The Devil Wears Kilts

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Yes. And a dozen or so other young ladies, too,” the younger Hanover sister said, her voice unsteady. In fact she looked at him as if she expected him to leap on her, claws and teeth bared.

  Beside her, the older sister looked much more composed as she nodded her agreement. The golden curls hanging from the knot at the back of her head swayed silkily from side to side. “This is the first Assembly of the Season. She won’t be standing there alone.”

  “And who is it gives them permission to waltz? Who are these patronesses the bloody Society page is always wagging on about?”

  “Well, it’s a group of very influential, aristocratic women. Lady Jersey, for one, and Lady Cowper, and Lady Est—”

  “Jersey. She’s Prince George’s old mistress.”

  Lady Charlotte’s fair cheeks darkened. “No, that was her mother-in-law,” she said crisply. “But proper young ladies do not discuss such things, regardless.”

  Ranulf cocked his head. “Ye lot have an odd idea aboot what’s acceptable, then. Why give any o’them the leave to pass judgment on every lass who walks into the Assembly rooms? That’s daft.”

  From Charlotte’s expression she didn’t appreciate having to explain her peers to a barbarian such as himself, but he’d be damned if he’d let Rowena walk into something where he didn’t know all the facts. It would be bad enough if some elderly woman of unblemished reputation were to give the nod, but foreign princesses and daughters of royal castoffs? Ridiculous.

  “Aren’t there people in your … village or town or—”

  “Clan,” Rowena supplied.

  “Clan,” Charlotte took up, nodding her thanks, “who have to acknowledge when a girl becomes a lady, or a boy becomes a man, or when two people may marry? All the social minutiae a society requires?”

  “Aye,” he returned, not seeing any similarity in the two situations at all. “That would be me.”

  Her eyes widened, hazel darkened almost to brown by the yellow sprigged muslin she wore. “You?”

  “Ran’s the chief of Clan MacLawry,” Rowena explained, a touch of pride entering her tone. Good; at least she wasn’t embarrassed to be a MacLawry. Not yet, anyway. “It’s the largest clan still with its main seat in the Highlands.”

  “With its only seat in the Highlands,” he amended with a slight frown.

  “I’m not quite certain what all that means, I’m afraid,” Lady Charlotte said, continuing to eye him. It wasn’t the same apprehensive look he had from her sister, though. Mostly, she seemed curious.

  “I’ve nae the time nor the inclination t’explain it to ye at this moment.” She wouldn’t understand, and he didn’t like being ogled like some two-headed lamb. Ranulf gestured at his sister. “If she’s to be presented at Almack’s, what’s required?”

  Rowena threw her arms around him. “Thank ye so much, Ran! This means the world to me!”

  He put a finger beneath her chin, tilting her face up to look at him, admitting to himself that he’d lost yet another argument before he’d even begun it. At least this time he could blame himself rather than the blond-haired witch. “I know it does, my dear one. Just ye keep in mind that ye’re the world to me. I do mean to keep ye safe, Rowena.”

  “I know ye will, bràthair.”

  “Oh, it’s perfectly safe on Bond Street,” Jane said emphatically. “We need to get Winnie fitted for a gown. I’ve had mine for ages.”

  Clearly he was missing something again, but rather than beginning another conversation over what was wrong with the gowns she’d brought with her—the gowns he’d bought for her—he nodded. “It’ll be safer still with me aboot. Let’s be off then, shall we?”

  As they left the foyer the two eighteen-year-olds linked arms and practically skipped down the front steps. Ranulf gestured at his two men, and both of them dismounted, handing the reins over to the affronted-looking Hanover stable boys.

  “We’re off to Bond Street,” he said in a low voice, as they reached him. “Owen, ye stay to the left, and ye get the right, Debny.”

  “On foot?” Debny returned, scowling.

  “Aye. On foot.”

  “I’m a groom. Nae a … man who walks.”

  “Today ye’re a man who walks,” he returned, hiding a smile. Turning, he caught sight of the Hanover sisters eyeing Fergus and Una, who seemed to be viewing them with equal interest.

  “What are those?” Jane asked with an obvious shiver. “They’re big as ponies.”

  Ranulf flashed a grin and whistled the dogs to his side. “These are my hellhounds,” he drawled.

  “Oh, stop it, Ran.” Rowena walked over and knelt between the hounds, who then nearly turned themselves inside out with licks and tail-wagging. “The big one is Fergus, and the wee lass is Una. They’re Scottish deerhounds.”

  “‘Wee’ one?” Lady Charlotte repeated, lifting an eyebrow. “Good heavens.”

  “They’ll keep an eye on us,” Rowena said, standing again. “Let’s be off, Janie.”

  That left Ranulf gazing at Lady Charlotte. “Do the dogs frighten ye, my lady?” he asked.

  “No. They are very … wild looking, though.”

  “Aye. They’re a touch bristly. But they’ll outrun a greyhound on uneven ground.” For a moment he continued looking at her, but beginning to feel rather … odd, he gestured toward the vanishing debutantes. “After ye, my lady.”

  With the other two giggling and whispering, he fell in with Lady Charlotte several yards behind them. This afternoon he would find a map of this damned place so he would know where he was going. At the moment he felt far too vulnerable, following two bairns thirteen years his junior.

  “Guards truly aren’t necessary on Bond Street,” Lady Charlotte commented, glancing over her shoulder at the dour Debny and then at the hounds on Ranulf’s heels.

  “It may be safe and civilized for ye, my lady,” he returned, “but I’m a stranger here, and I’ll keep watch over those under my protection.”

  Her lips curved again in a smile. To himself he could admit that she had a pretty smile; if he’d favored tall, skinny English women who spoke when they shouldn’t, he would even say she had skin that looked as smooth as fine cream, and that up close her hair shone like silken sunshine.

  “Are Janie and I under your protection, then?” she asked, amusement in her voice.

  “Laugh if ye want, but aye. Ye’ve taken in a member of my family. That makes ye clan to me.”

  “But we’re not Scottish.”

  He tilted his head. “Nobody’s perfect.” Ranulf moved a breath closer to her. Her hair smelled of roses, he noted, ignoring the responding tug in his gut. “And I’d thank ye to keep in mind that what’s safe for Mayfair ladies might not be so fer a Highland lass.”

  This time she looked full at him, spears of green lit by sunlight deep in her eyes. “It speaks well of you that you’re so protective of your sister,” she said after a moment, “but have you considered that she might not have tried to escape if your grip hadn’t been so tight?”

  So this skinny, fair-haired woman thought she had him dissected and analyzed and stuck on a pin. “I’ll nae have a Sasannach woman telling me the right or wrong of what I’m doing,” he snapped. “Ye dunnae know me, or mine, or anything aboot me. And ye’ll nae advise me how to raise my own sister.”

  Chapter Two

  Charlotte stared at the Marquis of Glengask. Good heavens. She’d seen his lack of manners last night at being delayed in seeing his sister, but she had the sudden realization that she wouldn’t want to be there when he was truly enraged. His blue eyes practically crackled as he met her gaze, daring her to argue with him further.

  Taking a breath, she inclined her head. “You’re absolutely correct, my lord. I don’t know you, and I have no right to criticize or advise you. What I do know is how I felt when I was Winnie’s age. She’s not a girl you can raise any longer. She’s a young lady with her own goals and dreams.”

  “And still ye argue,” he muttered.

&nb
sp; “You don’t mean to tell me that women in Scotland are mute, do you? You’ve had conversations with females before, surely.”

  For a moment he walked beside her in silence, his massive wild-haired gray hounds keeping pace with him. Hellhounds, indeed. Undoubtedly he’d been called the devil, before. And this devil was an impressive specimen, indeed.

  “Aye,” he said after a moment. “I’ve had conversations with females before. None who cared to risk a brawl, though. Lasses who know their place,” he finally said, something warmer touching his voice.

  As if she would ever attempt to brawl with anyone. “Their place being in total agreement with everything you utter, I suppose? And for your information, an argument does not equate a wish to brawl,” she said stiffly, picking up her pace.

  “Where I come from, it does. If ye question a man’s judgment in caring for his own, ye’re like to meet his fist. If ye’re a man to begin with, that is. I’d nae strike a woman.”

  “What a relief,” she returned sarcastically. “A fight is the resort of those who can’t sensibly and logically defend their position with words. It’s for prideful braggarts and bullies who think only of themselves.”

  “Words dunnae win battles, lass.”

  Evidently he enjoyed an argument as well, whether he’d admit to it or not, since he persisted in countering everything she said. Goodness, he had no manners at all. “No, Lord Glengask. Words prevent battles—or brawls, or duels—from beginning in the first place.”

  “Hm.”

  She glanced up at him again. He could disagree with her, of course, even though his philosophy of battle before compromise was clearly wrong. But dismissing her—her argument—as insignificant, was not acceptable. “That’s your response?” she said aloud.

  “My response is that I cannae argue the reasons I’m willing to fight. Nae to someone who’s never met a cause worth fighting for, lass. Ye’re English; I cannae expect ye to understand.”

  That rather made her want to yell and stomp her feet, but luckily they arrived at the dress shop before she could conjure an appropriate retort. No wonder the Scots had such a reputation for savagery and barbarism. The men, at the least, were clearly lunatics.

  Winnie went directly to the skeins of rich, jewel-colored fabric, which would never do for Almack’s. “A debutante must wear white,” Charlotte said, turning her back to the hot-blooded mountain and nodding as the dressmaker herself appeared from the back of the shop. “Mrs. Arven, we require an Almack’s gown for Lady Rowena here. Would you show her some appropriate material?”

  “Oh, certainly, my lady. This way, Lady Rowena, Lady Jane,” Mrs. Arven replied, somehow managing to clap her hands together, curtsy, and walk all at the same time.

  The massive dogs stood in the corner where the marquis had ordered them to go, their muzzles wrinkled as if they couldn’t puzzle out the scent of perfume and freshly laundered cloth. The two guards or grooms or whatever they were looked nearly as out of place in the small, feminine shop, and even more so when a chattering quartet of young ladies and a glowering mama crowded inside, as well. The Marquis of Glengask, barely dressed for polite company, wasn’t much better suited, and he was even more difficult to overlook.

  “Lady Charlotte Hanover, isn’t it?” the mama said, pushing past her brood to walk closer and offer her hand.

  Charlotte looked at her more closely, not easy to do considering the woman’s enormous green hat. “Lady Breckett,” she returned, putting on a smile. “And this must be Miss Florence.”

  The round brunette with the freckled nose tore her gaze from Glengask and giggled. “I am. And these are my cousins, Elizabeth, Victoria, and Lucille Hunsacker.”

  “Ladies.”

  “Is Lady Jane selecting a gown for Almack’s?” Lady Breckett asked, joining her daughter in glancing past Charlotte at the hard, shadowed mountain in the corner. She should likely introduce him, but abruptly she didn’t want to.

  She told herself that her reluctance was entirely logical. All she needed was to begin tongues wagging that she traveled in the company of Scottish brutes and devils. Heaven forfend if he began a brawl with the fainthearted Lady Breckett. Or even an argument.

  “Jane has hers already,” Charlotte said aloud. “My mother is also sponsoring a dear family friend. Are you attending the assembly this Wednesday, Miss Florence?”

  “Oh, yes.” Florence bounced on her toes. “I’ve been practicing every dance, and most especially the waltz. It will be so very exciting.”

  The trio of Hunsacker girls were now all openly staring at Glengask behind her, muttering and giggling and batting their lashes behind their hands. She supposed if she didn’t say something now, it would cause more of a stir than if she simply introduced him. Damnation. With a tight smile, hoping he wouldn’t discuss walloping in front of four impressionable young women, she gestured at him.

  “My apologies. Lady Breckett, Miss Florence, Miss Elizabeth, Miss Victoria, Miss Lucille, may I present Lord Glengask? It’s his sister, Lady Rowena, making her debut.”

  They curtsied in a ragged wave. “I don’t recall seeing you in London before, my lord,” Viscountess Breckett commented.

  “I’ve nae been here,” he returned in his low, rumbling brogue.

  “Oh, you’re Scottish,” one of the Hunsackers exclaimed, in the same tone she might have noted that he’d jumped down from the moon.

  “Aye. I am.”

  “We’ve been to Edinburgh,” the Hunsacker girl went on, while the other two blushed and nodded. “With our papa and mama. Papa has a baronetcy there. He’s Lord Terrill. He says his side of the family started out Scottish, but saw…” She trailed off, her pink cheeks paling.

  Charlotte couldn’t see Glengask’s expression from where he stood at her shoulder, but she could almost feel it. Oh, dear. Under cover of shifting her reticule she elbowed him in the ribs. She might as well have been shoving at Gibraltar, but then he stirred.

  “Is it only Miss Florence here being presented at Almack’s?” he asked in a surprisingly mild tone.

  “Oh, yes. I debuted last year, Lucille’s nearly twenty, and Elizabeth won’t be able to attend until next year,” the shortest of the trio—Victoria, by process of elimination—explained. “Lucille and I will be there to dance, though.” She lowered her head, eyeing the marquis through her lashes.

  Glengask nodded, then turned his attention to the stiff statues by the door. “Keep an eye on Rowena,” he ordered, then offered his arm to Charlotte. “Will ye show me where that boot shop is now, Lady Charlotte?” he drawled.

  Half by reflex she put her hand on his sleeve. His arm beneath felt like iron. “Certainly,” she heard herself say.

  “Ladies,” he continued with a very slight nod, and walked past them to pull open the shop’s door. “Fergus, Una, come along.”

  Outside he began walking with a long, ground-eating stride that had the deerhounds trotting. Charlotte kept up for a block or so, then tightened her grip on his sleeve and pulled. For a heartbeat she thought he might simply drag her off her feet, but then he came to an abrupt stop.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, keeping hold of him so he couldn’t walk off and leave her standing there, mouth agape.

  He faced her, six feet four inches of annoyed Highlander. “So in this polite Society of yers,” he murmured, his voice a low growl, “the polished, schooled lass is permitted to insult nae just me, but all of Scotland—and I’m the one asked to pretend all’s right with the world?”

  “She didn’t insult you. Well, she very nearly did, but then she stopped herself. And the reason you have to be polite about it is because your sister knows no one in London but Jane, my mother, and me. If you begin walloping people, verbally or otherwise, you’ll only make things difficult for her.”

  His gaze became more speculative. “Ye’re to be my conscience then, are ye?”

  Charlotte offered him a smile, though she was fairly certain she wasn’t at all capable of assuming that tre
mendous responsibility. “A guide, perhaps. When you wish one.”

  “Or when ye feel I need one. You were certain I was aboot to blast that lass, or ye wouldnae have knocked me in the ribs.”

  Other shoppers were beginning to eye them—or rather, him—curiously, but no one complained about having to move around the two of them as they blocked the way. She couldn’t imagine, though, that many of them would dare challenge such a formidable-looking man. Not directly, anyway.

  “I think you know what’s polite and acceptable, whether you choose to behave in that manner or not—which is why you left the shop when you did.” She grimaced. “The Hunsacker girls know better as well, silly things. What I didn’t know was whether you would take your sister’s situation into account.”

  She half expected that to spark another argument, but when his gaze met hers again she saw a fair degree of amusement in them. The sight made her forget for a moment what they’d been discussing. Charlotte had seen paintings of some of the Scottish lakes, and his eyes were precisely the color she imagined one of the those deep, still lochs would be under a Scottish summer sun.

  After a moment he gestured down the street with his free hand, and they set off at a much more sedate pace. “I’ve a question for ye,” he asked conversationally.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Ye’re what, three-and-twenty?”

  “Twenty-five. I had my birthday this spring.” And she knew what was coming next. Why was she still unmarried? What foolish thing had she done to make herself unmarriageable? She’d heard them all by now, after all. The only real question was how she wished to answer. And how she felt having this large, volatile Scotsman asking her such an intimate thing.

  “Were ye in London, then, the year Donald Campbell came down and made all that ruckus?”