The Devil Wears Kilts

by Suzanne Enoch

  That made his thoughts turn to his uncle. Yes, Myles Wilkie would have been perfect, except Ranulf remained unsure whether he could trust the viscount’s judgment. The fact that Myles had been trying to help and caused such a near disaster almost made it worse.

  On the other hand, when a man had limited resources, there were no perfect options. He could always ask Charlotte, he supposed, except for the fact that firstly, she wanted him to be less Scottish; secondly, he wasn’t certain they were speaking; and thirdly, that would mean a quiet, protracted conversation where he could very likely do something idiotic like kiss her again.

  Perhaps Myles was the wiser choice, after all.

  “M’laird?”

  He looked up from the half-finished letter to see Owen standing in the doorway. “Everyone is safe back at Hanover House?”

  “Aye. And I think Lady Winnie’s pleased to have Una there with her. A touch of home, I ken.”

  Ranulf nodded. “I feel a mite better with Una there, as well. Anything else?”

  “Well, I’m nae entirely certain. Peter says footmen and such’ve been coming by all morning, saying ‘by yer leave’ or ‘with respect,’ and handing over these.” The former soldier held up a tray piled high with cards and notes, and one ribbon-wrapped box.

  Hm. “Let’s see ’em.”

  He’d attended Oxford, because it was the law that the firstborn son of every Scottish laird receive an English education. He’d then insisted that his brothers go as well, because he’d wanted them to know who and what they were all up against. And so he knew what sat on his salver: the most dangerous and insidious of all things English. The calling card.

  Dismissing Owen, he went through all of them. A few were from men and women to whom he’d been introduced at Almack’s by Charlotte. Most were from people he’d never heard of, inviting him to breakfast, luncheon, and soirees. Evidently the Sasannach were excited to have a devil in their midst. Perhaps they thought he’d dance a jig and play the pipes for them.

  It was tempting to toss all of them into the wastebasket, but he resisted the impulse. The Hanovers, and thereby his sister, might well be attending some of these events, so an invitation for him would come in handy—like the one he’d received yesterday for the Evanstone soiree. Still, though, it felt like looking at pieces of some silver-embossed puzzle when he didn’t know what picture they all formed.

  He saved the box for last. No note or card accompanied it, and he shook it a little before he untied the ribbon. It felt heavy for such a small thing, and caution made him set it flat and push back in his chair before he flipped off the lid with one finger. Nothing moved inside, no scent emerged, and he slowly stood to look down into it. A small ball of wool had been stuffed inside, leaving no open space at all. Wool to him meant Cheviot sheep, which meant some sort of message from another laird with a seat in the Highlands who didn’t like his so-called anarchic plans to keep his people close and see that they were educated and fed and employed.

  Wool, though, wasn’t that heavy. Frowning, he picked up the box and tipped it over. The wool fell with a dull thud. Taking a breath, he pulled the thing apart with his fingers. A moment later a solid lead musket ball dropped onto the polished surface of the desk. Now that was a better threat than a handful of dirty wool.

  “Well, now,” he murmured, not surprised to see that someone had scratched the word “MacLawry” onto the surface of the ball. He picked it up, letting it roll about in his palm. After Almack’s, everyone would know he was in London. But not everyone would wish him to know that he was in danger. “Peter!” he called, seating himself again.

  The footman reappeared in the doorway. “Aye, m’laird?” His gaze dropped to the desktop, and he stepped forward. “That was in that wee box?”

  “Aye. A ball with my name on it. Poetical, don’t ye think?”

  Peter picked it up, clenching it in one fist as though he wanted to grind it into dust. “The man who brought the box wasnae in livery,” he said after a moment, his lined face grim. “Tall lad, light hair, but I doubt I’d recognize him again. Damnation.”

  Shaking his head, Ranulf held out his hand for the ball. “Dunnae worry yerself. We knew trouble waited here. Kind of it to make itself known, really.” He pushed to his feet. “Have someone go by Mr. Smythe’s tailor shop in the next hour or so, will ye? He’s prettying up a coat fer me.”

  “Aye. And where’re ye off to, then?”

  “A stroll. I ken we’d be better off if I knew the streets around here better.”

  The footman scowled. “Ye can’t think to go out now, m’laird!”

  “Why not, because someone wants me dead? Since when has someone not wanted me put under the ground? I find it more helpful at the moment to know who might be in London fer the Season and living on my doorstep.”

  “Well, Owen and I are goin’ with ye.”

  “No, ye aren’t. Fergus is. Ye’re going to watch the door. Owen!”

  The second footman arrived quickly enough that he must have been listening by the door. “M’laird?”

  “Owen, ye are going to show Ginger how to dress a man in a kilt.”

  “Ginger? Who’s Ginger?”

  * * *

  Charlotte picked up the hand mirror and twisted around to view the back of her ornately piled hair in the large dressing mirror. “It’s lovely, Simms. I would never have thought of weaving a pearl necklace through my hair.”

  The maid dimpled. “Lady Newsome’s maid showed me the trick of it. But I thought of using the matching earbobs.”

  Shining pearls peeking through her blond curls and then matching ones dangling from her ears—added to the dark green silk and lace of her gown and the pearl buttons on the dark green elbow-length gloves, the effect really was quite dramatic. More so than she generally cared for, but tonight was special. The first grand ball for both Jane and Rowena.

  It was fortunate that she felt put together on the outside, because her insides were something else entirely. And she knew precisely who to blame for that. Glengask had stomped off quite regally this afternoon, but it still left the question of how he meant to behave tonight. Would he dance? Would he ask her to dance? If he did, what would she say? After all, she was angry with him. More than likely, he was just as angry with her, too.

  Oh, he was like a great bear growling his way through London and upsetting people’s equilibrium. Everyone knew everyone in Mayfair. That was simply a given. Having Lord Glengask stride onto the stage with his unruly black hair and fierce blue eyes therefore turned everything on its head. Every other man who went riding with her in the park, for instance, knew that she’d lost James three years ago. They knew that she danced and chatted, but that she didn’t flirt, that she wasn’t looking to make another match in the foreseeable future, and that she didn’t kiss. Ranulf MacLawry clearly knew none of these things—and she wasn’t certain it would make a difference if he did know.

  Her bedchamber door opened, and Jane waltzed into the room with Winnie, the waist-tall deerhound padding behind them. “Oh, Char, you look stunning!” her sister exclaimed, parting from her friend with a flourish. “Has a gentleman finally caught your eye again?”

  Charlotte felt her cheeks warm. “Why in the world would you say that? Do I generally look so shabby?”

  “No! Of course not. It’s just … Well, you look exceptionally nice.”

  “That, I will accept. And thank you.” With a grin, Charlotte took in the two excited young ladies. “Blue is definitely your color, Winnie,” she said after a moment. “It lights up your eyes. And I’m jealous of all that hair you have.”

  Winnie swept an elaborate curtsy. “Thank ye, Charlotte. Mitchell nearly had to tie me to my chair, I was so nervous about how high she was piling my hair.” The marquis’s sister gave the black, lustrous mass a careful pat. “We’ve been practicing London styles for weeks, but this time it’s not just for fun.”

  Janie bounced on her toes. “Say something flattering about my gown too, Charl
otte,” she urged, chuckling.

  “You are a vision in violet, Janie,” Charlotte offered obediently. The girls’ enthusiasm must have swept her up, as well, because otherwise she couldn’t explain the tingling in her fingers and all the way down her spine. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if some gentleman asked for your hand in marriage tonight.”

  “He can ask,” her sister returned with a laugh, “but I’m not marrying anyone yet. There are far too many parties yet to come this Season.”

  With a loud sigh, Winnie plunked herself down onto the floor to scratch Una. The portrait of young despondence almost made Charlotte smile, but she refrained from doing so. “What’s amiss, Winnie?”

  “It’s only the talk of marrying,” Rowena said, sighing again.

  “You did mention something about a beau back at Glengask. Do you miss him?”

  “Aye. Lachlan MacTier. I miss him dreadfully. But I’ve been here for nearly five days and been gone from home for nearly twice that, and he still hasn’t sent me a single letter.”

  “Have you written him? Perhaps he doesn’t know your address here.”

  “I’ve written him every day.”

  Charlotte hid her grin behind her hand. Had she ever been that young? “Perhaps that’s the difficulty, then,” she said aloud, sinking to the carpet and joining in on scratching the wiry-haired hound.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that a man can’t miss you if you’re always about.”

  “But I’m not about. I’m hundreds and hundreds of miles away.”

  “Your letters aren’t. They’re there to greet him, every day. And if he isn’t writing to you, then it’s because you’ve answered all of his questions.”

  Gray eyes much less fierce than her brother’s blue ones gazed at her for a long moment. “You’re absolutely brilliant!” Winnie chirped, hugging her. “I’m not going to write him another letter.” She frowned. “Unless … Should I write to say that I’m not writing him? I don’t want him to think I’m angry with him—though I am, a bit.”

  “No,” Janie chimed in. “Let him wonder. Perhaps he’ll think you’ve found a beau here in London. And you might, because you do look very pretty tonight.”

  With Simms’s assistance Charlotte climbed once more to her feet. “You two will only find beaux if we actually attend the soiree.” Taking a last glance at her hair to make certain it would stay in place, she urged them out her door. With some difficulty they closed Una in Winnie’s bedchamber and then hurried down the stairs.

  Her parents were already waiting in the foyer, and had to take a moment to admire each of them in turn. Evidently she generally didn’t dress so fancily, because both of them commented on her attire and her hair, as well. How odd that they and Jane all thought some man must have caught her eye; in the past two years none of them had ever mentioned such a thing when she dressed for a party.

  Longfellow helped her with her wrap, and then she took Winnie’s to assist the marquis’s sister. “May I ask you a question?” she murmured, beneath the sound of the chattering around her.

  “Of course.”

  Charlotte took a breath. It was just curiosity. Nothing more. “I don’t know Highland or clan tradition, but your brother is one-and-thirty, yes? Is there a reason he hasn’t yet married?”

  “I think he’s been too busy,” Rowena replied, her expression becoming more thoughtful. “And I think he worried before that I would feel pushed aside if he brought another lass into the house. But I’m eighteen now, so that’ll likely change.” She grimaced briefly. “I just hope he doesn’t decide to marry Bridget Landry. Her family lives the closest, and she’s pretty and all, but when she laughs it sounds like crows are dying.”

  Charlotte snorted. “Oh, Winnie.”

  “No, it’s true. And she takes all the best bits at dinner for herself. Ran would let her, because he wants everyone to be happy, but sometimes I’m happiest to see him with the last strawberry of the season. I don’t know that Bridget would ever think of that.” Winnie shrugged. “Though worrying over who gets a wee strawberry is a mite silly, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t think so,” Charlotte replied, trying to reconcile her image of Ranulf MacLawry with that of a man who enjoyed strawberries and who liked to see everyone around him happy. “I think it’s lovely.”

  “Come along, ladies,” her father said abruptly, making her jump. “If we’re late you’ll only have me to dance with.”

  “I wouldn’t mind that, Papa,” Jane said stoutly.

  He kissed her on the cheek. “Perhaps not, but I would.”

  The Evanstone soiree was the first grand ball of the Season. As such, it would likely see guests packed nearly to the high, vaulted ceiling of its two adjoining ballrooms. Luckily the rain held off, and they had only a chill wind with which to contend as they made their way past the crush of carriages to the large house’s main entrance.

  Even Winnie had stopped chittering, instead taking in the sights with wide, round eyes. Charlotte couldn’t even imagine how it must all look to someone whose idea of town was a tiny village in the middle of nowhere. “Is this very different from dances at Glengask?” she whispered.

  Winnie nodded, barely blinking. “We have two grand parties a year, one down at An Soadh and the other at Mahldoen, but they’re not dances, precisely. More like fairs, I suppose. All the clan comes together, and we set up tents. There’s all sorts of food and drink, and singing and dancing and pipes, caber tossing, shooting, swords. Not nearly as grand as this.”

  Shooting and swords? Hopefully at targets and not at each other. Charlotte kept that to herself, though. Tonight was for Rowena and Jane. For a moment she tried to imagine some of the carefully coiffed guests here tossing cabers and drinking ale from mugs and dancing to bagpipes. If not for the accompanying violence, it would likely be … exhilarating.

  Once the butler introduced Lord Hest and party in a ringing voice, they made their way to the nearest of the two interconnected ballrooms. They’d opened the folding walls in between them, making one breathtakingly huge space with chairs lining the walls, huge fireplaces at either end, and a dozen floor-length windows leading outside to a balcony with steps down to the garden and pond below. The outside was lit with torches, the inside with eight chandeliers, and everything glittered.

  “Oh, glory,” Winnie murmured. Charlotte turned to agree with her, but then realized that the debutante wasn’t looking at the decorations. She was gazing at her brother.

  “Oh, glory,” Charlotte echoed, following her gaze.

  The Marquis of Glengask stood close by one wall, his gaze moving from man to man as though searching for enemies. But for once it wasn’t his deep blue eyes that caught Charlotte’s attention. Every other male present wore proper coats, waistcoats, and trousers or breeches with either boots or shoes. Like them, Ranulf had donned a coat—his a dark gray with large black buttons edged in silver, and a trio of identical buttons bright on each sleeve. His waistcoat was black with the same black and silver buttons, while his snow white-cravat was pierced by a silver and onyx pin.

  From the waist down, however, he was clearly not an Englishman. Instead of trousers he wore a kilt of black and gray, with red thread cutting through the darker squares like blood. In front of his … manhood a silver and black pouch hung from a silver chain that looked like it went around his waist. His knees were bare, while black wool stockings covered his calves. On his feet he wore black leather-looking shoes bound halfway up his calves with more strips of leather.

  The effect was … Charlotte swallowed. He looked wild and mad and dangerous and simply mesmerizing. On occasion some of the older statesmen wore kilts to soirees, but no one paid much attention to their quaint ways. This was very different. All around her she could hear the whispers, too, mostly from women. Piercing blue eyes met hers, and then he was walking across the floor, the crowd parting to make room for him as he approached. She felt abrupt heat between her thighs.

  “Rowena,
ye look very fine,” he said in his low brogue, smiling at his sister.

  That smile was dangerous, too, because it made Charlotte’s heart flutter, and made her remember his capable mouth and that extraordinary kiss. Rowena, though, wasn’t smiling back at him. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “I’m standing here,” he returned coolly.

  “Ye’re wearing clan colors. Are you looking for a fight?”

  “Nae. I’m Scottish. I’m a Highlander. And this is how a Highlander dresses. Or have ye already forgotten?”

  His sister looked at him closely. “No trouble?”

  He shook his head. “Nae trouble. Not from me.”

  Charlotte didn’t know how he could say that, when every inch of him practically radiated trouble and very male heat. When he turned his gaze to her, she refused to look away, or to lower her eyes to take in his attire. She tried not to blush, but given the warmth of her cheeks she hadn’t managed that feat. “I see that you heard my advice,” she finally said.

  Ranulf tilted his head. “What advice was that? Oh, the bit where ye told me t’fit in.” He held his arms out from his sides. “I decided against it.”

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  He took a half step closer. “Will ye give me that wee dance card of yers, then, or do ye reckon I’m too Scottish fer yer taste?”

  She’d expected him to ask whether she was too cowardly to dance with him or not, and she had an answer for that—she preferred not to make a public stir. But he hadn’t worded it that way, and now she couldn’t refuse him without looking like the aristocratic English snob he so obviously disdained. And she wasn’t prepared to be disdained. Not by him. And aside from that, part of her did want to dance with him.

  Silently she pulled the small dance card and pencil from her reticule and handed it over. Their fingers brushed, and even through her emerald-colored gloves she felt the heat of him. Out of the corner of her eye she noted that the rest of her family was chatting with several other late arrivals and introducing Winnie around. Or they were pretending to, anyway. Wonderful. Did they think that a man had indeed caught her eye, and that Ranulf MacLawry was that man?