Kilted Sin (Brethren of Stone 3)

He was soaking wet with naught but a pair of boots.

* * *

Gemma whipped the beast faster as she flew over the bare, open land of the Highlands. She ignored the guilt niggling in her belly. He might freeze to death after what she’d done.

Then again, he was the fool about to go for a swim.

Besides, he was a fat and happy laird—well not fat, actually. She didn’t mean that literally. He was rather lean and muscular. Handsome, if a girl liked that rugged, craggy sort of look. A shiver coursed through her. Which she did, unfortunately.

Quite honestly, her affection for rough-looking men was what had landed her in this mess in the first place.

Sean had been the same sort. Darkly handsome and charming as a summer day was long. She’d fallen for all of it. Married the sod even. What a gullible little fool she’d been.

Her mother had tried to warn her. “He’s no good, Gemma. His father was no good and his grandfather was no good. Leave him be or you’ll regret it.”

Had she listened? No. She stuck by him even when he stopped working on the docks. And she’d kept up the façade when he’d spent his days and most of his nights in the pub. It wasn’t until he’d left for the Highlands chasing a real life for them, or so he’d said, that she knew just how right her mother had been. Her silly, weak heart had still held out hope however. He sent a few letters but after a year, he disappeared entirely. It took another full year before she’d stopped waiting on some message from him and another year after that before she could enter their cottage without staring down the lane to see if he might appear.

Her heart squeezed in her chest. By the third year after he’d vanished, she’d erased every last clue he had ever lived there. Ever shared her life. It was as though he didn’t exist.

That was until another letter had arrived.

Not from Sean but a magistrate. The carefully penned note explained that as Sean McLaren’s first and legal wife, upon his death, she was entitled to his inheritance and that she need report to the magistrate’s office located at the village center of Aberdeen to collect. Failure to do so within one year’s time would result in the forfeit of said property to the next of kin, his eldest son. Then he signed it: Sincerely, Mr. Fergus McLean.

Her stomach had near fallen to her feet. First and legal wife? Eldest son? Her and Sean hadn’t had children. She’d told herself over and over that it was a blessing they hadn’t but she’d often wondered if she’d given him a child if he might have stayed. The letter implied he had not one but multiple sons. In fairness, it had also implied that he had more than one wife.

She gripped the pants tighter. Men were scum. She didn’t know Will Sinclair but he’d likely deserved his swim in the loch.

And more than likely he deserved the little lesson she’d delivered about trying to take advantage of a lone woman. Of course, he probably wouldn’t see the theft of his horse and change purse jingling in the pocket of his pants as a lesson but that was his problem.

Besides, she really needed both. She’d barely supported herself as a seamstress after Sean’s abandonment. The trip up here to find out what had happened to Sean had taken months to save for and she’d still spent every extra penny she had. In fact, she’d run out of money but with only a month left to collect the inheritance, she’d had no choice but to leave her home anyway. Whatever the pants contained would feed her as she tried to find out what her no-good, rotten husband had been doing before he up and died.

Chapter Two

The walk back to Will’s new home had been one of the most humiliating experiences of his life. And also the coldest. He’d fashioned his soaking wet shirt about his waist to provide some amount of modesty but it only added to the cold.

He was going to have to face Mrs. Cleary in this state. His housekeeper was one of the few staff that the old laird had left behind. She veiled her hostility by barely speaking to him, or perhaps she acted like that with everyone. Either way, their relationship was tense. There was only the cook and one maid, who’d left to marry the blacksmith. Without money, he couldn’t afford to hire anyone else. He couldn’t even afford to keep what he had but he’d promised them bonuses when the first rents came in. Upon hearing his promise, Mrs. Cleary had narrowed her gaze and walked away without a word.

It took him an hour and half to make the walk, the bitter Highland winds cutting into him as he approached the house. He needed a warm bath and a hot cup of broth followed by a stiff drink.

As he walked into the kitchen, he nearly groaned with relief when the heat of the stove hit his skin. His relief was short lived.

Mrs. Cleary stood with the cook, Mrs. Hammond, on the other side of the prep table. Mrs. Hammond’s jaw dropped and her eyes were big as saucers they serve tea on as she assessed him, while Mrs. Cleary stood with her arms crossed, her gaze narrowed. “Fine example yer setting,” she huffed.

He took a deep breath, asking for patience as he assessed the two women. Those were not the words he’d hoped would break the silence. “I don’t have the energy to give ye any explanation other than tae ask ye to warm water for a bath,” he replied, then moved closer to the fire and turned his back from her accusing glare. A shudder coursed through him as he digested her contempt. Gads he hoped the shirt adequately covered his backside. He didn’t like being the object of derision, even if the person was a staff member. If even the house servants didn’t respect him, who would? This didn’t bode well for his desire to prove himself worthy of the Sinclair name.

“I can’t draw a bath right now,” the housekeeper said. “I’m a mite busy.” Each word was clipped shorter than the last.

“Busy doing what?” He fired back, glancing at her over his shoulder and in no mood to be given guff by any woman. “Standing there judging me?”

“Busy taking care of the two children dropped on your doorstep this morning.” She untangled one arm from the cross she’d made about her chest and swept her hand toward the ground.

He turned around, then took a step closer to her, sick dread tightening his chest as he looked over the table. A set of large blue eyes met his, looking enormous in a little girl’s face. She couldn’t be more than five.

Next to her was an even smaller boy, maybe two or three, his thumb tucked between his lips. He stared, his brain numb. Children? Dropped at his door? “Holy mother of…”

“They’ve been here for less than an hour and already they’ve been subjected to a near naked man.” His housekeeper crossed her arms again and tapped her foot. “Perhaps cursing isn’t appropriate.”

He took a steadying breath. He’d like, in this moment, to tell Mrs. Cleary to mind her own damn business and do her damn job. Who the hell did she think she was? But the truth was that he needed her. Who else could he hire to work for free until he could settle his debt? “Who dropped them?”