The Devil Wears Tartan Read Free Page A

brown eyes; a bulbous nose ending in a tilt; a shortened chin; and a slight overlap of his teeth.
    Marshall had often thought that the man resembled a rather earnest chipmunk. The fact that he was short and rotund only added to the impression.
    “If I might say, Your Lordship,” Jacobs began.
    Marshall stopped him before Jacobs could continue. “You may not,” he said.
    However, Jacobs had been valet to his father, a position that had evidently imbued him with a certain amount of courage.
    “About your attire, Your Lordship,” Jacobs said. “You want to appear at your best. You have those embroidered vests from China, sir. Would you like to choose one of those to wear?”
    Marshall knew exactly the garments he meant. Vests that were heavily embroidered in gold, silver, indigo, and green thread, depicting cranes so lifelike they appeared in mid-flight. The vests had been tailored for him during one of his first missions to China.
    “Burn them,” he said. “I thought you had.”
    “Your Lordship, they are exquisite examples of superior workmanship.” Jacobs’s fingers traced the outline of one fulsome chrysanthemum. “My grandson wrote me about such beauty.”
    “I didn’t think Daniel was overly interested in embroidery.”
    Jacobs didn’t speak, his concentration on the vest he held.
    “Take them,” Marshall said abruptly. “Just never wear them in my presence.”
    He’d already rid Ambrose of its carved ivory, netsuke figurines, and silk paintings—all reminding him of the Orient. He wanted nothing to recall those days. He needed nothing tangible. Each night his visions were there, vivid and real.
    “But your attire, Your Lordship? Something less somber?” He pointed to a stack of fabric on the bed. “It’s tradition, Your Lordship.”
    Jacobs had it correct. Until the kilt was outlawed more than a hundred years ago, it had been tradition. Since it had been returned to favor, there was no reason for him to refuse.
    He’d held on to his identity with both hands in the last year. He’d come home to Ambrose with gratitude. Unless he wished it, there was no need to ever hear another English accent or see another English face. Ambrose offered him sanctuary and peace, along with constant reminders that he was a Scot.
    He was a Ross, with the proud blood of long-ago Ross men flowing in his veins. Today, at least, he should look like one.
    Jacobs didn’t say anything in response, only unfurled the fabric and stood with it stretched between his hands.
    Marshall removed his clothing, washed, and donned the white dress shirt before giving in to Jacobs’s implacable patience. He stood at attention while Jacobs measured the pleats, pinned them in place, and then stitched Marshall into a replica of the kilt his forefathers had worn.
    A jewel-encrusted sporran was next, topped by a short black coat with small gold buttons with diamonds in the center. Jacobs knelt and helped him on with knee-high stockings embroidered with the Ross crest. His shoes were the last part of his wedding attire, the shiny black leather adorned with diamond-encrusted buckles.
    He stood silent, allowing Jacobs to flit around him like an earnest bee.
    What sort of woman would marry a man she’d never seen? Miss Davina McLaren must be desperate indeed. The fault was Marshall’s that he knew nothing about his bride. He’d deliberately cloaked her in secrecy so as not to provide himself with any reason to cancel the nuptials. If she had a long nose, or a grating manner, or an irritating laugh, let him learn all those things after they were wed and when it was too late to change his mind.
    At least she wasn’t insane.
    He hoped she’d cultivated some interests since she’d left the schoolroom, some variety of talents that would serve her well and keep her away from him.
    The last thing he wanted was a devoted wife.
    “Mrs. Murray has delivered another decanter of wine, Your Lordship,” Jacobs said.
    He glanced in the man’s