“I was thinking of Glengask, my lady,” he improvised by way of explanation. It was partly true, anyway.
“You truly love it there, don’t you?”
She didn’t sound cynical or skeptical, so Ranulf nodded. “Glengask is a wild, lovely land as like to bludgeon ye as to cradle ye.”
“I think you’ll find that London Society is much the same.”
“Ye know,” he said slowly, feeling her muscles tense beneath his hands as he drew her a breath closer, “fer a lass willing to lie to keep two men from coming to blows, ye don’t shy away from an argument, do ye?”
Just when Charlotte had decided she knew how Lord Glengask would react to a given comment, he surprised her. Much the way she kept surprising herself by edging the conversation into what she knew to be dangerous territory. But in her defense, it was all rather confusing. He was rather confusing. Glengask had told her to refrain from giving advice where it wasn’t wanted, then he’d given her leave to use his Christian name. And as much as he seemed to … look forward to walloping people, he danced quite well.
“I enjoy a good debate,” she said aloud. Abrasive and defensive or not, he did seem to appreciate honesty. As far as she was concerned, that spoke in his favor. As did the way he protected and indulged and clearly adored his sister. “I detest when men decide an argument needs to be decided with their fists or with weapons, especially when it’s over something as idiotic and utterly useless as their own pride.”
In a heartbeat he’d pulled her still closer to his large, hard body. “And ye think a man can engage in a good debate without risking a physical confrontation?”
“I do.”
Stating that to him might be overconfident of her; until three days ago she hadn’t known of his existence. And one of the few things she did know about him was that he seemed to regard physical violence with the same nonchalance her peers granted to hailing a hack.
If her family hadn’t agreed to sponsor Lady Rowena, Charlotte would have taken pains to stay well away from him, though she wasn’t certain she would have been able to refrain from looking. She’d had more than enough experience with men who thought themselves immortal, only to fall prey to their own stupidity. More than enough to last her a lifetime.
“Ye look quite sad, lass,” Lord Glengask murmured. “If I’ve caused ye distress, I apologize again. Ye’ve been nothing but kind to Rowena.”
Charlotte swallowed, meeting his direct gaze once more. “It’s nothing you’ve done, Lord Glen—”
“Ranulf,” he interrupted, his fingers shifting a little on her waist and making her aware all over again of the intimacy of their contact.
“Ranulf,” she repeated, liking the taste of his name on her lips. She wanted to say it again, to savor it. Just not here, and not now.
“Better,” he drawled in his deep brogue. “If it wasnae me who’s hurt ye, tell me who it is.”
“So you can do violence to the offender?” she returned, though it was far too late for such a thing, even if she’d been so inclined. “As I believe I’ve stated how little regard I have for walloping, I hope you realize I would never want such a thing.”
“Aye, but I might.”
He had a very sensuous mouth, she decided, and not just because of the soft, rolling r’s of his brogue. The serious downturn, the slight upward curve when he glanced over to see his sister twirling about the floor. It was devilishly attractive, really. “That’s gallant of you then, I suppose,” she said when she realized he expected a response, “but as I just condemned men who fight for something as stupid as their own pride, I’m not about to approve a man brawling on behalf of someone else’s. I decline your offer.”
Lord Glengask—Ranulf—looked as though he meant to disagree, but before he could say anything further, the music stopped. Charlotte, torn between gratitude and an unexpected … disappointment at the interruption, led the way to the edge of the dance floor where her parents waited. Winnie was already there with Viscount Swansley, both of them out of breath and laughing.
“Did you see me, Ran?” she asked, catching both of his sleeves in her fingers. “I’m a debutante now.”
“I did see ye,” her brother returned with a warm grin of his own. “Ye were practically glowing. Put the other lasses t’shame, ye did.”
A hand touched Charlotte’s shoulder, and she was so focused on the conversation going on in front of her that she jumped. “Yes?”
She turned quickly to see the top of a balding head bowing at her. The head straightened to reveal the round face and kind, hopeful eyes of Mr. Francis Henning, and she relaxed—as much as anyone could at Almack’s, anyway.
“Mr. Henning. So grand to see you.”
“Lady Charlotte. I wondered if you would do me the honor of the next dance.” His brows dove down in a brief frown. “It’s a quadrille, I think. Though it might be a country dance.”
She felt rather than saw the Marquis of Glengask move up behind her, large and formidable as a mountain. If he thought she needed protection from Francis Henning, of all people, he must consider her entirely helpless. Charlotte smiled and nodded. “Whatever the next dance may be, it is yours, Mr. Henning.”
“That’s sterling. I’ll just be…” He glanced past her, his ruddy cheeks paling a little. “I’ll be by the punch bowl,” he finished. “With my grandmama.”
“Very good.”
Almost before she’d finished speaking, though, he’d retreated. Oh, this was unacceptable. “What did you do?” she demanded, facing Glengask. He stood closer than she expected, and she had to lift her chin quite high to look up at his face. “Did you scowl at him?”
“Who was that?” he returned, rather than answering her question.
“An old friend. Francis Henning. Should I have introduced you?”
Glengask cocked his head, making him look an attractive mix of endearing and lethal. “I dunnae. Should ye have?”
“Certainly not, if you only meant to glower at him.”
He met her gaze levelly. “Ye’re under my protection, lass.”
From the way he said it, that statement was clearly meant to explain everything. And she likely should have let it be, because he was the chief of a clan, accustomed to his words being accepted as law and obeyed without question. But they weren’t in Scotland, and he simply could not go about bullying and intimidating people. “Then with whom did Jane dance?” she asked. “And with whom is she about to dance the quadrille?”
The marquis swung his head around to glance at her sister. From his quickly hidden expression of confusion, he’d completely forgotten about Jane. So it seemed to be something about her in particular that he felt required his protection. The very idea should have annoyed her to no end. It did, of course, though annoyance didn’t quite describe the thrill of heat running beneath her skin.
“I’ll find that oot.”
He took two long steps before Charlotte caught up to him and blocked his path. “I know who they are, for heaven’s sake.”
“Then why did ye ask me, woman?” he shot back. The guests nearest them turned to look, abruptly interested in their conversation. Of course, a number of the young ladies had been eyeing him from the moment he’d entered the assembly rooms.
But he wasn’t the only one to feel flummoxed. “I was making a point.” The orchestra sounded a note, then began playing a quadrille. “Now go dance with your sister, as you promised.”
For a long moment he gazed at her. Then wordlessly he went to collect Winnie. Only then did Charlotte go find Mr. Henning. Tomorrow she needed to do some searching into the background of the Marquis of Glengask. Luckily for her, the best person to ask happened to be residing three bedchambers away from her own.
Chapter Three
“M’laird, Uncle Myles is awaiting yer pleasure in the front room.”
Ranulf looked up from the newspaper he’d been reading over his breakfast. It felt odd to have hold of news that wasn’t a week old. And unsettling to read that
the Marquis of Glengask was in Town and residing precisely where he was. “He isnae yer uncle, Owen. To ye, he’s Laird Swansley.”
“Aye, m’laird. It’s just that he was at Glengask fer so long—”
“I know. Bring ’im in here.” He’d long ago learned the advantage of claiming a room and a seat, and had no intention of allowing Myles Wilkie the opportunity to do so. London might be Myles’s domain, but the MacLawrys claimed Tall House for themselves. For a fortnight, anyway.
A moment later Myles Wilkie stood in the breakfast room doorway, kind brown eyes taking in the setting and finally resting on Ranulf at the far end of the table. Ranulf watched him in return. Sympathetic gaze or not, the man had the wits of a fox and the stubbornness of a badger. He wasn’t about to forget that. Not for an instant. Not even when Una trotted forward, tail wagging furiously, to greet the viscount. Fergus remained under the table at Ranulf’s feet and huffed his disapproval. If he’d needed any further proof that most lasses didn’t have any sense, that provided it.
“You sent me a request to find you some likely servants,” the viscount finally said, and produced a folded paper from one gray pocket. “Keeping in mind your … particular requirements, I thought I’d best bring it by in person. I’ve located half a dozen men and three maids who should suffice.”
Ranulf nodded, flicking a finger at Peter. The footman went to retrieve the paper and unfolded it himself. “I cannae read these hen scratches, m’laird,” he proclaimed after a moment spent squinting at the page.
From the opposite side of the room Owen blew out his breath and walked past Myles to snatch the paper from Peter’s fingers. “Ye cannae read any scratches, and ye’ve nae fooled a one of us aboot that.” After a moment he looked up from the page, frowning. “These ain’t Scots names, Laird Swansley.”
“No, they’re English. Born and bred.” Myles squared his shoulders. “May I sit, Ranulf?”
“Aye. Give ’im back the paper, Owen, and go have Stirling saddled. We’re off in twenty minutes. Take Peter with ye.”
“But—”
“Now.”
The gray that had once sprinkled across Myles Wilkie’s temples had lightened and spread, turning his brown hair almost blond. That had all happened sometime in the past three years. His edges all seemed a bit worn, Ranulf realized, though it remained to be seen whether it was more than skin-deep. Nor did he judge anything based on the fact that Myles took the chair directly to his left rather than the opposite one at the far end of the table.
“I missed you, boy,” the viscount finally said. “You and your brothers. And Rowena, of course. You’re all that’s left of my family.” He took a breath. “And Rowena, for God’s sake—she was just a child when last I saw her. And now … She’s a lovely young woman.”
“Why only Englishmen on yer list?” Ranulf broke in, attempting to put a halt to the reminiscing. He hadn’t caused the split between them, after all.
“So it’s to be nothing but business, then?”
Ranulf picked up his slice of toasted bread. Slowly and deliberately he spread a thick layer of peach marmalade across it. “I believe I told ye that we’re no longer family, so we’ve naught to discuss but business.”
Myles sat forward, jabbing his forefinger into the polished tabletop. “If you still don’t trust me, why was it me you asked for help in finding servants?”
“Better the devil ye know. Isn’t that the saying?”
The viscount glared at him, then slapped the paper down beside Ranulf’s elbow. “Here in London, you’re the devil.”
“Aye. That I am.”
“I chose Englishmen because they’re less likely to know who you are, and less likely to have been approached by anyone who might wish you harm, especially now that everyone knows you’re in London.” He took a breath. “None are from my household, because I knew you wouldn’t allow that, but I have met and spoken to each one of them personally. And discreetly. They all come from fine households and with high recommendations. For that reason they’ll also cost you a fair penny.”
With a nod, Ranulf continued eating. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” his uncle burst out. “I’ve apologized a hundred times. I was trying to help!”
Help. The word punched into Ranulf’s chest, dark and heavy. “Yer so-called help nearly got Munro—Bear—killed.”
“You’re all alone up there, Ranulf! You need allies outside your own clan, even if you won’t acknowledge that fact. The Donnellys made overtures. They seemed genuinely interested in the education system you’ve put in place for your cotters.”
“Aye, because they genuinely wanted to burn every one of my schoolhouses to the ground. The Donnellys and the Gerdenses are two of a kind, Myles. They allied their clans decades ago. And ye gave ’em a bloody map.”
“To show them how you’ve divided your land into districts, sharing the work and the income, allowing all the youngsters a chance at an education. I was bragging about all you’ve managed to accomplish, even with the Crown breathing down your neck.”
Ranulf took a hard breath. “Whatever yer intentions, because of ye I lost three schools. And if Bear had been two minutes earlier, he would have been right in the middle of the third blaze. He took a ball to the shoulder, as it was.”
“You think I don’t know that? It still keeps me awake nights.”
“Good.” Finally Ranulf sat forward. For a time he’d thought three years’ distance might blunt his anger and his fear over what had nearly happened, but every time Rowena or anyone else mentioned Myles’s name, it all flooded back. “Ye may have spent ten years in the Highlands, Myles, but ye’re nae Scottish. Ye dunnae understand how deep old wounds go. Ye never will. And I’ll never trust ye again, because ye still think ye were right in trying to step in.”
“I helped raise ye.”
“Nae. I was eighteen when ye came north. I’ll give that ye helped raise the others. And I’ll give that when Eleanor swallowed poison and orphaned Rowena and us lads, ye did come north. I know that wasnae an easy thing for ye.”
Myles swallowed. “She shouldn’t have done that. My sister—your mother—we all knew she didn’t belong up there. But she loved your father.”
“She loved being a marchioness. When I took the title, she wanted us all to move down to London. From the beginning she wanted us raised English. We’d be English aristocrats, with a seat up in Scotland. Just like all the others. Father wouldnae have it, and neither would I.” He’d been fifteen when they’d all lost Seann Monadh—the Old Mountain—as the clansfolk referred to Robert MacLawry. And from the first day he’d taken his father’s title, he’d had to fight.
“I know. She … didn’t do well by you. But if I might ask, why have you permitted Rowena a Season, now?”
“That’s her tale to tell, if she so chooses.”
The sad, hopeful look returned to Myles’s expression. “Then you’ll let me see her?”
“She’s nae here.”
“Oh.”
Damnation. “She’s staying at Hanover House, so Lady Hest can sponsor her. Go see her there, if ye will. But ye’ll nae take her from the house unless Debny or Owen or Peter is with ye.”
“Understood.” The viscount pushed to his feet. “Thank you for that, Ranulf.”
“If she’s hurt in yer company, ye’d best nae let me find ye. And I’ll come looking. I swear it.”
Myles nodded. “If anything happens to her, I’ll already be dead.”
That almost sounded Scottish. “Ye can call on her tomorrow, then.”
For several minutes after Myles left the house, Ranulf sat where he was, gazing sightlessly at the remains of his breakfast. The last time they’d crossed paths Myles had found himself with a bloodied nose and bruised ribs. Arran had had to pull Ranulf off their uncle, in fact. Any Scotsman of his clan would have known better than to trust the Donnellys. That betrayal had been bad enough. But when Bear had stumbled, wounded and bloody, through th
e front door—that made Myles’s mistake unforgivable. This time seeing him, though, Ranulf had felt more … constrained than he had three years ago.
And he knew precisely why. That tall, blond lass. Charlotte Hanover. She didn’t like violence. Which wouldn’t have swayed him an ounce, because a Sasannach female knew nothing about how to survive in his world—except that he’d caught that look on her face when they’d danced. That look said things. That look said that she did know of what she spoke.
It had made him curious. And that was why he thought of her as he rose to collect Stirling and his pair of outriders, as he trotted past finely manicured gardens and tall, white houses, and as he turned up the Hanover House drive. Curiosity. Naught else. Because there couldn’t be an attraction. Not when she was English. No, however mad his rivals might think him, he was not so mad that he would voluntarily bring an Englishwoman to the Highlands. Not after he’d seen one—a woman with a five-year-old daughter and three sons under twenty—poison herself to escape it.
Ranulf shook himself as he dismounted in the shade of Hanover House. The places his mind went at times surprised him. His imaginings had led him to build schools and to go against the trend of clearing his land of cotters in order to graze sheep. They’d taken some of his father’s ideas and made them reality—at great cost both to his purse and to his safety.
And in all that, in all his adult years, he’d never so much as thought of bringing an Englishwoman to the Highlands. So he could only consider the unbidden thought of showing the Highlands to Charlotte Hanover an aberration. Either that, or the lass was a witch—though if she meant to entangle him, she would likely have spent less time arguing the philosophy of violence with him.
The front door opened as he reached the bottom step. “You’ve arrived just in time,” Lady Charlotte said with a warm smile. “We’ve decided to show Winnie the sights, beginning with Hyde Park.”
His first thought was that though he’d never seen it himself, Hyde Park would be too open, and far too crowded for anything less than an army to provide Rowena adequate protection. Or rather, that was his second thought. His first thought was more primal, and had a great deal to do with the form-fitting peach riding habit Charlotte wore. More precisely, with the slender curves beneath it.
The Devil Wears Kilts Page 6