Arran’s presence gave Ranulf an additional body to watch over, but he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t a relief to have an ally. Even a nosy one who noticed things he shouldn’t. The most immediate question was whether Berling would see the arrival of another MacLawry in London as a threat or as an invitation to make more trouble.
And figuring that out would have to wait until he’d set eyes on Charlotte again, devil take the rest.
* * *
“Two letters and a poem, Winnie, and that’s just today!” Jane said, taking the perfumed paper from Rowena’s hand and smoothing it over her knee. “I don’t know that ‘N’er a copper penny as bright as the smile of Winnie’ is terribly romantic, but it does rhyme.”
When Charlotte looked over at their houseguest, Winnie seemed more interested in studying the clouds passing by outside the drawing room window than in giggling over her latest conquest’s attempt at poetry. “Winnie, your brother would send word if anything further happened. You know that.”
With a sigh Rowena sank back onto the couch. “Aye, I know.” She scooted over and took Charlotte’s hand, careful not to press at the blisters. “Thank you for keeping me away from the picnic. I sometimes forget there’s a difference between being independent and being responsible.”
Charlotte nodded, smiling. “That’s a very wise thing to say.”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a time, now. My brothers, and especially Ran, have spent so much of their time making certain I’m happy and well protected that they’ve stopped considering themselves. Perhaps it’s my turn to look after them, for once.”
“But two of the three of them are in Scotland,” Jane put in. “And Lord Glengask seems supremely capable of looking after himself.”
Rowena looked up at Charlotte’s face. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”
Charlotte wanted to ask if she was referring to something in particular, but before she could do so Jane resumed looking through their morning correspondence. “What I want to know is, does looking after your brother mean we can’t go looking for hair ribbons today?”
“Oh, I think we can do both, Jane.”
“That’s a relief.”
Whether Rowena’s sudden sense of responsibility was due to the fire last night or not, Charlotte was relieved to hear it, and so likely would Ranulf be when she told him. Even if perhaps she’d thought he might be exaggerating the quality and quantity of the danger that lurked around the MacLawrys, she’d certainly become a believer last night.
A shiver ran through her. She’d half hoped he would send back word that he needed to cancel their outing today—not because her arms ached, which they did, or because she didn’t wish to see him, which she did—but because he would be spending the museum visit angry and plotting revenge. She would, and already did, feel the need to counsel him about how he planned to retaliate, and then they would argue again. Not the interesting type of argument, either. She couldn’t quite pin any of this to pride, but she wouldn’t be surprised if it came down to that in the end.
The morning room door opened at two minutes past noon, and she and the other two girls rose as Longfellow came to attention in the doorway. “My ladies, Lord Glengask and Lord Arran MacLawry,” he intoned, and moved out of the way.
Winnie was already halfway to the door. “Arran!” she exclaimed, throwing herself into the arms of a dark-haired man who looked like a leaner, less chiseled version of his older brother.
“There ye are, my sweet Winnie,” he drawled, and kissed his sister on both cheeks.
“How did you get here so quickly?” she demanded.
“I try to anticipate trouble.”
They continued gabbing excitedly and introduced a blushing Jane into the mix, but Charlotte ceased paying attention as Ranulf moved around them and approached her. Something had happened last night; she couldn’t define what it was, but when the Marquis of Glengask walked into the room, everything else seemed to fade away. It was ridiculous that after a pair of kisses and a pair of waltzes and a handful of fascinating, aggravating conversations she felt so … drawn to a man who was so wrong for her, especially when he only meant more trouble.
And yet she had to stop herself from meeting him halfway across the room, from throwing her arms around his shoulders and kissing him. She swallowed. Clearly she’d become overtired last night, and had lost her bearings. Be logical, she ordered herself. Facts could never lead her astray.
However impressive he’d been in his kilt, he seemed to have done away with it entirely; today, if she didn’t think he would consider it an insult, she would say that he looked very English, from his brown coat to his buckskin trousers to his highly polished Hessian boots.
“How’re yer hands, lass?” he asked, taking them both in his larger, broader ones and turning them palms up.
Not so English after all, once he spoke. A tremor ran down her spine, settling into a low excitement between her thighs. “They sting a bit,” she said in as even a voice as she could manage, “but I think with a pair of gloves and some caution I’ll manage quite well. How are you?”
Deep blue eyes raised to meet hers. “The fire’s stayed out and the worst injury seems to be a pair of blistered palms. I’m relieved. And furious.”
The way he said it so matter-of-factly made the words somehow even more deadly sounding. She could understand his anger, but he was not a man who would settle for exchanging words. “I am not going on a drive with you if you mean to jump out and bash people along the way.”
“So I expect. I’ll do nae bashing or jumping whilst I’m in yer company.”
And he agreed so easily she couldn’t help being suspicious. “The fire was an accident, then?”
“Nae, I reckon it was done deliberately.”
Charlotte frowned. “Then why—”
“Why do I mean to be a proper gentleman today? Because of these hands,” he said quietly, stroking his thumbs gently across her palms. “Because of what ye did fer me last night, leannan.”
“I’m not the only one who helped. For heaven’s sake, all I did was turn a crank.”
A slow smile curved his mouth. “What say we forgo the museum and I’ll find somewhere quiet just for us?” he murmured, moving a breath closer to her. “I’ll explain my gratitude to ye.”
Somehow, the way he said it made it sound even naughtier than it already was. And there she stood, five-and-twenty, past the age of making a good marriage, looking at a man who couldn’t possibly want her for a bride. And a man far too dangerous for her to want as a husband. Perfect, in its imperfection.
“If you can manage that without ruining the life I have,” she whispered back, “I might well be amenable.”
Brief surprise lit his gaze. “What changed yer mind, lass?”
Men. Charlotte favored him with an exasperated grin. “Do you really want me to explain it to you?”
“Nae. Not if there’s a risk of ye deciding against it again. Let’s be off then, shall we?”
“It might not be as simple as all that, you know.”
He nodded, his slight smile sending butterflies through her chest. “Leave that to me, leannan. Where are yer gloves?”
“Simms has them. Simms?”
Her lady’s maid came forward, and together they managed to get the soft white kid gloves over her blisters without overmuch teeth-gritting on her part. She had to fight a wince every time she flexed a hand, but a few blasted blisters were not going to keep her home today. No matter what.
When she looked up again Ranulf’s brother Arran stood gazing at her, his lighter blue eyes curious. No wonder; she’d completely forgotten he was in the room. “So you’re Arran,” she said, offering her hand. “Winnie talks about you and Munro all the time.”
He grinned. “I’ll give ye a bow, and I hope ye don’t take my refusing to shake yer hand as an insult, Lady Charlotte.”
She grinned back at him, sensing in him an easier temperament than his older brother possessed. Equally handsome, perhaps, in a diffe
rent way, but not nearly as compelling. “I’m quite relieved, actually. Thank you.”
With almost absurd caution Ranulf took her outstretched hand and wrapped it over his sleeve. “Arran, I leave ye to do Winnie’s bidding. Don’t cause too much of a ruckus, either of ye.”
Charlotte chuckled as he led her through the foyer and out the front door to his waiting barouche. “Your poor brother. You’ve just sentenced him to go hair ribbon shopping.”
Ranulf shrugged as he helped her into the open carriage. “Arran’s accustomed to it. According to Rowena, he’s the only brother with taste other than in his mouth.”
“I don’t know about that. You look very fine this afternoon.”
“I’ll tell bloo—black-hearted Smith the tailor ye said that. He accused me of shaming his entire profession because I wouldnae let him put padding in my shoulders.”
If there was one man in London who didn’t need the cut of his shoulders enhanced, it was Ranulf MacLawry. “I’m glad you didn’t give in.”
“As am I. Th—” He started to climb into the barouche beside her, then stopped when he noted Simms standing directly behind him. “And what do ye want?”
“I’m going with you, my lord,” the maid said, putting every ounce of affronted dignity she possessed into the sentence.
“The hell ye say.”
Charlotte stifled a laugh. “She’s our chaperone. I can’t accompany you without her or another appropriate female present.”
With a low breath that sounded like a bear growling, Ranulf moved back and handed the lady’s maid into the carriage. Simms started to sit beside Charlotte, but he shook his head. “Nae. Ye can sit there,” he said, pointing at the backward-facing seat.
“Ranulf.”
“I’ll be sitting beside ye, Charlotte. From over there she can better see if I try to ravish ye—which clearly I willnae be doing now.”
Warmth crept up Charlotte’s cheeks all over again. “I told you it wouldn’t be a simple matter,” she murmured as he leaned in to sit next to her, warm and solid and compelling.
“Ye might have warned me of the details,” he returned, settling in close enough that their thighs brushed. “She didnae come along with us before.”
“Because Jane and Winnie were along. We all guard what we and Society say is precious.”
“Bloody Puritans,” he grumbled.
Well, she wasn’t a Puritan, of course, but she understood his meaning. Evidently the Marquis of Glengask intended to be only as much of a gentleman as circumstance demanded he be. And as she rather wished Simms elsewhere, herself, she could only nod.
“Is your other brother here as well?” she asked, to distract herself from thoughts of being ravished.
“Ye want to talk aboot my family, now?”
“I think a different topic might be helpful, yes.”
He sighed. “Nae, then. Bear’s still in Scotland. For the last four hundred years there’s always been a MacLawry at Glengask. It’s even on the family crest, i gcónaí MacLawry ag Glengask—‘always a MacLawry at Glengask,’ literally. And these days, well, I’d never allow that oath to be broken.”
Charlotte nodded. “So your clan will know you mean never to abandon them.”
“Aye.”
It and the meaning behind it were quite possibly the most noble family motto she’d ever heard. And the fact that it was in Gaelic rather than Latin seemed … brave, and proud, rather than quaint. “Say it again, will you? In Gaelic, I mean.”
“With pleasure. I gcónaí MacLawry ag Glengask.”
She found herself watching his mouth as he spoke, savoring the elongated vowels and the musical roll of his words. “Do you speak Gaelic at home? At Glengask?”
“Here and there. Mostly we speak English. We all had to learn it in school, and for a while during my father’s time we werenae allowed to speak Gaelic at all.” He hesitated. “As satisfying as it might have been not to know any English, it wouldnae have served any of us well.”
“And your mother was English.”
The look in his eyes cooled again. “Aye. That she was.”
From what Winnie had said, Eleanor MacLawry, nee Wilkie, had taken her own life three years after her husband’s death. Even if he’d wished to discuss it, which he clearly didn’t, today didn’t seem the appropriate time. Instead she nodded, searching for anything to take her mind away from how very close he sat to her, and how very warm he seemed even through two sets of clothes.
“So tell me—was there something in particular you wanted to see at the British Museum?”
Silence.
When she glanced sideways at him, he sat with his jaw set, his gaze squarely on Simms. And her maid didn’t look terribly comfortable with the scrutiny. No, he hadn’t expected or wanted a chaperone, but that was hardly the servant’s fault.
“Ranulf.”
“Ye know I wasnae going to take ye to the damned museum.”
“Well, we’re going there now, so what would you like to see?”
His gaze slid over her, slow and lingering. “What would I like to see, Charlotte?” he repeated. “Shall I begin at the top, or the bottom?”
Good heavens. “Even if you don’t wish to review the history of England because of the fighting with Scotland,” she said hurriedly, heating from the inside out, “there are some lovely Greek and Egyptian items on display.” The breeze blew a lock of his long, curling black hair across one of his sapphire eyes, and she nearly brushed it off his face before she caught herself and stilled her hand again.
“Aye. I’m certain there are.” He sat back for a moment, the restless tap of his fingers against his thigh hypnotic. Then he muttered several words in Gaelic that she was certain, if translated, would sound much worse in English. “I cannae,” he muttered.
“You can’t what?”
“Do this all day without touching ye.” He abruptly sat forward to pin the lady’s maid with his fierce gaze. “Simms, aye?”
“Yes, my lord,” the servant responded, her cheeks becoming a blotchy red.
Charlotte tensed. If he meant to order Simms out of the barouche, she would have to step in—both for the maid’s sake and for her own. Whatever she might want privately, they were on the street in the middle of London. Some measure of propriety would be observed.
“If ye knew yer mistress was misbehaving, but that no harm would come of it, what would ye do?”
Simms looked from him to Charlotte. “My lady’s reputation will always be safe with me,” she said after a moment, a fierce pride in her voice that Charlotte couldn’t recall ever hearing before. “I would never speak of her private affairs unless the silence endangered her safety.”
“Hm,” he mused, settling back again. “Debny. Take us to Gilden House. I want to show Lady Charlotte the stable damage by daylight.”
“Aye, m’laird.”
“And this is your idea of discreet?” Charlotte whispered, fleetingly wondering if she’d stepped out of Mayfair and into some wild Gypsy romance.
“It is precisely my idea of discreet,” he returned in that rumbling, low-pitched whisper that started heat between her thighs. “If I had t’stand beside ye all afternoon looking at damned statues, everyone would know how much I want ye, leannan. And that wouldnae be discreet.”
“But driving directly to your house and walking inside?”
“With Simms to chaperone ye.” He cocked his head. “Ye drive me to madness, lass. If ye dunnae want me, ye’d best say so now. I’m nae a man ye tease, Charlotte Hanover.”
Her heart skittered. The idea of parting from him today without … touching him, made her ache. He’d made it clear from the beginning that his pursuit was solely about satisfying a physical desire, but he wasn’t the only one who wanted something. “Whether this is a mistake or not, I can’t think of a better moment to make one,” she finally said.
Ranulf grimaced. “I’ve heard better praise, but that’ll do.”
For the next fifteen minutes she trie
d not to let the bouncing of the carriage press her against his side. She attempted a bit more casual conversation, something at which she generally excelled, but nothing worked. London had never seemed so big, or the distances so great.
By the time they turned up Market Street and the barouche stopped before the main steps of Gilden House, her jaw hurt from being clenched so tightly. Before Owen could even emerge from the house Ranulf had the carriage door open and cupped her elbow to help her to the ground.
“M’laird,” the footman said, “we didnae expect ye to re—”
“Take Simms here down to the kitchen for someaught to eat,” he interrupted, keeping Charlotte close by his side. “I want everyone else on the ground floor till I say otherwise.”
“Aye, m’laird.”
“Ye and Fergus included.”
“I’ll fetch him at once, m’laird.”
Charlotte walked through the front door, though she had the feeling that if she’d hesitated he would have picked her up and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of beets.
“That way,” he muttered from directly behind her, indicating the staircase.
She remembered where his master bedchamber lay. He’d shown it off just last evening, after all. “Don’t rush me,” she ordered, pushing a shoulder back against him and stopping on the landing. “I am not a cow being herded to slaughter.”
“My lady?”
Charlotte looked down to see Simms standing at the bottom of the stairs, Owen glaring at her and seeming ready to drag her down to the kitchen by force. “What is it, Simms?”
“I shall be discreet—if this is what you wish me to be.”
Clearly Simms didn’t approve of any of this, but it warmed Charlotte’s heart that she’d asked the question despite being outnumbered by large Highland men, and at the way the maid had worded it.
Feeling as though she were about to take a step into purgatory—which she was, according to most proper ladies—she smiled. “Thank you, Simms. Have some luncheon. I’m where I wish to be.”
At the top of the stairs she turned right and stepped into Ranulf’s generous master bedchamber. A moment later the door clicked shut behind her, and she heard the key turn to lock them in.
The Devil Wears Kilts Page 17