The Devil Wears Kilts

by Suzanne Enoch

  He moved in closer to her, taking his hand from her shoulder only to run a finger down her gloved arm to her wrist. Beneath his touch he felt her shiver, and he hoped it was from him rather than the cool evening. “And why is that?” he asked. “Why do ye dance only with old family friends and fools?”

  She held very still, her gaze set on the stone railing by her elbow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, or what you’re implying. I’m not doing anything improper. And I’ve danced with you.”

  “Aye, I’m the exception, likely because I bullied ye into it,” he conceded. “And of course ye’ve nae done a damned improper thing. Nor have ye ever, most likely. So why aren’t all the young bucks chasing after ye with their tongues hanging oot?”

  “Well, that’s a fine image.” Her shoulders lowered a fraction. “They don’t chase after me because I’m five-and-twenty. Because I had a Season and found a beau, and then I spent a year in mourning.”

  “Ye’re dead then, are ye?” Over her head he noted the last of the guests leaving the balcony as the orchestra inside began playing a few sour notes in preparation for the waltz.

  Charlotte faced him straight on, what might have been a rueful smile briefly touching her mouth. She didn’t feel sorry for herself; he had to grant her that. “No, I’m not dead, sir, but I am firmly on the shelf. This is my sister’s Season. I am not going to compete with her for the attention of some young man looking to be struck by Cupid’s ar—”

  Ranulf kissed her. Firmly on the shelf, my arse, he thought, the heat of her sinking into him. He nibbled at her lower lip, tasting Madeira and desire. When her arms swept around his shoulders, he placed his hands around her waist and lifted, sitting her on the wide stone railing.

  Once their mouths met, his mind stopped yelling at him to leave her be, to walk away. He knew what entangling himself with a proper English lass could mean, but his body refused to go beyond knowing that he wanted her. Badly.

  Her soft moan that made him hard; perhaps wearing a kilt hadn’t been the wisest decision tonight, though not for any reason of fashion. His grip on her waist firmed, but then her mouth stilled. Abruptly she shoved against his chest. Covering his annoyance at being denied, Ranulf lifted his head a fraction, their lips parting.

  “Stop that,” she ordered, her voice breathless and unsteady.

  “I already did.” With slow regret he shifted to set her feet back on the ground again. “Seems t’me ye have the wrong of it,” he drawled, wanting another glass of whisky to wash the intoxicating taste of her from his mouth.

  “The wrong of what?” Charlotte demanded, brushing a hand down her skirt even though her insides felt far more disheveled than her outside must have looked. Good heavens.

  “Ye’re nae dead, or put away on a shelf. Not even nearly so.” He took her chin in his fingers, lifting her face up so she had to meet his gaze. “I think ye want me, lass,” he continued in a soft murmur.

  She frowned, attempting an air of defiance when what she truly wanted was for him to kiss her again. “Yes, I believe I’ve mentioned that I have a penchant for mannerless, forward barbarian devils. I gave you no leave to kiss me.”

  His smile nearly turned her insides molten. “Next time ye will.”

  “You overestimate your charms, Ranulf MacLawry.”

  He leaned a breath closer. “Do I?” he countered in his soft brogue. “Then why do ye still have a hold of me, Charlotte Hanover?”

  She blinked, uncoiling her fingers from his lapel. “I…”

  “Conjure up yer lie later. They’ve begun the waltz, and I want my hands on ye again. With everyone watching.”

  Charlotte tried to find both her breath and her scattered wits again. When she nudged at his shoulders, the lean mountain gave way, letting her move past him toward the ballroom door. “It’s just a dance, my lord.”

  “All of life’s a dance, my bonny lass.”

  That seemed a very poetical thing for him to say, but if she stopped to argue that it was out of character they would miss the waltz. And whatever she might pretend, she wanted his hands on her, as well.

  Perhaps she had a fever and was delirious, because none of what she felt made the least bit of sense. Lord Glengask was exactly the sort of hotheaded man she’d had her fill of with James Appleton. When James courted her she’d felt … pleased, that so earnest a man had set himself after her. And then she realized that earnest had very little to do with good-humored, and what a flaw that had been. Now, though, whatever lesson she knew she’d learned, a single kiss—or rather two kisses now—from Ranulf sent her spinning, not certain where her feet were or if she wanted to find the ground again.

  Inside the grand ballroom half a hundred couples had begun the waltz. In one smooth move Ranulf had her around the waist, took her hand in his, and swept her into the dance. The idea that the well-muscled Scotsman was nearly naked from the waist down but for a knee-length scrap of black and gray and red wool and a single pin to keep it from flapping open felt nearly as intoxicating as did the dance itself. And the way the other women looked at him with such … open lust, and the way they eyed her with only slightly better concealed envy—it baffled and aroused her all at the same time.

  “What are your intentions, Ranulf?” she asked after a moment, keeping her voice pitched low.

  He lifted an eyebrow. “‘Intentions’?” he repeated, a slow smile once more on his sensuous mouth.

  “Yes. You’ve kissed me twice now and said that you want me.”

  “Those are my intentions. To kiss ye, and to have ye.”

  A blush warmed her cheeks. Had she ever had a similar conversation with James? If so, she couldn’t recall it—and it seemed the sort of thing a body would remember. “And after that?” she pursued. “You know I am the daughter of an earl, and a female without an interest in causing a scandal.”

  “So ye’ve said.” His amused expression faded as he no doubt sensed another argument approaching.

  “So I have,” she agreed, taking a breath and trying to push away the very pleasant sensation of being in his arms. “And if you say you’ve come to Mayfair looking for a bride, I shall call you a liar to your face. You’ve made your … contempt for the Sasansack very clear over the past few days.”

  “Sasannach,” he corrected, his brogue making the word sound prettier than she knew it must be. “Nae, I’ve seen what the Highlands does to a proper and delicate English lady. I willnae make the same mistake my own father did.”

  Her first thought was to inform him that while she had her sensibilities and her belief in right and wrong, she wasn’t particularly delicate. But in the next moment it occurred to her that in comparison to him, perhaps she was delicate. After all, he spoke of murders and fistfights as if they were done over breakfast. And that was something she would not—could not—tolerate. She knew firsthand what pain and heartache such things wrought, and to willingly place herself in the middle of a barbarians’ feud—it was simply unthinkable.

  Given that, wondering what his father’s mistake had been where his mother was concerned, wondering what had killed the “delicate” daughter of a baron, seemed a waste of her time. Ranulf’s reasoning aside, they simply wouldn’t suit.

  “Ye’ve nothing else to say, then?”

  “What should I say? You’ve just told me you want to bed me while having no intention of marrying me. I decline your … offer, sir.”

  Blue eyes flashed. “Do ye, now?”

  “You’ve offered me nothing but ruination and an exile from a life I find quite enjoyable,” she retorted, affronted that her refusing such a base offer—pleasurable and unforgettable though it likely would have been—would offend him. What about her, for heaven’s sake?

  “So ye like being yer sister’s nanny and stepping out to dance only when an even number of couples is required?”

  Ha. “Excuse me, but what are you doing here in London but serving as your sister’s nanny?”

  He glared at her for a long moment, hi
s grip on her so firm that she didn’t think she would be able to pull free of him if she’d wanted to. Even so, she wasn’t afraid of him. Perhaps she should have been, but she knew with a certainty that Ranulf MacLawry would never injure her—except, perhaps, with a few choice words.

  “Faic tùsan,” he finally muttered.

  “And what does that mean?” she demanded.

  “It means that I find ye maddening.”

  “Likewise, Lord Glengask. And as I’ve heard what you want of me and I’ve refused you, you will henceforth stop flirting with me and attempting to kiss me.”

  A muscle in his jaw jumped. “In response to that, I say that a lass willnae order me to do anything. I also further say that ye’ve not convinced me that ye find my touch distasteful. In fact, I think ye enjoy having me aboot to argue with. I think ye were bored before Rowena and I arrived on yer doorstep.”

  For a man so caught up in his own rivalries and troubles, he’d done a fair job of assessing the last year of her life. Because she did feel that she’d become not Janie’s nanny, but her chaperone. And without plans for her own future to occupy her thoughts, she had felt … bored. Listless, finished. Dead, as he’d said. And she hadn’t felt that way over the past few days. Frustrated, annoyed, aroused, amused, flustered—but not bored.

  “Whatever state I might have been in,” she returned, “I’ve not lost hold of my sanity.”

  To her surprise, his lips curved upward, reminding her all over again of his very splendid kiss. Kisses. “I dunnae think we’ll settle this impasse here, lass. It requires more … private conversation.”

  “I am not—”

  “If ye tell me now, honestly and to my face, that ye wish not to exchange a single further word or touch or glance with me, I’ll honor that and make myself scarce from ye. If not, I’ll call on ye tomorrow at noon, and ye can attempt to improve my view of London. Or to dissuade me from wishing to spend time in yer company fer the purpose of getting beneath yer skirts. Whichever ye choose.”

  Charlotte took a deep breath. She wasn’t certain that honesty played into it, but logically she should open her mouth to say that she wished him gone from her life. Of course if she did so then he would likely conjure up an excuse to go back on his word to Rowena and immediately remove the two of them back to Glengask. And that would be terribly unfair to Winnie, quite aside from the state of her own skirts.

  “There now,” he murmured after a moment. “That’s the first time I’ve been pleased not to hear yer voice, Charlotte.”

  “It doesn’t mean anything but that I don’t wish to see an injustice done to Winnie because I naysayed you.”

  He nodded almost imperceptibly. “That’s what we’ll call it, then.”

  It hardly seemed like him to concede just when he’d won, but Charlotte was relieved enough at having a moment to think that she decided not to question his motives. Or her own, for that matter.

  When they’d first met—heavens, had it only been four days ago?—she’d thought him boorish and arrogant and abrupt. What she hadn’t realized then and that she saw now was his cleverness, or his humor and a surprising amount of charm. That deep brogue of his certainly didn’t hurt, either. None of that, though, explained why she hadn’t simply slapped him and stalked off the dance floor when he’d proposed ruining her because it would be pleasurable.

  Except that she was fairly certain she did know why she still swayed in his arms. As she’d said, she was five-and-twenty. Even with James’s death, if she’d truly wanted to marry she could have—would have—done so before now. There were times, especially when Jane had begun planning her wardrobe and her Season and all her romantic conquests, that she’d felt passed by.

  “If ye keep wearing that thoughtful look, I’m likely to kiss ye again,” Ranulf murmured.

  “In front of everyone?” she countered, more amused than truly alarmed.

  “Aye. That’s how we do it in Scotland,” he returned with a grin. “Sweep a fine lass off her feet and give her a kiss so everyone else knows ye’ve claimed her.”

  “‘Claimed her’?” she repeated faintly, as three things happened at once: she remembered who’d claimed the next dance with her; the waltz ended; and she caught sight of Donald Gerdens walking toward her—them—from the other end of the dance floor. Damnation. “Ranulf, I need t—”

  “I believe this dance is mine, Lady Charlotte,” the earl said smoothly, stopping in front of them.

  Ranulf looked at him. Silently, steadily, like a great lion coolly sizing up a gazelle. “Ye gave him a dance, lass?” he asked, not shifting his gaze an inch.

  “It’s just a quadrille,” she said, not certain why she felt the need to minimize the thing. A dance was a dance, and it was no more significant than the handful of minutes it last—

  A fist shot out before she could finish her thought. Catching Berling squarely on the chin, it sent the earl reeling. Before he could regain his balance, and in a queer way that seemed so slow it couldn’t be real, Ranulf hit him again with the other fist on the other side of his face.

  Charlotte shook herself out of her stupor. “Stop it!” she screamed, grabbing Ranulf’s forearm. It felt like solid, inflexible iron beneath her grip. “Stop punching him at once!”

  Lord Evanstone and three of his footmen raced over. At the same moment several male guests stepped in, lifting the stumbling Berling to his feet and shoving at Glengask. A few feet away Miss Florence Breckett fainted into the arms of her dance partner, and they both fell to the highly polished floor.

  Berling shrugged off his helpers, and with a red half smile unsteadily straightened his coat. “You are a devil, Glengask,” he drawled.

  “Aye. And ye’re a bloody poacher.”

  “Ha.” Abruptly the earl lunged forward. Striking out with his coiled fist, he caught Ranulf in the left eye.

  “Och, now it’s a party!” Glengask threw off the men hanging on to his arms and stepped forward again.

  “No!” So angry she could scarcely force the word out, Charlotte stepped between the two men. “I don’t care what your private quarrels may be,” she snapped. “This is not the time or the place to settle them. Nor is it the means by which gentlemen conduct their affairs.” It was all about their stupid, useless pride, and she refused to see men battle over who was more infatuated with themselves.

  “Hear, hear,” Lord Evanstone grunted. “I’m asking both of you to leave my home. If I have to ask twice, I will see you thrown out.”

  For a breathless moment Charlotte thought Ranulf would ignore the threat. Or worse, that he would consider it a challenge. His gaze ignored everything else in the room in favor of her. Finally and wordlessly, not bothering to wipe the trickle of blood from his face where Berling’s ring had cut his cheek, he inclined his head, turned on his heel, and left the room. The other guests parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses.

  Looking less splendid and holding a palm to his bloody lip, Lord Berling followed a moment later, several of his friends exiting with him. That left her alone, standing in the middle of the room with everyone staring at her. The edges of her vision began to dim, and she drew in a ragged breath.

  “Charlotte,” her father’s welcome voice came, and his strong hand cupped her elbow. “Let’s find you a chair, my brave girl.”

  She sagged against him. “I don’t feel brave. I feel ill.”

  “You stepped into the middle of a feud and stopped two men from pummeling each other,” he countered in a louder voice than seemed necessary, considering that he was close enough to wrap an arm around her shoulder.

  Then she realized what he was doing—making that brawl about something other than her. “They nearly came to blows this morning in Hyde Park,” she returned. “Over sheep or grazing land or some such thing.”

  A moment later the music began again for the quadrille, and some people thankfully decided to take the floor rather than continue staring at her. Slowly she sat in one of the chairs by the wall, her father o
n one side of her, and her mother abruptly on the other.

  “Are you well, Charlotte?” her mother asked, taking both her hands and squeezing them. “Do you wish to leave?”

  “Heavens no,” she forced out. “Though I do think I’m finished with dancing for the evening.”

  “Quite understandable. That man is a brute.”

  Of course the countess meant Glengask; he’d struck the first blow. But she’d already had more than a sneaking suspicion that Berling had known it would happen—had wanted it to happen, and that was precisely why he’d asked her to dance that particular quadrille with him.

  Yes, perhaps she’d thought the two men would have words. And she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe that Lord Berling had intended to be punched. It was more likely that he’d anticipated an argument, which he figured to win.

  As for Ranulf, he’d almost seemed to enjoy the fisticuffs. He’d certainly failed to impress her, however, and he’d done even worse at keeping an eye on his sister. Belatedly she lifted her head to look for Winnie, only to find her out on the dance floor with her uncle. Rowena didn’t look happy, but she was dancing. And that was good; if she continued to represent herself as the “civilized” MacLawry sibling, she might escape censure for her brother’s actions.

  Some kind soul brought Charlotte a glass of wine, and she sipped it gratefully. Stupid man. Whatever despicable things had happened in the Highlands, this was London. And one did not brawl in the proper homes in London. If he hadn’t kissed her earlier, she was fairly certain she would be hating him at this moment. Instead, she mostly felt angry. And a little sad, for reasons she refused to consider. Not now.

  After the quadrille Jane, along with Winnie and Lord Swansley, joined them at the side of the room. “You were a lioness, Char,” her sister said. “‘Stop that punching,’ and they did.”

  Rowena seemed even more surprised. “He backed down,” she half whispered, her brogue stronger than it had been for better than a day. “Ye put a hand out, and he backed down. I’d never have dared.”