The Naked Laird by Sally MacKenzie

Author:Sally MacKenzie [MacKenzie, Sally]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Kensington Publishing Corp.
Published: 2013-09-30T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 6

He was an idiot, a beef-witted, cabbage-headed clod pole, a great lobcock, a—

“Good morning, Kilgorn.” Motton glanced up from his newspaper and the remnants of his breakfast. His eyes paused and then traveled the length of Ian’s admittedly disheveled form. “Too much whisky last night? ”

Ian grunted and turned to the sideboard. He captured a kidney and dumped it on his plate. Aye, he’d had too much whisky last night and it had led him to act the colossal ass. The truth was he’d been thinking with his cock, not his cock-loft.

“And how is Lady Kilgorn this morning? Better than you, I do hope.”

Ian ground his teeth together and added a few kippers to his plate. He would like to upend the whole thing on Motton’s head, but the man was his host. Still, the fellow was normally awake on every suit. He must know this teasing did not sit well.

“Feeling a bit peevish, are you?” Motton’s right eyebrow rose.

Ian counted to ten. He would not dump his kippers and kidneys on the viscount, no matter how tempted he was.

“The sleeping”—damn, was he flushing?—“accommodations are not at all agreeable, as you know. Has Miss Smyth made any progress in finding me a separate room?”

“After you and I spoke last night, I got the distinct impression a change would not be required.”

“Well, it is required. Lady Kilgorn does not find the current situation at all comfortable.” Nor did he, of course. He did not care for sleeping on the floor.

Motton returned his attention to the paper. “I will speak to Aunt Winifred when I see her. I don’t believe she has risen yet.”

“There must be an empty bed somewhere in this vast pile.” Ian snapped his teeth shut. Yelling at the viscount was not an inspired notion, but his temper was not at its best.

Motton shrugged and stood up. “One would think there would be, but Aunt Winifred was quite definite on the issue.”

Ian kept his teeth clenched.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Motton was saying. “I have estate business to attend to.” He held out the paper. “Care to peruse the Post?”

“Thank you.” He’d rather roll the blasted paper up and hit someone with it—Miss Smyth came immediately to mind.

He sat down in blessed solitude and stared at his plate. His stomach had finally alerted him to the fact that a few corners of toast might have been a better selection. He poured himself some coffee.

Dawson arrived but had the good sense to remain mute, as did Wilton, who appeared not long afterward.

But then Miss Smyth entered and peace exited. She was so bloody cheerful. And talking to her—trying to get a sensible answer from her about a new bedchamber—was impossible. Like trying to converse with her demented parrot or silly wee monkey. He left as soon as he could, stepping out into the fresh, raw air. It was chill and damp and reminded him of home.

He headed off across the lawn, quickly lengthening his stride. He’d heard Motton had a lake somewhere on his estate.

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