The Devil Wears Kilts

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Wait till Winnie catches the scent of baked trout,” Munro drawled, heading upstairs. “That’ll entice her.” He paused, glancing over his shoulder. “A game of darts, Lach?”

  Once the other two men had gone, Arran turned and angled his chin at the butler. With a quick nod Cooper and two accompanying footmen disappeared into the bowels of the great house. Ranulf leaned back against the foyer wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “What?”

  “Just that ye and I and Bear ’ave all been to England and returned undamaged.”

  “’Tis nae the same,” Ranulf countered. “I, at the least, wasnae wide-eyed and expecting a fairy tale. And as I recall, ye had something of a run-in with a war.”

  “I served, just as I was supposed to. Don’t evade the point, Ran.”

  “What point was that?”

  “Winnie’s got a bee in her bonnet, and telling her no isnae going to stop her wanting to go.”

  “I’ll nae have it, Arran. If the Sasannach had their way, there’d be naught but sheep in all the Highlands, and our entire clan tossed into the wind with all the rest. All the English want is money. And control. I’m not giving my only sister over to them. She’s Scottish, and she’ll stay in Scotland. She has a husband waiting for her, once Lachlan comes to realize she’s nae a bairn any longer.”

  “Unless Lach has a different lass in mind. But that’s beside the point, now. Rowena’s also half English,” Arran said quietly. “As are ye and Munro and I.”

  “Not the half that matters,” he retorted, then took a breath. “I’m nae having this argument with her, or with ye, or with anyone else. She stays at Glengask. She’s safer here.”

  Arran opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Ye might at least explain your reasoning to her, then.”

  He’d done so, until he was out of breath, voice, and patience. “If she doesnae know why by now, she’ll simply have to accept my decision for what it is. She stays, and she’ll have a grand party she can sulk through if she wishes to.”

  “Ah. Sounds grand, that.”

  Ranulf sent his brother a sideways glance that had Arran taking a half step back. “She knows better than to push me,” he said. “I willnae discuss it with her again, and I’m nae wasting any more breath on it arguing with ye.”

  “Aye, we all know better than to fight ye.” Arran turned for the door. “Think I’ll join Munro and go throw some wee pointy things at the wall.”

  For a moment Ranulf considered joining his brothers and Lachlan, but odds were that the three of them were discussing whether a Season in London would be so bad for Rowena. They would be reminiscing about the handful of years they’d spent at Oxford, and their own infrequent trips down to Town. Arran, especially, would reflect that his four years spent in His Majesty’s Army hadn’t made him any less a Scot. They were all correct, and they were all wrong.

  Rowena didn’t want a holiday in a faraway place. She’d read their mother’s journals, and she’d become enamored of a soft life of parties and lace gowns and men who spent as much time on their dress as any woman. She thought she wanted to be English.

  She would grow out of it, of course, realize that a life of dull, idle distractions and snobbery wasn’t much of a life at all, but until then she would damned well stay at Glengask. Under his watchful eye. Under his protection. Whether she appreciated his efforts, or not. It was a simple equation, really. He was the Marquis of Glengask, the chief of Clan MacLawry and all its dependents, and whatever rules they might try to make in England, here his word was law.

  He still should go down to one of the villages, as he did nearly every day, but he had little desire to do so. Instead he sent Cooper to have Mrs. Forrest, the cook, make an extra pan of baked fish for the morning. Father Dyce would make good use of the bounty for the poorest of the cotters below. All of which left him with an unexpected bit of the most rare of things: time. He’d seen most of his tasks done yesterday, so that he could devote the day to Rowena’s celebration. Scowling, Ranulf glanced in the direction of the stairs. Perhaps he’d spoiled her, but what was an older brother to do but see that his only sister and youngest sibling had everything she could ever desire?

  “M’laird?”

  Ranulf turned. “What is it, Cooper?”

  The old Scot shuffled his feet. That in itself was odd; Cooper generally had a fierce pride about his station, and he’d been known to box the ears of footmen for the offense of slouching. “There’s … a bit of confusion over someaught.”

  “What confusion?” Narrowing his eyes, Ranulf resisted the urge to order the butler to hurry it up. That would only rattle the fellow, and he’d never get out a sensible word.

  “The … ah, Debny mentioned to Mrs. Forrest that they’d borrowed the phaeton, but since it was early she didn’t see fit to mention it to me, but now … well, it’s past sunset and there’s no … that is to say, the—”

  “Who borrowed the phaeton?” Ranulf interrupted, realizing that if he didn’t direct a question they would never get to the end of the tale.

  “Mitchell, m’laird. I presume fer Lady Winnie. A’course they do go out, but like I said, it’s getting late, and they’ve nae taken the dogs or any riders with them, and—”

  Ranulf missed the last bit of the butler’s speech, as he was already halfway up the stairs, ice piercing his chest. “Arran!” he bellowed as he ran. “Munro!”

  Rowena’s bedchamber looked as though a stiff north wind had blown through it. Clothes and bedding were strewn everywhere, bits of burned paper spilled out of the generous hearth, and the wide-open windows let the Highlands evening chill flow into the room. But at the same time …

  “Ran! What th’devil is—”

  “Christ. Did someone take her?” Arran stumbled in just behind Munro, Lachlan on their heels. “Damned Gerdenses. They’ll bleed for this!”

  “Wait, Arran,” Ranulf ordered, squatting down to run his hand through the burned papers and shoving away the dogs when they crowded in, yipping nervously. He’d seen true chaos before, and this looked a mite too orderly. Old clothes thrown about, but nothing that she truly liked to wear. Bed unmade, but she hadn’t been in it for hours and hours. He lifted up one of the larger pieces. The words “lue shoes” were just visible, with something directly below that looked like “hairbrush.”

  “What’ve you got, Ran?” Munro asked, crouching beside him. His brother’s jaw was tight, his fists clenched. There was a reason they’d nicknamed Munro the Bear, and it wasn’t because he enjoyed logical discussion. “We’re wasting time.”

  “It’s a list,” Ranulf returned, straightening. “Or part of one. No one took her anywhere. She took herself, her and Mitchell. To London.”

  “In the phaeton?” Cooper broke in.

  “No doubt we’ll find it at the nearest coaching inn. That’s how they’ll travel.”

  “To L— By herself?” Arran slammed a fist into a bedpost. “She’s daft.”

  “What she is,” Ranulf returned slowly, digging out another piece of paper with a singed bit of address on it, “is in a great deal of trouble.”

  Lachlan stirred. “Ye three get packed. I’ll have Debny saddle the horses.”

  “Nae, Lachlan. Have Debny ready the heavy coach.” He looked up to see Cooper lurking in the doorway. “Cooper, have Peter and Owen pack their things. And send Mr. Cameron up here.”

  “The coach?” Arran repeated as the butler hurried downstairs. “Ye’ll never catch up with a mail coach in that beast.”

  “They have nearly ten hours head start, and a plan which no doubt includes a false identity,” Ranulf said, the deepening fury in his chest mixing with a fair amount of worry. “At least it had better.”

  “What are ye talking aboot, Ran?”

  “What I’m talking aboot, Bear, is that she’d best know by now that she has more to avoid than just us. And I’ll nae be seen by the Gerdenses and their lot screeching like a banshee as I race across the countryside. I’ll follow close enough to make c
ertain no one stops her, and I’ll catch her up in London.” He glanced down at the half-burned scrap again. “At Hanover House, evidently. And then I’ll drag her arse back home.”

  “And us? Ye expect us to sit on our hands?”

  Ranulf looked over at Arran. “I do, indeed. Ye know that we need to have a MacLawry here at Glengask. And two sets of eyes’ll do ye both better. Word will get oot that I’ve gone. I dunnae want anyone to see that as an invitation to come and make trouble. Or that I’ve abandoned our people.”

  “The Gerdenses and Campbells’ll more likely see it as a chance to waylay ye on the highway,” Munro growled. “Ye can’t go with naught but two footmen for protection, Ran.”

  “I’ll go,” Lachlan put in.

  “No, ye willnae. I’ll nae have Rowena doing something even more foolish to try t’make ye jealous or someaught.”

  “But she’s … she’s like my sister, Ran. I would never—”

  Ranulf lowered his brow. “Even more reason for ye to stay behind.” Whatever it was Rowena thought she was up to, he wasn’t about to muddle the stew any further. Not even with the man for whom she’d set her cap. “I’ll have the dogs with me. And both of those footmen, as ye call ’em, fought on the Peninsula with Wellington just as ye did, Arran. They’ll do fer me.”

  “Aye, but—”

  “No more arguments. Any of ye. I’m leaving for London in an hour. Stay here and make certain Rowena and I have a home to come back to. Ye’ll see us within a fortnight, even if I have to tie her up and throw her over a horse.”

  London. Damnation. Rowena would be lucky if his throwing her over a horse was the worst that happened to her. To both of them.

  Chapter One

  “There’s no need to worry on that account; Jane welcomes any excuse to shop.” With a grin, Lady Charlotte Hanover kissed her sister on the nose, then stood.

  “I’ve no wish to upend your schedule,” Lady Rowena MacLawry returned in her soft, lilting accent. “It’s poor enough of me to arrive on your doorstep with nary a warning.”

  “Nonsense.” Lady Jane Hanover gripped her friend’s hand. “I’ve been inviting you to visit for what seems like years. Your mother and my mother were practically sisters. Weren’t you, Mama?”

  “Yes, we were.” Elizabeth Hanover, the Countess of Hest, nodded. “And I’m so pleased you began corresponding with Jane. You do look so like Eleanor, you know.” She sighed, offering a soft smile. “You’re welcome here, my dear, for as long as you care to stay. And of course I’ll sponsor your Season. It’s only fitting that you and Jane debut together.”

  Jane clapped her hands together. “You see? You should have come down ages ago, Winnie.”

  “Oh, I wanted to, believe you me. It’s only Ran who dug in his heels about it. He thinks every Englishman is…” She trailed off, clearing her throat. “Well, he’s very narrow-minded when it comes to London.”

  She flipped a hand, laughing, but to Charlotte’s gaze young Lady Rowena didn’t look entirely at ease. Of course she was fairly certain she wouldn’t be, either, if she’d traveled alone with no one but her maid through half of Scotland and nearly the entire length of England. Clearly Winnie had badly wanted a London Season.

  For an overprotective brother, this Ranulf MacLawry had failed in rather spectacular fashion. A young lady who’d never left her own shire had no business navigating England alone. Or of traveling in a mail coach. Charlotte had half a mind to write Lord Glengask and tell him precisely that. Surely no one could be so ignorant as to think it unnecessary even to send a letter to precede his sister to ensure that someone would be home to greet her and to take her in for the Season. It was … it was unconscionable, even for someone ignorant of English custom. Surely he could read a newspaper, after all. And he must have a modicum of common sense.

  She exchanged a glance with her father, who lifted an eyebrow before returning to the conversation. Jonathan Hanover, the Earl of Hest, was not a fan of chaos or upheaval of any kind, but he did dote on Jane and her to excess. Of course Lady Rowena would be welcomed into the house, and she would never see so much as a hint from him or anyone else that he would rather the family didn’t have live-in company for the Season.

  Longfellow, the butler, and two footmen arrived with cold sandwiches and tea for them; it was far past dinner, and evidently Mrs. Broomly had gone from the kitchen to spend the night with her very pregnant daughter near Tottenham Court. As the servants set out plates, the knocker at the front door rapped.

  “I’ll see to it, Longfellow,” Charlotte said, since she was already standing and nearest the hallway door.

  “Thank you, milady.”

  By the time she’d made her way the short distance from the sitting room to the foyer, the rapping had turned to pounding. “For heaven’s sake,” she muttered, and pulled open the door. “What is so ur…” Charlotte began, then nearly swallowed her tongue.

  A wall stood on the front portico. Well, perhaps he wasn’t as wide as a wall, though his shoulders were certainly broad. But he towered over her by a good ten inches, and most of her fellows considered her tall. As all of that rattled nonsensically through her brain, though, what she most noticed were the blue, blue eyes currently glaring icily down his straight, perfectly carved nose at her.

  “I’m here for Rowena MacLawry,” he said without preamble, rich Highland Scot in his voice.

  Charlotte blinked. Winnie, as Rowena had asked them to call her, had arrived less than an hour ago; taking a hack from the coaching inn. As far as she knew, no one else was aware of their visitor’s presence in London. No one but Rowena’s family, that was. They, however, remained in Scotland—so far as she knew.

  “I didnae come all this way to be gaped at,” the mountain stated into the short silence. “Rowena MacLawry. Now.”

  “I was not gaping at you, sir,” Charlotte retorted, though she was quite aware that she didn’t seem to be able to look away from that fierce, stunning countenance. It was if a black-haired god of war had simply … appeared on her doorstep. “Most visitors come to the door with a calling card, or at least with a word or two of polite greeting and introduction before they expect to be allowed past the foyer.”

  His eyes narrowed. It wasn’t ice she saw in that deep blue, Charlotte realized, but something much more heated and angry. “I’m nae a visitor,” he said, steel beneath the soft lilt. “And if the English think a wee lass barring the door is enough to keep me from what’s mine, they’re madder than I recall.”

  His? This was becoming very strange, indeed. And there was no blasted need to be insulting. “I am not a wee anyth—”

  He stepped forward. Putting his large hands around her waist, he lifted her off her feet only to set her down behind him on the portico—all before she could do anything more than take a gasping breath. By then he was well inside Hanover House.

  “Rowena!” he bellowed, striding down the hallway.

  Charlotte settled her skirts and charged after him. “Stop that yelling at once!” she ordered.

  For all the attention he paid her stalking behind him, she might as well have been an insect. “Rowena! I’ll see yer arse here before me, or I’ll knock this house down around yer blasted ears!”

  Longfellow and a trio of footmen dashed out of the sitting room. The big Scot pushed them aside as if they were no more than bowling pins. He shoved into the room they’d exited, Charlotte on his booted heels. Given the physical … presence he radiated, she expected to see Lady Rowena cowering behind a chair. Instead, however, the petite young lady stood in the middle of the room, her color high and her hands on her hips.

  “What the devil are ye doing here, Ranulf?” she demanded.

  “The coach is outside. Ye have one minute to be inside it.”

  “Ran, y—”

  “Fifty-five seconds.”

  Rowena seemed to deflate. As she lowered her head, a tear ran down one cheek. “My things?” she quavered.

  “What … what is the meaning
of this, and who the devil are you, sir?” Lord Hest demanded.

  The dark-haired head swiveled to pin the earl with a glare. The devil, indeed. “Glengask.” He returned his attention to Rowena. “Go get Mitchell and yer things. If ye run in the meantime, we’ll return to Glengask by way of St. Mary’s, where I’ll leave ye off. A decade or so with nuns should cool yer heels.”

  Another tear joined the first. “Ye’re a beast, Ranulf MacLawry,” Winnie whispered, and fled past him and Charlotte out of the room.

  “Glengask. Lady Rowena’s brother?” her sister, Jane, said in a thready voice. “The marquis?”

  “Aye,” he returned, his tone still clipped and angry.

  “It was our understanding that you sent Lady Rowena to us for her Season,” Charlotte’s father stated. From his tight expression he was furious, and that didn’t surprise her at all. People—much less bellowing blue-eyed devil Scotsmen—did not barge into proper households such as theirs unannounced. Ever.

  “Because ye wouldnae think twice over sending a young lass into a foreign land with no advance word. Or is it only a Scotsman ye’d believe would do such a mad thing?”

  “She told us you’d sent her here,” Charlotte put in.

  The Marquis of Glengask turned around to face her. “She told an idiot lie and ye believed it. Now get out of m’way, lass, and we’ll be gone from this damned place.”

  Rowena had called her brother a beast, and Charlotte saw nothing to contradict that assessment. And she did not like men who thought with their fists and large muscles. Not any more than she liked being called a lass and dismissed—twice now—as something no more significant than a flea. She squared her shoulders. “I am Lady Charlotte Hanover, and you will address me properly, sir. Furthermore, until we are assured that your sister is safe in your company, she isn’t going anywhere.”