Devon placed his hands on the windowsill and leaned out so he could see his visitor a bit more clearly. The man didn’t appear drunk, for he wasn’t swaying on his feet, nor did his words sound anything other than crisp and to the point. “Ale, eh? Is that what ‘washing your whiskers’ means?”

“What else could it mean?” Simon asked, apparently astounded.

“What else indeed. May I ask why you’re offering this wonderful invitation?”

“Because we thought ye’d like a pint.”

“We?”

“The others are already at the inn. I daresay we’ll be hard pressed to catch up wid ’em, especially Hamish. He seems solemn, but he can outdrink any man ye care t’ name.”

Devon’s head ached from the rock, and his heart ached from the last few wretched days. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear Malcolm’s voice, suggesting that the best way to win over Kat was to win over her lads.

It was an unspoken right of passage for a man who wanted to judge another man’s mettle, to invite him to partake, and then see who could withstand the torture with the least effect. And Devon recognized the aged ploy now.

But this contest of manly wills had a purpose—to win the trust of Kat’s lads. If all he had to do was drink with a roomful of rowdies to win some time with Kat, he’d do it every night for a year.

“Very well,” he called down. “I’ll come. Wait for me there.”

Simon’s grin was evident even from upstairs. “Do that, Sassenach, but dinna keep me waitin’ long. I’ve a powerful thirst as ’tis.”

“I won’t.” Devon started to close the window, but his gaze fell on the rock that had rolled to the edge of the bed. With a faint smile, he picked it up and then, after taking a second to judge the distance, he tossed it back out the window.

A faint grunt of pain and then a loud curse filled the air.

Grinning a little, Devon pulled on his boots and coat and headed out the door.

Chapter 18

I don’t know how my son came to do such a thing, pinching a kitchen maid. I know he has never seen me do such a thing. I’ve never taken up with anything under a chambermaid in my life.

Duke of Draventon to his best friend, Lord Rutherford, while walking with that gentleman into the gallery at the House of Lords

“Bloody hell,” Devon said woozily. “I’ve died.”

“Not yet,” came a sharp feminine voice.

“Kat?” He started to lift his head, then groaned and dropped it back on the mound of pillows holding it. The movement made his stomach clench.

“Lie still,” she ordered.

As if he could do else. “My head…did someone hit me?”