“Charlotte, do you have a moment?” her father said, emerging from his office just as she passed by it.
“Of course, Papa.” She followed him back inside, and he quietly closed the door behind them. “Has Jane begun writing bad poetry about some man again?” she asked with a grin.
“No, nothing as dire as that.” He faced her. “Lord Glengask.”
For a brief, horrified moment she thought Simms might have told. But her father wasn’t swearing, and her mother wasn’t even present, much less weeping over her older daughter’s ruination, so Charlotte pasted a frown on her face. “What about him?”
“The two of you went driving yesterday.”
She nodded, her mind racing ahead of the conversation, seeking for answers he hadn’t yet asked—but likely would. “He wanted to see some of the sights.”
“I thought he detested London.”
“I told him he was wrong to claim hatred of something he’d never bothered to experience.” That happened to be the truth, at least. The idea of lying to her dear, patient father made her feel ill; there were some things she couldn’t tell him, but as much as possible she intended to be honest.
“And has his opinion altered?”
“He did say several complimentary things, but I believe it’s still too early to tell.”
“I see.” He drummed his fingers on the back of a chair. “Is he courting you?”
Her breath caught. “Really, Papa. I’m English. You know what he thinks of us. And I told him that brawling with people was the basest resort of petty minds.” Abruptly it occurred to her that insulting Ranulf to her father was not the wisest way to endear one to the other—if such a thing was required. But jumping to his defense would make her father suspicious, and rightly so.
“Good.”
That made her frown deepen. “What’s good?”
“That he isn’t courting you.” The earl took a slow breath. “It’s one thing to have his sister lodging here. She’s young and charming and not political. He, on the other hand, has enemies caustic enough to burn down his stable. And there are rumors that his grandfather was a Jacobite. There’s even talk that he’s a Jacobite, given the way he keeps to the Highlands with an army of fighting men around him.”
She couldn’t disagree with any of it. “I don’t know about his politics,” she said slowly, her heart beginning to ache as though someone had squeezed it, “but I think you know how I feel about anyone with a penchant for mindless violence.”
Walking forward, her father kissed her on the forehead. “That, I do. And though I’m sorry you have a very good reason for your squeamishness, at this moment I’m rather relieved you feel this way. Because if I know one thing, it’s that being in the Marquis of Glengask’s company is dangerous.”
Charlotte wouldn’t say she felt relieved about anything, no matter how safe or perilous her predicament. It was likely a good thing that her father had reminded her of the negative parts of a relationship with Ranulf MacLawry, because on her own she might have decided to overlook what seemed to be a few brawls. But it was much, much worse than that. He was, quite simply, a man at war. And if she fell for him, and he was hurt or … killed, she didn’t think she would be able to stand it. Not again. Not after what she’d discovered in his arms.
It might have been different if he’d wished for a different sort of life, but she’d never seen any evidence that he wanted anything other than what he had. Well, she wanted something else for him. And she wanted him to at least acknowledge that another way existed, for heaven’s sake. Luckily for her, though, she’d learned long ago that wishes were as plentiful as clouds, and as impossible to grasp.
She followed her father out to the foyer, and Winnie grasped her arm as they all headed out to the waiting carriage. “You look so lovely,” the younger girl said with a grin.
“As do you.” Charlotte indicated the emerald-colored silk gown Ranulf’s sister wore. “You didn’t acquire this here, did you? I don’t recall seeing it before.”
“No, this is the gown Ranulf bought me for my birthday. Of course he thought I would be wearing it to my own party, and not to a London grand ball.” She swished the skirt, grinning excitedly. “I’m sure that having both my brothers in attendance tonight will make them more civilized, since they won’t feel so outnumbered. Though practically the only thing that could make Ran fight is a threat to his loved ones.”
“He punched Lord Berling for claiming a place on Charlotte’s dance card,” Jane pointed out as she settled back into the coach.
“No, he punched the earl because Berling shot my brother, Bear. Munro. Then the scoundrel fled to London to pretend to be civilized. I know I was furious about the fight, but I’ve been thinking about it, and I believe that Ran just reminded Berling that actions have consequences.”
“It was still an appalling show of violence, my dear,” Charlotte’s mother said from the opposite seat of the coach. “I know you love your brother, but thank goodness you were well clear of that mess. And I’m also pleased that you told him how ungentlemanly his actions were, Winnie. It wouldn’t have had the same seriousness to it, coming from other than family.”
“My brother’s a good man, my lady,” Winnie said stoutly. “And he learns from his mistakes. You’ll see.”
Charlotte just wished everyone would stop talking about Ranulf, both his faults and his manliness, and give her a blasted minute or two to think. She’d chastised him more strongly than his own sister had. Yes, he’d vanished for a week, but not because he wished to hide. He’d reappeared with a house and a civilized, amusing dinner. It had been charming. He had been charming.
According to her father, the fire that had ended the evening had been Ranulf’s fault for having enemies. At the time she’d been more concerned with the disaster than what had caused it, though she supposed now that if he hadn’t hit Berling, the fire might not have happened. But then what came next might not have happened, either.
“What if both your brothers wear kilts tonight?” Jane asked from the other side of Charlotte.
Winnie shrugged. “I don’t think they will. This isn’t a clan gathering, and I do believe Ranulf’s trying to fit in.”
“I certainly hope so,” Lady Hest said under her breath.
For the very briefest of moments, despite what both she and Winnie had told him, Charlotte hoped he would wear his kilt. Because she’d never seen a more magnificent sight in her entire life—except, of course, for when she’d seen him naked.
Chapter Twelve
“A man hesitates to accept responsibility for starting a fire and ye think that makes him innocent of it?” Ranulf slammed a fist against the wall of the coach, rocking the entire vehicle.
“I only said he didnae have the look of a man pleased to have acted against an enemy,” Arran returned, pulling at the sleeve of his dark brown coat as if he hoped it would come off at the shoulder.
“Of course he didnae, firstly because ye confronted him about it, and secondly because the man’s a yellow-bellied coward.”
“I dunnae—”
“Damn it, Arran, do I truly have to remind ye nae to go anywhere that’ll see ye outnumbered? Charles Calder is the bloody Campbell’s grandson!”
“I can take care of myself, as ye well know, Ran. And if ye thought it more important to go mooning after some proper Sasannach lass, someone else had to take a look at Berling.”
Ranulf glared at his brother across the coach’s seat. “I’m nae mooning after anyone,” he stated flatly. “And tomorrow ye can hie yerself back to Glengask.”
“Nae.”
“‘Nae’?” Ranulf repeated, lifting an eyebrow. “I wasnae asking.”
“And I’m nae leaving ye here to watch over Rowena while the wolves circle the lot of ye. Especially when yer mind’s on someaught else.”
That was twice Arran had accused him of distraction. What did his younger brother think he’d seen? Whatever his own intentions toward Charlotte, he wasn’t yet
willing to discuss them. And certainly not with someone who’d just arrived the previous day.
“My mind’s precisely where it needs to be, Arran. As always.” He folded his arms across his chest. “But have ye considered what’ll happen tonight when all the duke’s guests see ye introduced as a MacLawry?”
Arran gave a grim smile. “I reckon we might be in for a bit of a row.”
Damnation. “Nae, that willnae happen. Rowena wants a proper Season. And I dunnae want us seen as animals. Tonight we’re gentlemen.”
Rowena wasn’t the only one who wanted a fight-free soiree. The fact that he could attribute the request to her, though, certainly made things easier on him. His sister had given him some surprisingly sound advice, actually, and he intended to make good use of her counsel. He merely didn’t wish to explain to Arran why he was acting as he was.
“Gentlemen. Until she came here, Rowena thought we were gentlemen. And we’d nae have to worry over being outnumbered and burned out if ye’d brought her home to Glengask as ye said ye would. Do ye mean to stay in London all Season, now?”
Ranulf sent his brother a level look. Time was, no one would have spoken to him like that. Charlotte had done so, and everything had changed. Arran didn’t know anything of that, though. Had he changed, then? Was it something that others could perceive? If so, he needed to stop. Immediately. A perception of weakness might as well be a death sentence in his world.
“I’ll stay in London as long as I deem it necessary. If ye want to stay as well, then do so. But if ye think I mean to allow ye to continue stirring up trouble because ye dunnae like the way I’m dealing with things, ye’d be dead wrong. This is a different world, Arran, and we need to learn how to navigate it. Nae for Rowena, but for Glengask’s future. And we willnae be accomplishing anything by countering each other’s moves. Are we clear?”
His brother nodded. “Aye. That’s all I wanted t’hear.”
“And I want to hear that ye willnae be brawling tonight. For any reason.”
“Then ye have my word.” Arran sat back, flicking aside the carriage’s curtain to look out at the deepening twilight. “Then we’re not discussing the Sasannach lass?”
“We are nae.”
He couldn’t order Arran to close his eyes to what he saw; after all, he frequently made good use of his brother’s keen observations. If Arran wanted to draw his own conclusions where Ranulf and Charlotte were concerned, no one could stop him. What Ranulf could do, though, was keep him from discussing it. And from offering an opinion Ranulf didn’t particularly want to hear.
“And Berling?” Arran asked after a moment.
“I may not agree with ye, but I’m nae a fool. If ye think there’s a chance someone else is involved, I’ll pay attention. But fer God’s sake, next time tell me before ye slip off to confront someone.”
Finally Arran’s smile touched his light blue eyes. “I can do that.”
Once they’d retrieved Myles from Wilkie House, it was only another five minutes until they reached the tail end of the crowd of carriages surrounding Mason House. As they made their way inside, the noise of the street was replaced by the din of hundreds of voices trying to be clever. If anything, the party seemed more crowded than the Evanstone soiree. Perhaps the guests were hoping they would see another fight. That might well be, but neither he nor Arran would be involved with it. Through it all he listened for one voice, one honey-sweet note of sanity in all the chaos.
“Are we allowed to dance?” his brother muttered.
Ranulf damned well hoped so, since the only reason he’d bothered to put on his best clothes had been to claim a waltz with Charlotte. “Aye. But ye’re nae to step on anyone’s toes,” he returned in the same tone. “Literally or figuratively.”
“Berling’s here,” his uncle noted under his breath.
“Just give him a smile, bràthair,” Ranulf instructed his brother. “Let him come to his own conclusions.”
“I’m grinning. Not at all sarcastically.”
“Ye’d best nae be.”
He understood that Berling was dangerous. He’d disliked the man and his arrogant, self-serving manner even before the torching of the schools and the wounding of Bear. From that moment on, dislike had become hatred.
Given all that, tonight the earl at most felt like a nuisance. A distraction. Ranulf kept his gaze moving, identifying each guest who crossed his path as someone he’d met or someone he hadn’t. After that, he dismissed them from his thoughts. None of them was the one he was after.
Then he caught sight of her, and time simply … stopped. Close by the double row of windows Charlotte tilted her head, a smile touching her mouth as she handed her dance card to the round fellow, Henning. She looked almost like a Thomas Lawrence painting, so exquisite she was. But no portrait could capture the scent of her, the taste of her, or the way simply seeing her sent warmth searing beneath his skin.
She’d worn red and black, rich and bold and striking against her fair skin and golden hair. He tried not to read anything into the fact that she’d also garbed herself in two of the three colors of the MacLawry tartan, but in seeking every strand that connected her to him, he couldn’t help himself. His fingers curled, wanting to tangle into the soft folds of her skirt and pull her up against him.
“This way,” he said, otherwise not bothering to see if his brother and uncle followed him as he strode forward.
When he was halfway across the room she stilled, then turned to look at him. It might be witchcraft, or it might not. He didn’t care any longer. All he knew was that he wanted her. Immediately.
Before he could reach her, Rowena moved in front of him, blocking his path. “Good evening, bràthair,” she said, dipping a curtsy.
With some difficulty Ranulf forced his attention down to his sister, his reason for being in London in the first place. “Ye wore yer birthday gown,” he drawled, taking her hand.
Sometime when he’d lost sight of his sister, when he’d been distracted by tracking her down and by being annoyed that she’d left home without permission, Rowena had stopped being a wee sprite in pigtails who always asked for dresses covered with lace and frills and ribbons. She’d grown up, and in looking at her instead of seeing her, he’d nearly missed it.
“What is it?” she asked, furrowing her brow.
“Ye look very like our mother,” he murmured.
She smiled, sudden tears shining in her eyes. “Do I?”
He studied her face for a moment. “Aye. Only prettier, piuthar.”
“That you are,” Myles put in, kissing her on the cheek.
Lord Hest stepped in and offered his hand. Whatever else the earl was, whatever his character, at this moment he was simply another obstacle between Ranulf and Charlotte. “I do think that tonight I’m escorting the four loveliest ladies in London,” the older man announced.
“I’d have to agree with ye,” Ranulf said, shaking the earl’s hand. His future father-in-law, whether Hest would approve of the notion or not.
“Oh, Jonathan,” the countess said with a blush, cuffing her husband lightly on the shoulder.
There. That had to be enough in the way of pleasantries. Pausing his breath, Ranulf slipped around his sister—to find his brother chatting with Charlotte. After Arran’s comments about the Sasannach lass, Ranulf didn’t like what he saw. At all.
“Arran,” he said, moving in, “go write yer name on Rowena’s card.” What good was it being the patriarch of his clan if he couldn’t order others to leave his most precious thing—his obsession—alone?
His brother sent him an unreadable look and strolled over to join Rowena and Jane. Once Arran walked away, Ranulf ceased paying attention to him. “Hello, Charlotte,” he said, reaching out to take her hand and bring it to his lips. It wasn’t enough, and he just barely kept himself from pulling her into his arms.
“Ranulf,” she greeted him, her hazel eyes sparkling brown in the chandelier light.
“I think I may have made a mist
ake,” he continued, lowering his voice and moving in more closely on the pretext of taking her dance card.
“What sort of mistake?” She sent him a suspicious look, her smile dropping.
“My attraction to ye doesn’t seem to have eased at all. And in that dress ye look more delicious than the apple that tempted Adam.”
Charlotte cleared her throat. “I believe that to be a mutual difficulty, then. Despite my better judgment.”
“Aye, that’s the rub, dunnae ye think? But tonight my better judgment can go hang itself. I want ye, Charlotte.”
“I think you should write your name down beside that dance,” she said a little unsteadily, indicating the second waltz of the evening. “And I want you, too,” she continued in a whisper, her changeable eyes meeting his in that way few other people ever dared.
In that moment he vowed to himself that whatever man she wanted, he would be. It would likely cost him, but if Charlotte was the prize, he would pay the price. Pushing against the ridiculous urge to burst into song or something equally unmanly, he scrawled his name where she indicated. “Take me sightseeing again, leannan.”
Her lips parted in a soft smile, and he caught himself leaning down toward her. Propriety was a damned nuisance. But it was what she felt comfortable with, and so he would be patient. Handing her card back, he brushed his fingers against her red, elbow-length gloves.
“How are yer hands?” he asked, annoyed that he hadn’t asked her that immediately. In his defense her appearance had dazzled him, but she’d gotten those blisters on his behalf.
“Much better. In another day or two I daresay no one would ever know I had blisters.”
“I would know.”
“Ah, there you are, dear Lady Charlotte,” a dry voice came from behind him. “Tell me you haven’t given away every dance.”
Thankfully for the sake of his resolve, it wasn’t Berling. But that didn’t actually leave him feeling any better. A tall, fair-haired fellow of about Bear’s age stood there, an easy smile on his face and his body clothed in a well-made dark blue coat that might or might not have had padded shoulders.
The Devil Wears Kilts Page 21