“The…” Charlotte stifled a frown. It took her a moment to even recall what he was talking about, it was so far removed from the conversation she’d thought they were about to have. “That was actually the year before my debut,” she said slowly, remembering, “but we were in London for the Season. Mr. Campbell was pursuing some woman, as I recall. He wouldn’t leave her alone, and her brother shot him.”
“So that’s the story.”
By now they’d reached the end of Bond Street, and he turned them right along Picadilly and then south on Queen’s Walk, heading away from Mayfair. Green Park lay to their right, but once they passed that, she would have very little idea where they were. And of course he was likely lost already. But the conversation was quite interesting. “That’s not the true story, then?”
“Nae. Campbell came down after Jenny Baxter. The Campbells and the MacMillans—that’s the Baxter clan—have had a feud going on fer a hundred years or more, now. Her brother Thomas caught wind of the courtship and shot Donald dead on ’is own front step. Then he hauled his sister back to Scotland and married her off to a cattle drover afore the end of the month. A year later someone shot Thomas Baxter in the head while he was out fishing. Rumor has it, it was Donald Campbell’s uncle.”
“That’s terrible!” she exclaimed.
“That’s the Highlands. The order of faith there is clan, country, and God.”
Charlotte looked up at him again. “You’re the chief of your clan.”
“Aye.”
“How many people are in Clan MacLawry, then?”
He shrugged. “All the MacLawrys, the Laurences, MacTiers, Lenoxes, Tyrells, and all the families under them. These days it’s more aboot land and coin, but when we measure it by true strength, near three thousand fighting men.”
“That’s … that’s an army.”
“Aye.” The smile on his sensuous mouth was grim and cynical. “Nae someaught the other clans can manage any longer, with the lairds clearing out their cotters to make room for grazing sheep. And nae someaught the Crown likes, with us sitting on their shoulder, as we do.”
They stopped beneath an oak tree at the far end of Green Park, and the dogs flopped to the ground, tongues lolling. Just how far had they wandered from Mrs. Arven’s dress shop? “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I’ve given Rowena into yer household,” he returned quietly, his gaze studying hers. There was more to him than arrogance and brute strength, she realized abruptly, wondering why she hadn’t noticed it before. Behind his brogue and his bold words she glimpsed a keen, measured intelligence, a thoughtfulness she would never have expected on first—or second—meeting.
“Yes?” she prompted, even more curious now about the point he was obviously attempting to make.
“I want ye to understand why I have guards watching over her, and why ye and yer family need t’keep a careful eye on her. She’s accustomed to feeling safe, and doesnae consider that she’s been safe because she has three brothers and a great part of her clan keeping her that way.”
“Is it truly that dangerous for her to be here?” And for him to be here, for that matter, but she didn’t ask that aloud. With every ounce of her being she wanted to look around the quiet edge of the park for danger, though she had no idea what to look for.
“It could be. I ken ye didnae expect this trouble. If ye no longer wish the responsibility of having her in yer household, I’ll collect her today. I doubt an English family wants to be this close to clan troubles. And with yer distaste of punching, ye especially.”
That was an insult, of course, but she thought she understood the reason for it. This man standing before her, gazing at her, close enough to touch, was the nearest thing to a king that could be found in Scotland these days. He had enemies. Scottish—Highland—enemies who shot each other on the front steps of their own houses. Stupid, avoidable, prideful violence, more than likely over something no one remembered any longer.
“I should discuss this with my father,” she said evenly, “but I imagine he’ll only say what I’m about to.”
“And what might that be?”
“None of this … mess would seem to be Winnie’s doing. She wants only to enjoy a fortnight in Mayfair. I believe we can manage that for her.”
After a long moment he nodded. “Good. Though I’ll still be keeping a close eye on ye.”
Charlotte lifted an eyebrow, attempting to ignore the way her heartbeat accelerated at his words. “On me, or on Winnie?”
Glengask leaned in, his gaze on her face intent and unreadable. “Aye.”
Her heart fluttered again, a low shiver beneath her skin both warm and unexpected. Why, she had no idea; she couldn’t fall for his charms, because he had none. Or none that she cared to recall. And he was not the sort of man who interested her in the first place.
Before she could tell herself that she hoped he wouldn’t … kiss her or something, he straightened again. A glint of humor warmed the blue of his eyes as he held out his arm. “I think we’d best make our way back to the dress shop, before anything uncivilized happens.”
With a sigh she couldn’t quite hide, Charlotte took his sleeve again. He still seemed determined to antagonize her, but somewhere this morning she’d stopped finding it quite as annoying as she had at the beginning of their conversation. Of course she’d known him for less than a day. At least she could be assured that he hadn’t gone out of his way to be other than what he was. She doubted he could dissemble if he wished to, and that, at least, was … refreshing.
“What are ye smiling at?” he asked, his glance taking her in before he shifted his attention back to their surroundings.
“Honesty,” she replied.
* * *
Almack’s.
Ranulf had read about the supremely proper Assembly, of course, mostly with a degree of disbelief that anyone would actually tolerate attending such a place. He’d half decided that the stories must be an exaggeration, tales that grew in spectacular fashion with each retelling.
As he stood, stiffly dressed in a new black jacket and gray trousers, with a plaid black-and-gray waistcoat—a poor tartan lacking the red threading of the MacLawry banner, but the only bit of Scotland the strict dress code would allow—he could see with his own eyes that the stories were all true. Damnably, horrifyingly true.
“What do you think?” Lady Charlotte asked from beside him.
He chewed at the inside of his cheek. If he said what he truly thought, he would be asked to leave. While that notion actually cheered him a bit, a glance at his pink-cheeked, white-draped sister clutching her new friend Jane’s hand was all he needed to tell him he should curb his tongue.
“It’s an odd mix,” he finally commented. “Old frumps and fresh-faced lasses.”
She nodded, her wavy golden hair pulled into a tight knot from which not a strand would dare escape. “The older ton like it because it’s so … conservative. The young ones are only here because, well, everyone must come at least once.”
“And it’s amusing to attend when there aren’t any other parties going on,” Jane put in. “Or so I’ve been told.” She pointed at a small group of mature ladies seated to one side of the room. “Those must be the patronesses,” she breathed.
“Yes, they are.” Lady Charlotte stepped between the younger lasses and the objects of their interest. “Don’t stare.”
“Oh, they don’t look so fierce,” Rowena commented. “I expected a gaggle of warty-faced witches and harpies.”
“Don’t be fooled,” Charlotte said quietly. “They are the arbiters of fashion. If you wish to be able to waltz, you need the voucher they can give you.”
“Then they’d best nod,” Ranulf murmured, studying the half-dozen women. “Harpies” was likely an apt description.
“And being banned from Almack’s means being banned from many of the older, more conservative households … and their soirees.”
He turned his head, catching her gaze and hearing th
e note of warning in her smooth voice. “So they mean to judge me as well, do they?”
“You walked through their front door, my lord. So yes, they feel they have the right to judge you.”
For a moment he wished he’d allowed Arran and Bear to journey down with him to London. Together the three of them would give those stiff-necked geese something about which to disapprove. That, though, would only leave Rowena heartbroken and once again blaming him for a life unexperienced.
“I’ll stand here,” he said aloud. “I’ll smile when they look at me. But if they give Rowena anything other than a damned nod, I’ll show ’em precisely what I think of their strutting little peahen ways.”
Lady Charlotte cleared her throat, the hint of a smile in her expression as she looked away. Tonight she’d worn a simple, high-necked silk gown of a light meadow green. If he’d been the sort of man who preferred English ladies, as his father had, he would have been hard-pressed to keep his hands off her. As it was, the idea that he desired her only served to annoy him. A great deal.
“Ran, thank ye again for allowing this,” Rowena whispered as she walked up to him, her teeth chattering. “I know ye don’t like it here. Ye do look very fine, though.”
He reached out to grip her shoulder. “Not as fine as ye do, my heart. Dunnae ye fret aboot anything.” He caught himself nearly telling her how much she resembled their mother, but that was the last thing he wanted in her head. Even if it was true. She was Scottish, and this was only a holiday. She would enjoy herself as much as he could possibly arrange for her, and then they were going home.
A dozen lasses wore white this evening, each one more pristine and virginal-looking than the last. With Lady Charlotte whispering in his ear to tell him what was afoot, one by one they were introduced to the ladies who’d now arranged themselves along the far wall like bead-sprinkled, glittering gargoyles.
“Ranulf.”
Only because of long practice did he avoid jumping at the low rumble of his name coming from behind him. “Uncle Myles,” he returned in the same tone, not moving from his vantage point.
“How’s our Winnie doing?”
“I dunnae know yet.” Belatedly he noted that his right hand had curled into a fist, and slowly he straightened out his fingers. Not here. Not now. “I ken why ye’re here, Myles, but I dunnae think it requires us t’have a conversation.”
From the way Lady Charlotte’s shoulders stiffened, she didn’t approve of his brusque retort. What she didn’t realize was that she should be grateful for it, and that the only reason no one’s nose had been immediately bloodied was because he was apparently being judged along with Rowena.
The line of debutantes moved forward slowly, until Lady Hest stood with Jane to her left, and Rowena to her right. The two lasses looked nothing alike; one was tall and yellow haired, the other petite with hair black as pitch. Even more tellingly, one was English aristocrat through and through, and the other a well-born lass fresh from the Highlands. Could they approve one and deny the other? Would they dare?
“It’s going well,” Lady Charlotte murmured below the sound of her mother reciting the two young ladies’ pedigrees as if they were horses at auction.
“How can ye tell?”
“They’re looking at our girls rather than whispering to each other.”
“Does having two debutantes there diminish the odds of both being accepted, or increase them?”
She glanced sideways at him. “They won’t care that Winnie is Scottish. It’s all about her bearing and her breeding.”
Was he that transparent? After fifteen years as the Marquis of Glengask he was well aware how most English lairds regarded one of their fellows who chose to remain in the Highlands. He knew how the Sasannach in general viewed Scotsmen—scrappers and drunks and ultimately the losers, with hundreds of years of war and disputes finally settled in favor of the English. They weren’t finished yet with asserting their authority, either. “I care that Rowena is Scottish,” he said under his breath.
Whether by accident or not, her fingers brushed his. It made his gut tingle as if lightning had struck nearby. By the time he’d sorted out that it must have been the luncheon he’d forgotten to eat making him light-headed, one of the patronesses stood and nodded. “Welcome to Almack’s, ladies. And to London, Lady Rowena.”
Beside Ranulf, and despite her statement that everything was going well, Charlotte looked relieved. Perhaps it was a good thing that he remained ignorant of the minute machinations involved, or he might have been tempted to intercede, after all. When Rowena came bouncing up to him, he smiled. “Now ye can have yer waltzes, my heart.”
“Aye. So dance the first one w—” Her eyes widened as she looked beyond his shoulder. “Uncle Myles!”
She released her brother to give their uncle a sound hug. Unsurprising, as she was a warm, kindly, naïve lass—which was, he was beginning to realize, to a great degree his fault. He felt a much cooler wind blowing where their mother’s brother was concerned, but tonight was for his sister. And so he clenched his jaw and kept silent.
“You’ve grown up in three years,” Myles Wilkie, Viscount Swansley, said, taking her hands in his. “You look so much like Eleanor it almost brings me to tears.”
“Do I look like Mother?” she asked, swishing her skirt almost shyly. “My brothers have never said so.”
Because it wasn’t allowed. Myles had the good grace to clear his throat. “You do look very like her, Winnie. Will you dance your first waltz with an old man who adores you?”
Now that was interfering where he wasn’t wanted. Ranulf took a step forward—and felt slender fingers wrap around his arm, slight and gentle and burning through the heavy cloth of his sleeve like a brand.
“That certainly saves your brother from a dilemma,” Lady Charlotte said with her sunlight smile. “I don’t think he realized there would be no dancing until after the presentations, because he asked me to dance the first waltz with him.”
“Oh, splendid!” Rowena towed her chuckling uncle toward the dance floor as the orchestra on the balcony began to play the traditional first waltz. “Ye’re my second dance, Ran. Don’t give it away.”
“I willnae.”
In a moment he found himself standing at one side of the dance floor while his sister took her first official steps into English Society. If he’d been able to overcome his instinct to keep a watchful eye on her, he would have turned away from the sight. How the bloody hell had he allowed any of this to happen? It certainly wasn’t like him; Rowena herself could attest to that.
“Shall we, Lord Glengask?” Brown-green eyes beneath long, curved lashes gazed up at his face. “Don’t make me into a liar, if you please.”
He glanced from her to his sister. “Ye are a liar, Lady Charlotte.”
She nodded. “So I am. No one else needs to know that, though, do they?” When he still didn’t move, she tugged on his sleeve. “You’re not worried you’ll make a poor showing and embarrass Scotland before the English tyrants, are you?”
Ah, just the incentive he needed. Keeping his expression still even though he would rather have been shoveling shit in a stable than prancing before the English tyrants, as she named them, in one of their assembly halls, Ranulf took her fingers in his, slid his other hand around her slender waist, and stepped with her into the dance.
If he hadn’t had a younger sister he likely wouldn’t have bothered to learn the waltz, but abruptly he was grateful that she’d nagged him into it. Half the clan’s better-born men and woman all knew the waltz because of Rowena, in fact.
“You dance quite well, my lord,” Lady Charlotte commented in a merry voice. Her pale cheeks had taken on a rosy glow in the warm room. He found it rather attractive, though he would deny it if asked. Nor could he explain why he enjoyed just looking at her, when firstly she was English, and secondly she saw fit to argue with nearly every statement he made.
“Ye may as well call me Ranulf,” he returned, “as ye’ve already st
ripped me of every bit of dignity and authority I possess.”
She gave him an unexpected smile. “I doubt that’s possible.”
“Well,” he murmured, deciding he felt somewhat mollified. “I’ll take that as a compliment, then.”
Charlotte cleared her throat. “I’m merely attempting to see that tonight goes smoothly for your sister. And for mine.” Hazel eyes studied his, in a direct way most people didn’t dare. “We do have the same goal, I think.”
“I’d rather she fell on her face and returned to Glengask determined never t’leave again.” Ranulf forced a smile at his companion’s shocked look, as if she couldn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t wish to be Society’s darling. “I couldnae bear t’see her slighted or embarrassed, though, so I suppose I’ll tolerate the shenanigans.”
“For a fortnight.”
“Aye. Fer a fortnight.” And not a damned moment longer. All around the floor young ladies in white twirled about in ecstatic happiness—after all, they were now part of London’s elite. They were women, and had just embarked on their one task in life, that of finding wealthy, titled husbands. English husbands with English estates, the same men who wished him gone from the Highlands so they could continue the task of turning Scotland into nothing more than grazing grounds for their fat Cheviot sheep.
The irony was they didn’t wish him in England, either. Not until he’d lost his brogue and put away his tartan except for quaint holidays when everyone could pretend to be barbarian Scots in order to ridicule the culture. And that was when they weren’t talking behind their hands to accuse every Highlander of being a damned Jacobite.
“You’re holding my hand rather tightly, my lord.”
He shook himself, immediately loosening his grip. “I apologize,” he said stiffly. “My mind was elsewhere.”
“Then I’m clearly not holding up my end as your dance partner.”
That made him smile. The bonny lass had spleen, that was damned certain. The shift of her body beneath his hand, her quick, sure steps that matched his—now she had him thinking back to the last time he’d bedded a woman. And thoughts like that would do him no good here. At all.
The Devil Wears Kilts Page 5