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“I’m well aware.”
“And very bonny. As our Mr. Brown has clearly noticed, unlike some other fellow around here.”
Grant threw him an exasperated glance. “Did we not agree that this subject was closed for discussion?”
“I don’t think I recall that discussion.”
“Since it took place less than twenty-four hours ago, I can only conclude you’ve turned into a moron.”
“Maybe, but I’m still your favorite.” Graeme dug an elbow into Grant’s side. “Although I suspect that will be changing any time now.”
“Yes, because I’ll have murdered you for being so moronic.”
“Och, you’ll be shocking the lassies with such bloodthirsty talk,” Graeme teased.
Grant just smiled as Kathleen bustled up, Jeannie in tow. Halfway down the path, Sabrina and Brown followed at a more reasonable pace.
“Please excuse us for dawdling.” Kathleen sounded a trifle breathless. “So kind of you to wait.”
“We didn’t dawdle,” Jeannie groused. “I have a stitch in my side from running up that blasted path.”
“I’m very sorry, dearest,” Kathleen said, not looking sorry at all.
“You and Sabrina were the ones who were dawdling, not the vicar and me,” Jeannie replied. “Mr. Brown said we had to keep up with Grant and Sir Graeme, and not linger by ourselves to look at the scenery.” The girl twirled a hand. “Because of the bandits, you know. He’s very concerned for our safety.”
More likely, the vicar was concerned about Jeannie’s reputation—and his. According to Graeme, Brown was the very soul of clerical propriety. Grant suspected, though, that yon vicar would happily cast all vestiges of propriety to the winds when it came to Kathleen.
Not that he could blame the man. She looked entirely fetching in the beribboned straw bonnet that framed her sweet, freckled features, and the pink spencer that was buttoned tightly over her breasts. It did an excellent job of showcasing her neat figure. Now a dandy little breeze was whipping her skirts tight around her legs, flattening the material against the top of her thighs, perfectly outlining the delicate notch between—
“Here we are,” Sabrina gaily announced as she walked up with Brown. “I apologize for keeping you waiting. I’m still getting back into fighting trim after my confinement.”
Graeme leaned down to give her a kiss on the nose. “You’re in perfect fighting trim, my love, as Iwellknow.”
“Goodness,” said the vicar.
Sabrina poked Graeme in the chest. “None of that nonsense, sir, or I’ll be forced to box your ears.”
Jeannie giggled. “He’s too tall for you to box his ears.”
“I’ll climb on a chair. It wouldn’t be the first time,” Sabrina said, winking at the girl.
“Then we’d best get on with the tour,” Graeme said, “before my wife takes it upon herself to engage in acts of physical discipline.”
The mildly off-color remark sailed over Jeannie’s head. Brown, however, blushed and then darted a furtive look at Kathleen.
Bastard.
And herehewas, jealous of the bloody vicar, apparently the most mild-tempered man in Scotland. And wasn’t that just ridiculous?
“Ready, everyone?” Sabrina brightly asked.
“Aye,” said Kathleen, “and I’m especially hoping for a taste of your foine Lochnagar brew. It’s that eager, I am, to compare it to a good Irish whisky. There’s nothing like a dram or two of whisky to remind one of home, as they say in the auld sod.”
Jeannie peered at her sister. “Kath, why do you keep talking like that?”
“Like what? This is how I always talk.”
“No, it’s not.”
