Since then, of course, Malcolm had married, a supposedly “blessed state” that seemed to have the effect of immediately turning a sane, logical man into a quivering, starry-eyed impostor. Devon had seen just such a transformation occur in no fewer than three of his own brothers.

Thank God he was prepared to fight off the talisman ring’s curse. He was a man who favored a more lively way of life. His needs were simple—enjoyment of life, an occasional flagon of brandy, and the warm company of a large number of the fair sex.

His stomach rumbled and he sighed, then made his way down the stairs. He wondered if there was to be breakfast or if he would have to procure his own. Considering the state of the castle, he would not be surprised to discover that there was ham for breakfast, but first he’d have to catch the pig, strangle it with his bare hands, and dress it himself.

The unmistakable clank of a serving dish sounded at the very bottom of the great stairs and alleviated his fears. Devon followed the sound, his stomach growling louder as the wafting scent of bacon reached his nostrils.

He didn’t even pause on reaching the room, but entered forthwith. Only two occupants were inside. One was a bent-over, hunkered old man dressed in a footman’s livery who stood beside a sideboard filled with steaming platters. He didn’t even look around when Devon entered, but continued to move a water pitcher slowly toward an empty water glass.

Across the room sat the other occupant, a slender, well-dressed man with an expressive face and deep auburn hair. A rather small, solitary figure at the huge gleaming table, he occupied an ornate chair, a plate before him.

The man was just lifting a bite of egg to his mouth when his gaze fell on Devon. The man’s eyes widened, and he dropped his fork. “Damn me, but I’ll be drawn and quartered!”

“So you shall, Strathmore,” Devon said. “An event I’ve predicted on more than one occasion.”

Malcolm grinned from ear to ear as he jumped up from the table. “Devon St. John! How are you, you pox-ridden, swiving, crimped-ear dog!”

Devon took the hand Malcolm thrust toward him. “God save us all, but it is Malcolm Macdonald, scourge of Scotland and bane of Britain. Hide your money and your women!”

Malcolm laughed. “Och, laddie! You haven’t changed a bit! When did you arrive? I didn’t expect to see you till after this rain quit us.”

“Last night, rather late. Didn’t anyone inform you?”

“No one has informed me of a bloody thing! Who was up to greet you?”

“The housekeeper. Your butler was apparently unavailable.”