Myles Wilkie nodded. “He’s a crafty man, your brother,” he commented.
“Crafty?” Charlotte retorted. “How clever is it to begin a brawl? That’s precisely the opposite of crafty, I would think.”
“It’s very clever, if you’re outnumbered by your enemies and you want them to know you’re not at all troubled by that fact. When Berling left, he took his allies with him. How could he plot his revenge, otherwise? But when Ran left, he took all his rivals with him, leaving Rowena safe under our protection and with nary an enemy in sight.”
Charlotte looked at him. Had Ranulf seen Berling write his name on her dance card? Had he predicted the earl would try to force a confrontation? If so, why hadn’t he said anything? Why had he simply allowed her to be put in the middle as the apparent bone of contention?
Even as she wondered that, though, she knew the answer. He hadn’t said anything to her in advance because she wouldn’t have tolerated it. She would never have agreed to dance with either of them, and she certainly—well, more than likely—would never have gone out to the balcony with him and kissed him. Even if going out there had been her idea, and even if she hadn’t been looking for an excuse to kiss him on the chance that he wouldn’t kiss her first. Oh, but he had.
“I don’t care what he was doing,” his sister said, tears in her eyes. “It was terrible and loud and oh…” Winnie stomped her foot. “I shan’t forgive him. And I am not going back to Scotland. Ever. He might well have ruined everything, just because he has to control everything but the sun’s rise.”
“I’m mad at him too, Winnie,” Charlotte agreed, though “mad” wasn’t nearly a descriptive enough word. “And I have a few choice words to say to him, when next we meet.” If he still dared to call on her tomorrow, she intended to tell him precisely what she thought of him and his … method of solving problems at her expense.
And seeing him tomorrow would only be so she could yell at him. It had nothing to do with that look in his eyes when he’d ignored the rest of the world to gaze solely at her. And it had less still to do with the way her feet had literally and figuratively left the ground when he’d kissed her. Nothing to do with that, at all.
Chapter Seven
“Just leave it be, Ginger.”
“But my lord, I have—there are ways to conceal blemishes.”
Ranulf pulled the cravat from his valet’s hands and finished knotting it himself. “It’s nae a blemish; it’s a black eye.” He viewed the thin fellow in his dressing mirror. “Do ye think there’s one body in Mayfair who doesnae know I have this?”
The valet lowered his head, flushing. “Well, I—”
“Then there’s no point in hiding it, is there? Now fetch me that new coat and we’ll see how bloody English I look in it.”
The dark brown coat did fit quite well, and it gave his gray one a rest. In fact, with a dark green waistcoat and buckskin breeches and finished off with a pair of Hessian boots, he felt fairly well put together. And that was a good thing, because he needed every advantage he could get today. Charlotte was likely to rip his head off after last night, anyway, and she wouldn’t care about his reasons for any of it.
The fact that he looked forward to being chastised by a delicate English lass was in itself a surprise. With the exception of his brother Arran arguing over whether a new plan was likely to cause more trouble than it was worth, people didn’t chastise him.
As he left his bedchamber with Fergus at his side, Owen met him at the top of the stairs. “Ye have letters from Lord Arran and Bear, both, m’laird,” he said, holding them out. “I hope all’s well at Glengask.”
“As do I,” Ranulf returned, taking both missives. “How are we for calling cards today?”
“Nary a one.” The footman narrowed his eyes as he gestured at Ranulf’s cheek. “I’m thinking yer sudden unpopularity has t’do with that.”
“Aye, I reckon it does. Let me see to my correspondence, and have that phaeton brought ’round before noon.” He paused halfway to his rented office. “And if ye catch scent of anything interesting, let me know.”
“Could ye define ‘interesting,’ m’laird?”
“Men storming the house with muskets and torches would be interesting.”
“Oh, aye, I’ll keep an eye out fer that, then.”
With a half grin Ranulf settled into his chair and opened Bear’s letter first. In Munro’s usual straightforward, good-humored words he read that half the clan had been wandering by Glengask, asking if anything was amiss and offering one and all to ride—or walk—down to London to help him fetch Rowena back. And Lachlan had offered again to make the journey, which might or might not be significant, but was at least interesting.
Arran’s letter was, as he expected, more detailed, with the latest information about the weather and the growing herds of Highland cattle they’d been breeding, and a summary of the last month’s expenses from the schools matched up against the profits of the new pottery manufacture. So far his experiment to prove that a clan working together could not only sustain itself but profit seemed to be showing itself sound. And the fact that the Colonies were filled with outcast Highlanders who hated Cheviot sheep and all they represented but longed for good Highland cattle and Highland tartans and pipes and plates and bowls could only continue to aid them.
Both of his brothers also offered again to come south, as they had with every letter they sent. He set them both aside to answer later; he wasn’t nearly foolish enough to arrive late to call on Charlotte. He’d said noon, and by God he would be there by noon.
“No torches or muskets,” Owen reported from his post by the front door as Ranulf strolled into the foyer.
“That’s something, then.”
“And don’t ye worry, m’laird. I’ll put the boot to any Gerdens or Campbell as dares to show his face at yer doorstep.”
Ranulf smiled. “I expect no less.”
“Aye. And do give Lady Winnie our love, m’laird.” Owen sighed. “I miss hearing her bonny laugh.”
So did he. Settling for a nod, Ranulf walked out to the drive. Together he and Debny lifted Fergus onto the back perch of the phaeton where the liveried tiger was generally supposed to sit, and then he climbed into the high seat and sent the fine pair of bays into a trot. With both Debny and Peter riding alongside and his great horse of a hound perched behind him, he wasn’t a sight easily missed. It was likely too early for Berling to come back at him with anything, but he meant to keep an eye out, regardless. His father would be the last MacLawry who was ever caught unaware.
Charlotte stood on the shallow granite steps of Hanover House when he turned up the short, semicircular drive. He didn’t know if her being out there boded good or ill, but he couldn’t deny the … satisfaction he felt deep in his chest at seeing her. All wrong for him she might be, but his heart sped at the mere sight of her, regardless. No, she wasn’t fit for the Highlands. But he wasn’t in the Highlands at the moment, and he was a damned red-blooded man who enjoyed women. And she looked very fine.
“I wasn’t certain ye’d let me near the house,” he said, waiting for Debny to take charge of the horses before he hopped down from the seat, “much less wait out of doors fer me.”
“It was a close decision,” she returned. “And I’m not going trotting about London with you in a high-perch phaeton so that everyone thinks either that last night was about me, or that what you did is in any way acceptable behavior.”
Now that was closer to the reaction he’d expected. “What makes ye think last night’s tussle wasnae about ye?” As he spoke, he closed the distance between them, his body reminding him that a kiss would stop her mouth.
“I did, at the beginning. And then your uncle pointed out how effectively you’d cleared the room of your enemies.”
Uncle Myles, helping again. Ranulf stashed that bit of information away for later contemplation. “That’s only because cowards cling together.” He stopped on the bottommost step so that they were eye-to-eye.
“Shall I point out some things to ye, then?”
She shook her head. “No. Now it’s my turn to point out some things to you, Ranulf.”
Folding his arms across his chest, he nodded. “Enlighten me aboot my spurious Scottish ways, then.”
“Aha!” Charlotte jabbed a finger into his chest. “That is your problem.”
He cocked his head. “What, that I’m Scottish? Ye and yer Sasannach friends are the ones named us devils. I am—”
“Stop it,” she cut in, the fact that she’d interrupted at all surprising him into silence.
Banter was one thing. But now she thought to stop him from talking? “What, then?”
“I looked some things up. The Battle of Culloden was seventy-three years ago. I daresay that most—if not every—man who fought there, English or Scottish, is long dead.”
She kept tapping her finger into his chest as she spoke, though he wasn’t certain whether it was because she was making a point or because she wanted to touch him. He preferred the latter explanation, and kept silent for that reason.
“I know what you’re going to say,” she continued. “That Culloden was only the beginning of the most recent troubles, that the English tried to rob you of the right to wear kilts, to play the bagpipes, even to arm yourselves.”
“Very well,” he said, the list of wrongs beginning to make him lose his sense of humor. “Let’s say I did mention all that. I suppose ye have a point t’make aboot it?”
“Yes. You’ve gotten those rights back. And I know that most of the other clans have fallen, that for a great many of your peers bringing in the sheep was the only way to earn an income. And that they chose the sheep and the grazing land and their immediate families over the welfare and survival of their own clans.”
“That’s a very nice history lesson ye’ve provided me, lass, but I can tell ye it wasnae necessary. Ye read aboot it in yer books. I lived it. I still am living it.”
“I know that,” she snapped back, then blew out her breath. “I wanted you to know that I’m aware of the recent history of the Highlands.”
“Shall I give ye a prize, then?”
“Oh, be quiet.” Scowling, she lifted her finger away from him. “I need to pace. Come into the garden with me.”
“O’course. What sane man would refuse the offer to be privately yelled at in more detail?” With a grimace he turned to whistle for Fergus. “Peter, go discover what Rowena’s up to today, and keep an eye on ’er.”
“Aye, m’laird.”
Following Charlotte, his gaze drawn once more to her swaying hips beneath soft green and yellow sprigged muslin, Ranulf decided the mild English weather and the not-so-mild English beauty before him must have pushed him completely into madness. He simply couldn’t explain it, otherwise.
When she stopped, he nearly ran into her from behind. It wasn’t like him to be so unaware of his surroundings, but even mad enough to spit—unless she also considered that to be doing physical violence—she continued to distract him. “Sit down,” she said, pointing at the stone bench beneath a towering elm tree.
“I thought we were pacing.”
“I’m pacing. You’re listening.”
This was coming very close to being beyond his ability to tolerate, but he took a slow breath and dropped onto the bench. “Go on, then.”
True to her word, she walked to the row of roses and then back past him to a chest-high hedge. “Very well.” Finally she faced him again. “You are the problem, my lord. Since you’ve come to London, have you actually run across any Englishman—any at all—who haven’t been kind and helpful to you?”
“I—”
“I’m not finished. Not everyone in Mayfair is my friend. I find some of these people … despicable and hateful and petty and small. My point being, they’re just people. So when you ride in and start calling everyone Sasannach”—and this time she pronounced it very carefully and correctly—“you’re doing them—and yourself—a disservice.”
“So if I’m hearing ye correctly,” he said slowly, using every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep his seat, “where we lay our heads doesnae matter to ye or to anyone else? A man’s a saint or a devil depending on his own preference, and I’ve made myself a devil?”
“No. Well, yes and no. Of course some people hate others for … where they lay their heads, as you said. But if you don’t stop being so suspicious and so angry at … everyone, you will be the cause of your own downfall.”
“Hm. Fascinating.” Slowly he stood. “Ye willnae mind, I assume, that while I consider yer wisdom I go collect my sister and remove her from this Sasannach household?”
She clenched her hands together. “Maddening,” she muttered. “Your sister doesn’t wish to speak to you. And last night she stated that she intends never to return to Scotland again.”
Ranulf blinked. “What?” he growled, ice piercing his heart.
“I won’t keep you from her, of course, but I suggest that you give her a day or two to remember how much she loves you and to forget what a spectacle you created last night.” She curtsied. “Good day, my lord.”
Ranulf turned on his heel and strode for the carriage drive. In his entire life, even when his father had been killed, even when Bear had been shot, he couldn’t remember feeling such … intolerable frustration. He wanted to shout at the sky, he wanted to grab Charlotte and shake her, he wanted to kiss her senseless and bury himself deep inside her until she cried out in pleasure.
At the edge of the garden he stopped and turned around. “Does this mean ye’ve done with me, lass?”
He watched as her shoulders rose and fell. “I suppose that’s up to you,” she said slowly, and went around the back of the house.
When he reached the drive he hoisted Fergus up onto the main seat of the phaeton himself. “Debny, stay aboot here for a time and make certain Rowena’s seen to. Have Peter inform Lord Hest that he’ll be staying on here. I doubt Hest will object.”
The groom looked puzzled. “Did someaught happen, m’laird?”
“Aye, someaught happened. But nothing to concern ye.”
By concentrating on breathing and nothing else, Ranulf made it back to Tall House without exploding. With Debny still out he unharnessed the team and went to saddle Stirling himself. Standing about and waiting would have been intolerable, anyway. Evidently sensing his mood, Fergus stayed by the stable door and watched in silence.
At Glengask, as full as the house generally was, finding a moment of solitude was as simple as walking down the path to the river. Here he could be alone in an office or bedchamber, but it wasn’t solitude. Servants lurked, and just beyond the wood and plaster walls a city seethed, all ears and tongues and spite.
Ranulf swung up on Stirling, ducked through the stable doors, and set off north at as fast a pace as he could manage. It seemed to take forever for the houses and then farms to thin, for the trees and glades to appear. Only then did he cut off the road, kneeing the gelding into a hard gallop.
On and on they went, until nothing lay around them for miles but scattered trees, streams, and meadows. He and the horse and the dog stopped, winded. And only then did he begin swearing, bellowing, ranting at the empty, overcast sky.
From the day he’d been born he’d carried the title of Earl of Dombray. From his earliest memories he’d known that he would one day be the Marquis of Glengask—and more significantly, the chief of Clan MacLawry. He hadn’t expected to inherit it all at the age of fifteen, but he’d managed. He’d led his family, and his clan, and brought his cotters employment and the security of knowing they could remain on the land where they and their fathers and their father’s fathers had been born.
In all that time, in all of his thirty-one years and in all the battles both literal and figurative he’d fought to protect his people, no one—no one—had ever spoken to him the way Charlotte Hanover just had. She’d put him on the rack, cracked his bones, and flayed him till he bled. And she’d done it with a smile and an ap
ology, as if it were for his own good.
The rain that had been threatening since last evening finally let loose. Ranulf lifted his face to the sky, willing the chill wet to cool his raging temper. What damned nerve she had, to tell him he was the unreasonable one, to say he created trouble where there was none, to insist that no one alive had done the harms he railed against and that that thereby made his anger unfitting and dangerous to those he loved.
And then at the end, when she’d so coolly informed him that Rowena wanted nothing more to do with him or with Scotland … she’d pierced him to the heart. He’d spent his damned life protecting his family and his people, in exchange for what? Failure? Being called a fool?
For a long moment he closed his eyes, letting the rain run down his face and seep into his skin. As his temper eased, one thing became clear; either he was wrong, or Charlotte was wrong.
In truth, he had spent very little time in England, and this was already the longest he’d ever stayed in London. He didn’t so much know the English aristocracy as he knew of them. His mother had constantly flung them up as examples of what she wished her boys were—proper, mild, and above all, English. Of course he’d hated even the idea of the Sasannach nobles.
When Eleanor killed herself and her brother Myles came to look after her orphaned children, Ranulf had detested the man for the way he spoke, the way he dressed, the way he’d insisted that Bear and Arran and Rowena learn the latest English dances and English literature and English rules and laws. Eventually he’d joined in as well, but only because he wanted to know his enemy as well as he possibly could.
His enemy. Aye, the English had done terrible things to the Highlanders, taking away bits and pieces of culture and pride every time the Scots pushed against the harness. His own grandfather, Angus MacLawry, had been killed at Culloden. Why, then, had his father seen fit to marry the most English of Englishwomen? Had it been to try to convince her to love the Highlands, or so that his children would have a sense of what it was to be English?
Finally he shook water from his eyes and turned Stirling south again, back toward London. Damn Charlotte Hanover for making him question every point of his life, for making him wonder if he’d turned left when he’d been meant to turn right.
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