The Highlander's Holiday Wife

Book 0: Clan Kendrick

by Vanessa Kelly

Genres: Scottish & Highlander; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

Filled with saucy wit, surprising twists, and unforgettable lovers, the latest novel in award-winning and USA Today bestselling author Vanessa Kelly's captivating historical romance series puts the most levelheaded Kendrick at the center of a passionate and perilous adventure.



It's Christmastime in Edinburgh, but Lady Samantha Penwith's secret mission takes no holiday: the Highlands-born lass vows to find the assailants who murdered her beloved husband, founder of a charitable school for orphaned boys. On her latest undercover excursion, she closes in on a pair of armed attackers and interrupts another assault, then disappears into the darkness, leaving the lone victim mystified—and lucky to be alive . . .



Braden Kendrick may be the sensible brother, yet the dedicated doctor routinely ignores the dangers of his late-night calls to the city's slums. But when a fleet-footed rescuer saves his life, he's determined to uncover the stranger's identity. And once he does, he'll find himself facing his own past loss for the first time—and more than willing to risk his heart again, just in time to make the Clan Kendrick's Christmas celebrations more festive than ever . . .



Contains mature themes.

Release date: September 27, 2022

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

For the space of a few breaths, Braden Kendrick contemplated the idiocy of taking unnecessary risks.

Should have listened to Logan.

He shifted his leather satchel to his left shoulder and pulled a knife from his right pocket. It was a dandy little blade, but laughably inadequate for facing two hulking brutes, one armed with a club and the other with a machete.

Only yesterday, his older brother had lectured him on taking proper precautions in Edinburgh’s Old Town. “What you need is a pistol. The criminals down there will gut you without hesitation, because it’s a damn sight easier to rob a dead man. You’ve got to properly arm yourself.”

Braden had pointed out that he’d never once been robbed while attending an emergency call. Logan had tartly replied that he’d be damned if he had to explain to the family why he’d allowed their little brother to get himself murdered in some backwater alley. Braden had just rolled his eyes and not given the matter another thought.

Well, regrets wouldn’t save him now, when he had to think his way out of an ignominious death.

“Gentlemen,” he said, adopting the tone he used on fractious toddlers and nervous patients. “Violence is completely unnecessary. I am more than willing to allow you to rob me. I’ll just extract my billfold and you can—”

“Shut yer yap,” snapped the one with the machete. He carried a small lantern in his other hand. When he raised it high, it cast a dim, ghoulish light on his face. “It’s other business we have with ye tonight.”

With full cheeks and a rounded chin, the man looked somewhat cherubic—but for his nose. That mangled feature resembled a grisly chunk of beef.

“I’ve got a good memory for faces, especially ones like yours,” Braden said. “But I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”

“Nae, but we know ye, Kendrick,” snarled the other man in a guttural rasp. “Bloody interfering bastard that ye are.”

Now that voice was familiar. The rasp was a result of a childhood injury, according to the man’s wife.

Braden’s odds of survival grew slimmer by the second.

“You’re Dougal Parson, Naomi’s husband. Or, former husband, should I say?”

“Thanks to ye,” the man bitterly replied. “Ye put ideas in her head, ye stupid nob. She were satisfied with her lot until ye told her to kick me out of my own bleedin’ house.”

“Actually, it was her father’s house. And I don’t regret suggesting that Naomi divorce you, since you beat her and shoved her down the bloody stairs. You almost killed her.”

Tragically, though, the evil bastard had killed Naomi’s unborn child. While Braden had been too late to save the unfortunate babe, at least he’d been able to save the mother.

And though he’d been unable to convince Naomi and her elderly father to go to the police—both were too frightened—Braden had convinced the girl to obtain a divorce made possible by Scotland’s more lenient marriage laws.

He’d also made a point of hunting down Parson, finding him hiding out in a tavern near Tanner’s Close. That time, Braden had armed himself with a pistol. He’d told Parson that if he ever bothered Naomi again, he would ensure that Clan Kendrick would mete out their own brand of justice for the lass, the kind that didn’t involve courts or tidy prison cells. The threat had done the trick, and Parson had disappeared.

Or so Braden had thought.

Now, the unrepentant thug aimed a gob of spit at Braden’s boot. Thankfully, it fell short, since Parson’s dental hygiene left much to be desired.

“Clumsy little bitch fell, is all. She was always fallin’ and hurtin’ herself. But ye wouldn’t listen, now would ye, doc?”

Braden’s fingers instinctively tightened around the handle of his blade, and he fought the impulse to charge. “I don’t make a habit of believing wife beaters and liars.”

“I can’t get no work in Old Town, ’cause everyone’s too scared of ye and yer bloody family. I’m flat broke.”

“How sad. Frankly, I’d rather see you dangling at the end of a rope than sneaking around Old Town like a diseased rat.”

Mangled Nose elbowed Parson. “Oy, ye gonna let him talk to you like that?”

“Of course not, ye stupid shite. I’m gonna kill him.”

“Well, get on with it. I reckon he’s got a pile of blunt stowed in them pockets, not to mention a gold watch.”

Braden chuckled. “Oh, I never wear my gold watch into Old Town. That’s just tempting fate.”

When the two thugs exchanged a perplexed glance, he took advantage of their hesitation.

“Finally,” he said, shifting to look past his moronic adversaries. “It’s about time you arrived.”

Proving they were indeed morons, both men glanced over their shoulders into the stygian gloom. As they turned back to him, Braden hurled his satchel at Parson’s face.

Hit squarely by the bag heavy with medical instruments, the man roared and staggered back. Braden bolted, dodging between the men and slashing with his knife. The blade caught Mangled Nose in the arm. He bellowed, stumbling aside and clearing a path.

Braden took off into the dark. Skidding around a nearby corner, he bashed his elbow into a brick wall. Ignoring the pain, he ran as fast as he dared over the uneven cobblestones. His attackers were already in hot pursuit, their heavy footsteps pounding behind him.

Dark tenement buildings loomed over him like decrepit giants, blocking out the pale light of the moon. He couldn’t risk twisting an ankle on the uneven stones, or tripping over a doorstep. Fortunately, his assailants had to deal with the same problems. And since he was both younger and fitter, he just needed to keep on his feet until he reached safety.

Finally.

Light shone at the end of the seemingly endless alley, with Cowgate just ahead. There’d be at least a watchman or constable nearby, and a few taverns would still be open. Braden had friends in those taverns, people he’d doctored over the years. They’d never—

His thoughts splintered as his boot slid through something wet and slimy. He pinwheeled his arms but went completely off-kilter, landing hard on his right hip and arm. The knife flew, clattering somewhere off in the dark. Though pain lanced through his body, he forced himself to scrabble up just as his pursuers appeared out of the murk, like demons loosed from the pits of hell.

Well, huffing and puffing demons, anyway. Mangled Nose was cradling his injured arm, and Parson’s mouth was bleeding.

But they were mobile and furious. Like the boy who’d kicked the hornet’s nest, Braden was now about to get thoroughly stung.

“Think yer so clever, don’t ye?” growled Parson, raising his club. “We’ll see how smart ye are now.”

Braden put his hands up, as if in apology. With a little luck, he might be able to deflect the club before it bashed in his skull.

“In all fairness, I did manage to get past you.”

“Only because ye sliced me up good,” Mangled Nose complained. “Ruined my arm, ye did. And I thought ye were a doctor.”

“I am a doctor, and I’d be happy to stitch and bandage you up, free of charge and no questions asked.”

The man frowned. “Ye would?”

“Fecking hell, but yer an idiot,” Parson snapped.

“That’s nae way to speak to yer best friend,” his companion sulkily replied.

“It certainly isn’t,” Braden said. If he could just keep them talking. “In fact, I think—”

“No one cares what ye think,” bellowed Parson, brandishing his club. “I’m gonna shut that gob of yours once and for all.”

He moved in for the kill. Braden curled up his fists, and—

Boom.

Plaster exploded from the wall behind Parson, showering chips and dust down on his head. He staggered sideways, crashing into his friend.

Mangled Nose howled. “Dougal, that’s my bad arm!”

“Who gives a shite about that? Who the hell is shootin’ at us?”

Braden peered toward the end of the alley. “I believe they did.”

Two figures garbed in black advanced silently toward them. One was a tall, broad-shouldered man swathed in a greatcoat. He was carrying a pistol, so had obviously fired the shot. It had been an excellent one, too, stopping Parson dead in his tracks by barely missing him.

But the other figure? Braden shook his head, as if to clear his vision. That person was slender and not very tall.

“Dougal, that be a girl,” Mangled Nose said.

No, a young woman, Braden guessed.

Dressed in a black riding habit, her hair tucked under a brimmed cap, she carried a walking stick and matched her companion’s steps with easy, confident strides. The mystery man and woman both wore dark scarves wrapped around their lower faces, effectively disguising their features.

“What the hell?” Parson growled, facing the pair.

Braden snapped out of his astonishment. “Tough luck, old man. Good Samaritans have come to my rescue.”

Parson threw him an ugly sneer. “Some doxy and a bloke who just shot his bolt? I’m ready to piss myself with fear.”

He began to stalk toward the pair. As the silent man reached into his pocket, the woman darted forward, whipping up her walking stick.

Except the stick was actually a long, lethal-looking blade. When she deftly slashed it across Parson’s cheek, he roared with pain and reared back, clapping a hand to his face.

“Oy,” yelled Mangled Nose, charging forward, machete held high.

Another shot boomed out, fired from a second pistol the man in black had pulled from his coat. Shards flew up from the cobblestones, directly in front of Mangled Nose. With a shocked cry, he turned on his heel and staggered back up the alley. Quickly, he disappeared into the night.

Parson was made of sterner stuff. He held his ground, holding his bloody cheek and glaring at the woman, who slid over to stand beside Braden. Her companion joined them, a silent, threatening guardian.

“I should kill the whole lot of ye,” Parson snarled.

Braden cocked his head. “I just heard the night watchman blow his whistle. He probably heard the shots and is calling for a constable. You’d be wise to follow your friend, Parson.”

A string of truly vile oaths ensued as the bastard shot a final glare at Braden. Then the man took to his heels, following his partner in crime.

For a moment, Braden and the others stood frozen in a silent tableau, listening to Parson’s footsteps fade away. Then Braden reached to doff his hat to his rescuers before realizing he’d lost the bloody thing in the bloody alley.

He smiled instead. “Thank you. I’m hoping you didn’t save me just so you could rob me.”

The big man simply shook his head, while the woman huffed an impatient breath from behind her black silk scarf.

“Then you have my sincere gratitude for your excellent timing,” Braden said. “I doubt my skull would have survived the encounter with Parson’s club.”

The man shook his head again before gesturing toward the lights of Cowgate. He and the woman then strode off in that direction, leaving Braden to both mentally and physically catch up.

“Can I know your names, so I can properly thank you?” he asked, coming up behind them.

The woman didn’t even glance back.

Braden almost laughed in disbelief. This was turning into the most bizarre night of his life. And given his family’s history, that was a very high hill to climb.

As he followed close behind them, a flicker of movement caught his attention. The woman’s gloved hand moved in gestures that looked practiced and precise. Braden’s amazement grew as her companion responded with a few sharp motions of his right hand.

They were communicating with some sort of sign language.

“So, I take it you are not going to talk to me,” he commented.

The pair continued to ignore him as they gained the entrance of the alley. The woman reached out and grabbed something. She slid her blade into the slender wooden sheath that she had leaned against a wall. Instantly, her lethal weapon was transformed into a genteel walking stick.

Braden felt as if he’d fallen into a dream or some sort of upside-down fairy tale, one where the mysterious princess did the rescuing.

They led him out into Cowgate, and Braden had to blink against the flare of gas lanterns lining the street.

His silent escorts stopped and turned, calmly perusing him from behind their extremely effective disguises.

Now that he could finally get a good look at her, Braden saw that the lass had a trim, neat figure, dressed in a close-fitting wool jacket over a matching skirt. Her walking stick appeared to be of polished ebony with a carved brass handle. As for the man, who towered over her by a good foot, Braden had the impression that he might be a servant. He stood a few inches behind the woman, patiently waiting, as if taking his cues from her.

Fascinating.

If not a fairy tale, then Braden felt he might have stumbled into a corking-good adventure. Unlike his brothers, he never fell into corking-good adventures.

“If you won’t tell me your name,” he said, “then allow me to—”

A shrill whistle cut him off. They all glanced up Cowgate to see a sturdy watchman, lantern and long staff in hand, trundling toward them in the distance.

The woman glanced at her companion. He twirled a finger by his head and then pointed back to the alley. She nodded, and they turned in that direction.

Braden made a grab for her. “Wait, you can’t go back in there.”

As she gracefully eluded him, the man stepped in front of Braden, his stance all but yelling, back off.

He quickly put up his hands. “I just want you to be safe.”

The woman huffed out a ghost of a chuckle. Then she tapped the brim of her cap, saluting him before disappearing into the night, with the tall man at her heels.

Braden was still peering down the alley, his brain spinning with astonishment and questions, when the watchman finally arrived.

“Is that yerself, Dr. Kendrick?” the fellow asked in a worried tone. “Did I hear shots? Are ye all right?”

“You did, and I am. A pair of thugs tried to bash my head in. Fortunately, a warrior princess and her trusty companion came to my rescue.”

The watchman snorted. “Now yer pulling my leg, sir. But who were them two that were just with ye? And where did they go off to?”

Braden shook his head. “On both counts, I’m afraid I have no bloody idea.”

Stifling a yawn, Braden descended the center staircase to the entrance hall of the house. Tangling with murderous thugs was bound to stimulate one’s system and prevent sleep. So did questions about his mysterious rescuers—especially a woman who seemed perfectly comfortable wielding swords.

And that sign language? Pondering that had certainly kept him awake. Braden had seen something similar before, and he’d be following that up later this morning.

Their butler emerged from the back hall to greet him. “Good morning, sir. Mr. Kendrick and Joseph are having breakfast in the dining room, if you care to join them.”

“Thank you, Will. I mean, Macklin. Now that you’re a proper butler, I’ll have to observe the appropriate protocols.”

Will flashed him a wry smile. “It seems just as odd to me as it does to you, Dr. Kendrick. I hope I don’t disappoint.”

“You won’t. You’ve been helping to keep us in line for years. When I was racketing about this place on my own, I tended to let things slide. I’m sure you and Mrs. Kendrick were properly horrified at the state of affairs.”

Will Macklin had been with the family for as long as Braden could remember, originally hailing from the village attached to the Kendrick ancestral estate, Castle Kinglas. Eventually working his way up to under-butler at Kendrick House in Glasgow, he’d recently been promoted to butler at the family establishment in Edinburgh.

Braden had taken up permanent residence in Edinburgh several years ago as a student. Subsequently, he’d accepted a position at the Royal Infirmary and the medical college. He’d have been satisfied with a small set of rented rooms near work, but the rest of the family had been appalled by that notion. Nick, Braden’s oldest brother, was Laird of Arnprior, and had insisted on purchasing an elegant townhouse in New Town as a home for Braden and a port of call for various visiting Kendricks.

Major changes had recently come to the house on Heriot Row. Logan, the second oldest Kendrick and owner of a booming shipping company, had decided to move his family from Glasgow to Edinburgh. Thanks to the recent completion of the Forth and Clyde Canal system, Logan’s Glasgow offices now had steady access to the nearby port of Leith. So, along with his wife and two children, Logan had decided to settle into Heriot Row for as long as needed to establish another thriving branch of Kendrick Shipping and Trade.

Logan, who was fourteen years older, had been away for much of Braden’s youth, building up his trading company in Canada. Since his return to Scotland had coincided with Braden’s permanent move to Edinburgh, their paths had only occasionally crossed.

While Braden might sometimes regret the loss of his peace and quiet, it was a good and necessary opportunity to spend time with Logan, Donella, and the two bairns. As much as he might be inclined to forget it at times, he was still a member of Clan Kendrick. That meant family came first, even if that family could sometimes be downright nosy and interfering.

“The house was in prime condition, sir,” Will politely protested. “It needed nothing more than a good airing out.”

It had needed more than that, since Braden had closed most of the place up, making do with one maid and a cook.

“Hmm, I’m quite sure I heard my sister-in-law shriek with horror at the state of the attics.”

Will struggled to repress a smile. “Mrs. Kendrick never shrieks, no matter the provocation.”

“I’ll try to keep provocations to a minimum, regardless. Speaking of which, no one heard me come in last night?”

“I don’t believe so, sir.”

“Let’s keep it that way. And if any of the servants should ask about the battered state of my clothes, just say I slipped and had a fall in the muck.”

Thoroughly used to the wide variety of Kendrick antics, Will nodded. “Of course, sir. And I’ll see to your coffee and breakfast immediately.”

“Just coffee, please. I’ll grab a roll to take along with me.”

As he turned to head to the dining room, Braden didn’t miss the butler’s sigh. Everyone from Logan on down to the kitchen maid thought him underfed. At home, someone was always trying to shove cakes, scones, and assorted delicacies down his throat. It was nonsense, since he was perfectly fit. But he was used to being compared to his older brothers, who were exceptionally brawny men who looked more like Highland warriors than men of the city.

He quietly stepped into the elegant dining room, its formal nature softened by the view out the bay windows to the city gardens. Although it was a bit grand for Braden’s taste, Donella insisted they eat their meals together there as a family, on a regular schedule. When Braden had objected that his work defied scheduling, his sister-in-law countered that he needed a more orderly lifestyle, more rest and food, and more leisure time with family. Any attempt he had made to explain the average physician’s day had been firmly refuted, which was typical Kendrick behavior. Wayward family members were to be alternately cajoled and bullied into line. All in their best interests, of course.

But Kendricks also excelled at ignoring each other when it suited. Over the years, Braden had become a master of that family attribute.

Seated at the head of the table, Logan glanced up from his copy of the Caledonian Mercury. “Glad to see you slept in this morning, lad. I’m sure you needed it. What time did you get in last night, anyway?”

“Oh, sometime after midnight,” Braden replied as he perused the generous breakfast laid out on the mahogany sideboard.

“It was just after two o’clock, Uncle Braden,” said Joseph, seated to the right of Logan.

Braden mentally sighed. Logan’s son was thirteen. But he was exceptionally bright and incredibly observant, sometimes inconveniently so.

Logan frowned. “Son, were you reading late again? Staying up half the night isn’t good for you. Besides, you read so much during the day.”

“Yes, but that’s for my studies, Papa. And I’m reading Robinson Crusoe right now. It’s a bang-up adventure, you know.”

“Yes, I know, but—”

“And you gave it to me, remember? It was your favorite book when you were my age. You said I should read it.”

“Ouch. Hoisted on your own petard,” Braden said as he took a seat on the other side of the table.

“Lad runs rings around me,” Logan ruefully replied.

Joseph gifted his father with a beatific smile. “Mamma says it’s because I’m so smart.”

“Smartest one in the family,” Braden added.

“No, that would be you, Uncle Braden. Mamma says that, too.”

“Och, not true. You’re the smartest Kendrick of all.”

Joseph was greatly advanced in his studies, and when not studying, the lad was usually found with his nose deep in a book. Braden had recently started tutoring him in chemistry, at the boy’s request. Given how ably his nephew picked up complex formulas, Braden suspected he would grow up to be a scientist, or even a physician.

Logan adopted a comical expression. “Hang on, what about me? I do run a rather large and successful business. Can’t be a dummy and do something like that, you know.”

Joseph patted his father’s hand. “Of course not, Papa. But everyone knows that Uncle Braden is the smartest of the brothers. Uncle Nick and Grandda always say so.”

“Splendid. Well, I hope I’m good for at least something around here,” Logan said with mock complaint.

Joseph went back to slathering butter on his scone. “You’re good at bashing heads. Uncle Nick says you’re the best when it comes to that.”

Given that Logan was a veritable giant whose fighting skills had been honed in the wilds of Canada, that statement wasn’t an exaggeration.

Logan snorted. “Thank you, son. I’m also very good at sticking to the point, which is that you stay up half the night reading.”

“I wasn’t just reading last night, Papa. I was waiting for Uncle Braden to get home. He’s usually not so late, so I was worried.”

Smart as a whip and sensitive, Joseph tended to worry too much about the safety of his family. It stemmed from long separations from his father when he was just a tyke.

“You know I sometimes have to make emergency calls late at night,” Braden gently said. “There is never any need to worry.”

“I’d like to think that’s the case,” Logan said. “But where were you last night? Not Old Town again, I hope.”

Braden repressed a groan. “I was perfectly fine, in any event.”

“But you weren’t,” Joseph said with fatal candor. “I think you might have been robbed. You were very dirty, and you had a big rip in your coat. I saw it when you tried to sneak down the hall to your bedroom.”

Good God. The lad would make an excellent spy.

Logan threw his son a startled glance. Then his gaze transferred to Braden, his eyes narrowing to slits as cold as the North Sea.

“Care to explain?” he asked in a mild voice.

Braden wasn’t fooled. If he didn’t think fast, a volcanic eruption was imminent.

Fortunately, the door opened and Will came into the room, followed by a footman carrying a coffee service.

Logan transferred his ire to the butler. “Macklin, why the hell didn’t you tell me that Braden was robbed last night?”

“I wasn’t robbed,” Braden interjected.

Joseph frowned. “But you were in a . . . a fracas. I heard you say that to Macklin last night, when you came in.”

Logan slammed down his coffee cup, slopping the brew onto the starched tablecloth. “And why the hell am I only hearing about this now?” He stared daggers at Braden, then at Macklin.

“It was nothing, really,” Braden said. “Very minor.”

His brother pointed a finger at him. “Now, look here, Braden. You may be—”

“I said it was nothing,” Braden firmly interrupted.

Logan swept an irate gaze around the room. Since that gaze had been known to cause grown men to whimper like babies, it wasn’t surprising that the footman, new to the household, almost dropped the coffee service. Will deftly snatched it and placed it on the sideboard.

“Can I pour you a cup of coffee, Dr. Kendrick?” he asked, unperturbed by his employer’s glare.

Braden flashed him a grateful smile. “Yes, please.”

“Macklin, this is not the end of the conversation,” Logan said. “When someone in my household gets attacked, I want to know about it.”

“Of course, sir. Can I freshen up your coffee?”

Looking massively annoyed, Logan continued to scowl at their butler before holding out his cup. “Deranged, the lot of you.”

“Do stop blustering, dearest,” Donella said as she entered the room. “It’s much too early in the day to be terrifying your family, much less the staff.”

“I’m not terrifying anyone,” Logan grumbled. “Unfortunately.”

Braden grinned at his brother. “Losing your touch?”

Donella patted her husband’s shoulder. “Of course he’s not losing his touch. Why, poor Ryan looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

Their new footman now looked mostly bewildered. Braden couldn’t blame the poor fellow.

“I apologize, Mrs. Kendrick,” Will said. “I’m still in the process of training the new staff.”

“I’m afraid no amount of training can fully prepare anyone for our rather demented family,” Braden commented.

Donella took the empty seat on the other side of her husband. “That’s certainly true. I’m still getting used to them, even after several years.”

“Says the woman who was kicked out of a convent, and then followed that up by triggering a kidnapping and a clan feud,” Logan dryly said.

“Thankfully, you rescued me by throwing several men off a bridge into the River Tay,” Donella replied as she reached for the teapot.

“Only two men, love,” Logan corrected.

“True. You shot the rest of them.”

Ryan, who’d been clearing empty plates from the sideboard, knocked over a tray of scones.

“You may return to the kitchen,” Will told him with heavy disapproval. “Immediately.”

The poor footman almost tripped in his haste to get out of the room.

“It’ll be a miracle if the fellow doesn’t give his notice forthwith,” Braden commented.

Donella sighed. “And I was so hoping that Ryan would work out. Really, Logan, you simply must stop growling at everyone.”

“How is this my fault?” her husband protested. “Besides, I only growl at family members who get themselves into dangerous situations and then try to hide it from me.”

“Possibly because you kick up such a fuss?” Braden said before taking a gulp of coffee.

“Papa does get fashed when any of us gets attacked,” Joseph said.

“No more getting attacked,” barked Logan. “I forbid it.”

Braden smiled at Joseph. “I was perfectly fine, lad. I promise.”

Thanks to a mysterious young woman and her equally mysterious companion. That detail, however, was not something his family needed to know.

“But Papa can help protect you,” Joseph earnestly replied. “It’s his job.”

“Exactly right, my boy,” his father said with an approving nod.

“I cannot disagree,” Donella said. “I saw your coat, Braden. The rip is quite beyond repair.”

“Well, that’s a bother,” Braden replied.

At that observation, Logan looked ready to explode.

Donella glanced at her husband’s face. “Macklin, perhaps you might bring us some fresh tea,” she said to the butler.

When Will tactfully retreated, Braden looked at the clock on the mantel. “Good Lord, the time. As delightful as this discussion has been, I’m off. Already late for work.”

Logan jabbed a finger at him. “Don’t even think about it. You were attacked, Braden. And how was your coat ruined? Perhaps by a knife?”

“Och, don’t be silly,” Braden said.

Donella wrinkled her nose. “Truly, Braden, we’re not trying to be busybodies. We just worry about you.”

Braden eyed the faces studying him with obvious concern. They were all so different—his brawny older brother, who had the strength and courage of a giant, his lovely sister-in-law, whose kind heart had rescued Logan from a lonely life, and his nephew, whose gentle nature was complemented by a maturity beyond his years.

What united them was their steadfast devotion to each other and to every member of the family. Behind all the bluster and nonsense was love—and worry. Kendricks were champion worriers. Given all the tragedies they’d suffered over the years, it was hardly surprising.

Now that the cat was well out of the bag, trying to dismiss their concerns would only fash them more.

“It was a bit of a sticky wicket,” he admitted. “But it wouldn’t have been a problem if I hadn’t slipped and fallen arse over teakettle.”

“It happens to the best of us, lad,” Logan said in a sympathetic tone. “That’s why it’s best to be prepared for every contingency.”

“What did happen, dearest?” Donella gently prompted.

After a quick glance at the clock, because he really was going to be late for his meeting, Braden gave a highly expurgated version of events.

Logan nodded his approval. “Throwing your bag in the bastard’s face was quick thinking, lad.”

Donella tapped her husband’s arm. “Language, dear.”

As if on c