He dropped the curtain and turned away. The truth was that Kat Macdonald intrigued him in a way that no other woman had. Not because he was attracted to her, but because she was a challenge, a unique, undiscovered source of amusement to his dull spirit. It had been a long while since he’d had to put forth an effort to win a woman to his bed. And such a woman, too.

He removed his boots, tossing them to one side. He had just reached for his cravat when something clinked against the window.

Devon whirled toward the sound. It came again, only with more force. Bloody hell, someone was trying to get his attention by throwing pebbles against his window. Could it be Kat? Had she missed him, too? No one else would go to such lengths to gain his attention. Malcolm would knock at the door, Fiona would never have cause, and Murien…well, he rather thought Murien would just walk right in and climb into his bed. And if he was not cautious, that is exactly what she would do. There was a line of brass beneath her silver polish. He could almost taste it.

Another rock hit the window, this one larger. It clunked against the glass and fell away. It had to be Kat.

Grinning, he threw open the window and leaned out—thunk. A rock hit him in the forehead, and sent him staggering backward, into the long curtains that surrounded his bed.

He fell against the mattress and then lay there, blinking rapidly. Bloody hell, did she want to kill him? He straightened, carefully touching his forehead, where a bump was already swelling.

“Sassenach? Are ye there?” a heavily masculine voice called out.

It wasn’t Kat after all. Irritation warred with disappointment. With one hand covering his aching forehead, Devon climbed back to his feet and looked out his window. In the courtyard below stood a huge, hulking Scotsman, one of Kat’s lads, no doubt, though it was too dark to see which. “Who the hell are you?” Devon demanded. “You almost killed me!”

“Not a’purpose,” the giant said in a mild tone. “’Twas a small rock.”

Devon finally recognized the voice. It was the redoubtable Simon. Devon gingerly rubbed his forehead. “What do you want?”

“I came to see if ye’d like to wash a whisker wid us.”

“Wash a whisker.” What the hell did that mean? “I’m afraid I cannot wash my whiskers right this moment since I have none—”

“Come, Sassenach! The Lion and Boar has some fine ale, they do. I’ll even foist the rowdies fer it.”