught her by surprise with his soft words and smiling eyes. But now she’d be cautious around him; very cautious indeed.
    Certainly Kat had never
enjoyed
the attentions of any of Malcolm’s other miscreant friends, yet this time she had to admit that she’d felt a definite trill of excitement. In fact, she’d felt many things while in Devon St. John’s arms, and none of them was safe.
    That thought firmly in mind, she waited only until her breath returned to normal before leaving the tack room and finding her horse. Then she mounted and left, riding through the forest and hills as if the hounds of hell were indeed following her.

     

Chapter 3
I am not here to argue, sir. I am here to inform you of my wishes and to see to it that you consent in all matters forthwith.
    Viscountess Mooreland to her mirror, practicing for an upcoming “conversation” with His Lordship regarding his wasteful gambling habits

    The chit had kicked him. Hard. Devon’s temper went from amused interest to astonished outrage in the space of a few seconds, his irritation complete when she swept from the room in seemingly righteous indignation, slamming the door behind her.
    All told, it was a new, and unpleasant, experience. Women rarely refused his requests for a dalliance and never bothered to kick him before leaving the room.
    Damn it, what was wrong with the woman? A simple “No, thank you” would have sufficed. Although ... He rubbed his shin and winced. Perhaps he’d been too determined to keep the damned effect of that blasted talisman ring at bay by holding the chit in his lap. Truly, he had meant no harm. It was just the realization that she was so absolutely perfect for his plans—and right there, at arm’s length— that had made him reluctant to heed her request for release.
    Of course, most women he knew wouldn’t have complained had he kept them in his lap for much longer than a few miserly minutes. Had he offered, many would have stayed and even suggested additional amusements to accompany such a luxuriously naughty position. But apparently London misses were something less particular than Scottish misses. Perhaps some small part of that was due to his position in London society ...
    An insidious idea crept into his mind and latched about his thoughts. What if all the women who had bedded him had done so merely because they had known who he was, that he was a St. John?
    He glanced down at his ready “appendage,” as the chit had called it, and relief swept through him. His name might have been the reason some women had tumbled into his bed, but it wasn’t the reason so many of them clamored, cajoled, and begged to return.
    Feeling a bit more himself, Devon rose and began to dress. He didn’t have Tilton’s way of decreasing wrinkles, but Devon managed quite well. His cravat was sadly crushed, of course, but here in the wilderness, who would know? He tied it as best he could and then pinned it in place with a sapphire pin. He’d just bent over to fish his boots from under the bed when he caught sight of the St. John talisman ring where it still rested in the candle dish on the night table. His gaze narrowed, and he reached out and touched the slender metal band.
    The ring was warm beneath his fingertips, and surprisingly smooth despite the runes