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“Right behind you,” said the lady in question, pulling on her gloves as she joined her friend.
Garbed in a primrose dress with a formfitting blue spencer, Sabrina floated down the stairs in Ainsley’s wake. She looked like a bloody angel. For most of his adult life, Graeme had lived surrounded by beautiful women, his sisters-in-law. In his wilder days, he’d been lucky enough to sample the feminine delights of more than one willing, winsome lass or buxom widow.
But those days were long gone. Mostly because of Nick’s stern tutelage on the subject, Graeme had thankfully never hurt a woman or taken advantage of one who wasn’t eager to take advantage back. Still, he’d yet to meet a woman who truly claimed his heart. And he’d been making damn sure to keep it that way—both for him and for any lassie that crossed his path.
And then he met Lady Sabrina Bell.
It didn’t make any sense, given the sort of man he was. But there was something so . . . so shiny and sweet about Sabrina. She reminded him of daffodils dancing in the breeze on a sunny spring morning.
He briefly closed his eyes, shutting out her lovely image and cursing the inconvenience of it all. She was mucking with his brainandhis heart, and he didn’t like it one damn bit.
An elbow dug into his side. “What’s amiss, lad?” asked Royal, his gaze bright with amusement and understanding.
“Not a damn thing,” Graeme growled.
“Graeme, dear, you’re looking a bit dyspeptic,” Ainsley said.
Sabrina peered at him with concern. “Are you unwell, Mr. Kendrick?”
Victoria glanced up from her pamphlet with alarm. “I do hope Rowena hasn’t passed along the case of the grippe she’s just getting over. We don’t need it going around the entire household.”
“I don’t think that’s what he’s got,” Royal said with a smirk.
Graeme contemplated tossing his brother out the nearest window. But that would make a hell of a mess, and then Ainsley would probably toss Graeme out, too.
Victoria patted his arm. “Perhaps it’s your nerves. It’s a very big day for all of us.”
“I’m sure everything will be splendid.” Sabrina gave him a reassuring smile. “The organizing has been superb, you know. I’m sure there’s no need for rattled nerves.”
The lass must think him a complete idiot.
“My nerves are fine, as is the rest of me. I’m simply wondering where the bloody hell—”
“A-hem,” Vicky interjected.
“—everyone is.” Graeme finished. “We’re late.”
“I’m here,” Grant said.
His twin stalked down the staircase, looking massively aggrieved. Graeme couldn’t blame him.
“Oh, dear,” said Ainsley, trying not to laugh.
“Good Lord, why are you dressed like that?” Royal asked.
“Vicky,” Grant tersely replied.
Kitted out in Kendrick plaid with a dress kilt and black coat, Grant also wore a plaid tam more befitting a ride on the moors, and was laden with weaponry, including steel-wrought pistols and a dirk.
Vicky circled him, consulting her pamphlet. “According to Sir Walter, this is the appropriate garb for family members marching with the Celtic Society. But, Grant, where is your broadsword?”
“I amnotwearing a blasted broadsword,” he said with a glower. “I look like a complete moron as it is.”
“Only half a moron, dear,” Ainsley assured him.
Grant snorted. “Thank you for that show of support.”
Vicky flapped the pamphlet. “It says right here that you should be wearing a—”
