Best Laid Plaids (Kilty Pleasures)

  In 1920s Scotland, even ghosts wear plaid.

  Welcome to a sexy, spooky new paranormal historical series from debut author Ella Stainton.

  Scotland, 1928

  Dr. Ainsley Graham is cultivating a reputation as an eccentric.

  Two years ago, he catastrophically ended his academic career by publicly claiming to talk to ghosts. When Joachim Cockburn, a WWI veteran studying the power of delusional thinking, arrives at his door, Ainsley quickly catalogues him as yet another tiresome Englishman determined to mock his life’s work.

  But Joachim is tenacious and openhearted, and Ainsley’s intrigued despite himself. He agrees to motor his handsome new friend around to Scotland’s most unmistakable hauntings. If he can convince Joachim, Ainsley might be able to win back his good name and then some. He knows he’s not crazy—he just needs someone else to know it, too.

  Joachim is one thesis away from realizing his dream of becoming a psychology professor, and he’s not going to let anyone stop him, not even an enchanting ginger with a penchant for tartan and lewd jokes. But as the two travel across Scotland’s lovely—and definitely, definitely haunted—landscape, Joachim’s resolve starts to melt. And he’s beginning to think that an empty teaching post without the charming Dr. Graham would make a very poor consolation prize indeed...

  Also available from Ella Stainton

  and Carina Press

  Stay tuned for the next book in the

  Kilty Pleasures series from Ella Stainton,

  coming soon!

  Content Warning

  Best Laid Plaids deals with topics some readers might find difficult, including outdated and potentially hurtful descriptions of ADHD, depression and anxiety, as well as death, disease and battlefield injuries.

  Best Laid Plaids

  Ella Stainton

  To my grandmother Margaret Stainton (1924–2020), who introduced me to romance novels, insisted that everyone deserved an HEA and always believed I’d be writing this dedication, even when I was sure I wouldn’t get here.

  In Romancelandia, there has been an argument on the accuracy (read: allowability) of diverse characters in historical romance achieving their happily-ever-afters. Better writers than me have addressed this and will continue to do so, but the sentiment that non-cishet white characters of the past were too challenged in their daily lives to have any chance at long-lasting happiness makes me want to throw things. Too many times naysayers have wagged their chins at me and smugly proclaimed, “This just couldn’t be because homosexuality was illegal, dontchaknow?”

  Yes, I do in fact know all about the draconian LaBouchere Amendment and the horrid laws that kept our historical queer siblings on alert for danger.

  I also know that love will find a way to bloom—it’s the essence of romance, after all, and something I believe in with every fiber of my soul.

  The notion that everyone in the past was on the lookout for signs of behavior that they could punish is simply absurd. I could point out that Oscar Wilde likely would have continued to glory in his unabashed queerness if he hadn’t gotten into a legal fight with Bosie’s father. And my own muse Stephen Tennant was not only relentlessly open about his sexuality—he was written about in the social columns of his day extensively. History is filled with asides about same-sex relationships that were taken for granted by contemporaries as “just not much of a big deal, really.” Because they weren’t.

  Also, Ainsley’s brain fidgets (ADHD) reflect my own struggles, as do his anxiety issues and Joachim’s depression. As with any neurodiversity, they aren’t universal behaviors, just the ones most similar to mine.

  As for the ghosts I wrote about: some were made up entirely (Charlie, Maisie and Robert Graham, and Barley’s Lizzie) and some are from various local legends (the Pitlochry Spectre, hauntings at the Royal Palace in Culross and in the Edinburgh Close). I got my first deck of tarot cards in 1985 and took liberties in Barley’s name. Likewise with his being an animal channel. Having no wish to be branded an eccentric, I won’t detail my familiarity with Ainsley’s clairaudience or Joachim’s clairvoyance.

  As it stands, this is a romance about two men falling in love, not a history text, or a scientific journal, or a treatise on society. I researched to the best of my ability, and take all the blame if I made mistakes.

  But I beg anyone to do their own research on the degrees of happiness allowed to anyone in the past before ignorantly asserting that “it just wasn’t possible.”

  Because that would be historically inaccurate.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Where There’s A Kilt, There’s A Way by Ella Stainton

  Chapter One

  Joachim

  Fifeshire, Scotland, 1928

  Joachim kept a brisk pace up the interminably long path to Rosethorne House, no matter that his ankle might give out before he got there. The steel tip of his walking stick twanged, punctuating each step in the way he’d grown accustomed in the ten years since the end of the Great War. Gravel drives like this were the worst; bloody slippery underfoot and hard to catch purchase. He mopped his brow once he stopped on the wide sandstone steps that led to a front door of oak that could have graced a medieval castle.

  Rosethorne House, my arse.

  It was an estate and a rather formidable one. Sixteenth-century foundation, though a storybook façade had been added sometime in the past two hundred years. Ivy and some sort of flowering vine trailed between small diamond-paned windows, which glittered in the sunshine.

  After traveling for three hours on the train up from the university town of Durham in the north of England, and another hour and a half on the bus from Edinburgh, Joachim’s resolve flagged. He was much too shabby to be a guest in a place like this.

  Bollocks. When he’d concocted the scheme to venture into the lowlands of Scotland to gather research for his PhD, Stuart Graham, his mentor and friend who made the arrangements, could have at least warned that he belonged to a wealthy family. But Joachim had never been a coward—had he? He pressed the doorbell before he answered that question.

  Less than thirty seconds later, the door opened wide.
A smart black-suited man—the butler?—looked the weary traveler over with such liveliness that Joachim’s ears pinked. Really, Stuart, you could have warned me to buy a new blazer at the least.

  Joachim introduced himself and asked for his host. “He should be expecting me?”

  Dammit, he shouldn’t have ended on that questioning note, but the unseasonable April heat coupled with the dusty hike from the bus stop left him all out of sorts. He did his best to surreptitiously slick down his wavy hair, difficult without a comb and mirror.

  The butler ushered Joachim into a wood-paneled hall and held out an arm for his stuffy wool overcoat and hat, which he handed over with relief. Sniffed himself furtively. Didn’t smell as slovenly as he looked, thank heavens.

  “Ah, yes. Master Ainsley is in the parlor awaiting your arrival.”

  The answer settled some of the gnawing in his belly; for the past two hours, he’d whiled away the final leg of his trip worrying that Stuart’s quirky at best—barmy as a Bedlamite at worst—younger brother would refuse to give him accommodations for the night.

  But he was expected, and Joachim inhaled deeply and plastered a smile on his face as he was led down the hall toward the tinny sound of a gramophone belting out Let’s Misbehave.

  Odd choice of music for an intellectual.

  Though perhaps not so peculiar when said scholar had annihilated his reputation as one of the Empire’s most learned folklorists by publicly insisting that he chatted with ghosts.

  On a daily basis.

  A sitting room worthy of Sir Walter Scott greeted him. A fireplace large enough to house a small family crackled, flanked by sterling sconces in a similar grand ratio that radiated a warm glow. The room sported two enormous wooden chandeliers, their electric lights turned off, and heavy green draperies were pulled shut instead of allowing the sunshine in.

  Such a waste on a day like this. They were few and far between in Britain.

  In front of the hearth, a well-shaped leg balanced on a log. It belonged to a kilt-clad man, poking at the fire, which to Joachim’s mind, didn’t need tending. A black-spotted setter thumped its feathered tail once as greeting.

  “Excuse me, Sir, your guest has arrived.” The butler cast another impertinent stare Joachim’s way before disappearing back down the hall.

  Sir continued to thrust his poker at the fire, causing a flurry of sparks to chase up the flue like fireworks. Was that a giggle? Joachim watched with increasing annoyance for an entire minute. His ankle wobbled with the need to sit.

  The setter dragged its body off the Persian rug and pressed its head against Joachim’s thigh. He patted the dog once but grunted dissent when it nosed his groin. His host twitched like a ghost walked over his grave.

  “Good heavens, how long have you been there?” The iron poker rattled to the floor. “Heel, Violet. That’s not the polite way to meet our guests, is it?” The dog sat down and looked for all the world as though she disagreed.

  But Joachim could merely gawp, his wits chased away by the sheer physical beauty of his host facing him now. Within a half second, his hand was firmly pumped and grasped in long fingers that would be elegant if not for the bitten-down nails.

  “I’m Ainsley Graham, but I reckon you know that, or you wouldn’t be here, would you?” The supernaturally good-looking man beamed as he continued to not only hold on to Joachim’s right hand, but to cover the knot of their palms with his other.

  In the dim light, Joachim was unable to make out the color of the gentleman’s eyes, which traced down his body even more intimately than the butler’s had. Silky, overlong hair drooped artfully over his smooth brow and shone like sunlight through a goblet of claret. His wide smile curved higher on the right.

  This expensively dressed ginger was simply the most magnificent creature Joachim had ever encountered in his life. Astonishing, since his brother Stuart often looked as though he’d rolled out of bed five minutes before hurrying to the university, with half his hair sticking up.

  “I’m Joachim Cockburn, how do you do?” His mouth was as dry as the Mojave.

  The infamous Dr. Graham’s gaze drifted down toward Joachim’s hips. “Cockburn?” His grin hinted at a leer. “One can only hope from the right reasons.”

  Before Joachim could scowl, Ainsley Graham sauntered to an already open crystal decanter and poured two drams of whiskey. Or dram and a half, really. He pushed one into Joachim’s hand and set his own down untouched, gesturing for his guest to sit.

  Relieved to get off his ankle, Joachim chose the corner of a sofa farthest from the fireplace and balanced his walking stick against the arm. Even with at least ten other options, his host sat so close on the same sofa that the spicy scent of his eau de cologne tickled Joachim’s nostrils and made him sneeze.

  Queer. Yet, at a different time and place it would be more than welcome. Stuart’s brother, he reminded himself and took a longer drink than he ought. Running his finger under his collar, Joachim gasped from the whiskey’s sharp bite and set it down on a side table with a thud.

  “I’m pleased that you got the telegram about my arrival. I worried that you’d wonder why a stranger showed up on your doorstep.” His laugh was forced but Ainsley Graham appeared not to have heard him. In fact, his focus was so intent on something behind Joachim’s head that he turned to look to see what it could be.

  Graham shook his head once and raised his eyes back to Joachim’s. Gray, perhaps? Or blue? It was too dark to tell but they were light and wide and so thickly lashed it was a wonder he could even prop open his eyelids.

  “Oh, I’d have been pleased to let you in, even without a telegram.” The redhead turned his body sideways, drawing his bare knee along Joachim’s thigh.

  Damnably close.

  Yet Joachim was unable to squirm away, even if he’d actually wished to. There was no room. “Er, well... Dr. Graham—”

  “Ainsley, please. Doctor sounds as though I should be decked in tweed and wear a monocle.” He flicked over Joachim’s tweed blazer and he shrugged, not in the least embarrassed. Or not showing it at any rate.

  “All right, Ainsley.” Joachim did his best to smile and behave as though his host’s body wasn’t pressed against his hip. And moving closer with each breath.

  Ainsley ran his fingertip across the bridge of the sofa near enough to touch Joachim’s shoulder. “What did you say your first name was again? I’m afraid I was too caught up in your pronunciation of your surname to give it proper due.”

  Blast the man. They did tend to say Coe-burn in Scotland, didn’t they? Joachim hadn’t been razzed so much in the army. Well, at least not since his time in the army. His nostrils flared and he swiveled his head to glare at his host, whose lips were pursed into a seductive pout.

  Frankly at a loss, Joachim reached for the whiskey, risking a second swallow. And then a third.

  “Joachim.” He said it without clenching his teeth, thanks to the silky warmth trailing down his throat.

  Graham’s hand inched nearer to the nape of Joachim’s neck, causing his skin to quiver. “What an appalling burden. Were your parents Puritans? Please tell me your friends call you something else.” For the first time there was a hint of Scots under the well-modulated boys’ school drawl.

  The whiskey’s headiness played off Joachim’s empty stomach and he almost laughed at the sincere rudeness of the question. “My father was a minister, my mother was Belgian. I’m named for my maternal grandfather. How about you call me Cockburn?”

  “Perhaps, if you play your cards right.” Ainsley Graham was most definitely staring at Joachim’s mouth. He unconsciously rubbed his lips together and flushed at the dazzling light that brightened Ainsley’s face when he laughed. “Our rascal Barley set me up, hasn’t he?”

  “Pardon?” Joachim tilted his head to the side, confused. Perhaps Stuart’s family called him Barley? It made no sense, but nickn
ames rarely did. His stomach growled and he coughed to cover it up.

  Ainsley lifted his glass and then set it back down without a drink, tapping his chin. “I’m sure Barley said your name was something less provocative, but I’m a good sport.” He stood and stretched his lean body like a cat before he pulled the servants’ bell. At least, Joachim assumed it was to alert servants—he’d never seen one before. But in a house this size, there must be a better method than shouting to fetch someone.

  “I sent everyone—including my mother—away aside from Nelson, and he’ll be serving supper before he leaves, too. Nothing fancy, but I don’t think you came for the food, did you?” Ainsley winked and refilled Joachim’s glass, clinking it against the side of his before settling back down on the sofa. Any closer, and he’ll be in my lap.

  Bloody hell, the room was over-warm, matching his host’s gaze. “I didn’t, and I’m not particular about what I eat. I came to mine your brain for research, didn’t I?” Because it was best to discuss his purpose for coming such a long way. He had a doctoral thesis to write, after all: the manifestation of delusions in those otherwise accounted as sane.

  From what he’d read, Ainsley Graham fit the bill.

  After a lecture two weeks earlier, Stuart Graham had found Joachim at a pub reading one of Ainsley’s books. Once Stuart finished his drink, he sheepishly admitted to their being brothers and offered to wrangle an introduction. Assured Joachim that he would be welcomed for a visit to see the haunted sites Ainsley had publicly verified to the chagrin of his university colleagues.

  “Is he sane?” Joachim’s stomach had lurched at the idea of spending a week with a madman. He’d spent countless hours working at the asylum near his university, but those were patients and Joachim wasn’t alone with any of the truly dangerous ones.

  Stuart had flushed with what may have been relief, or perhaps his third gin, nodding. “Er, yes. Let’s say he’s an eccentric. Ainsley’s a certified genius with no sense of self-preservation, whatsoever.” He excused it with the comment that Ainsley was the result of a second marriage to a flighty woman who’d indulged her own three children to the point of criminality. And if Ainsley Graham was a bit of a crank, that was all her doing.