The Devil Wears Kilts

by Suzanne Enoch

  As closely as he studied her sweet face, all he could make out was interest, and a fondness that made his heart thud inside his chest. “I’m still not frightened,” she said.

  “Then the only thing that frightens ye aboot my life is me.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid for you.”

  “Ye dunnae have to be. I told ye, I’m a changed man.”

  “Your sister certainly seems to think so,” she noted, grinning. “I think she was prepared to be in love with Mr. Harold Myers, until you approved of him. I imagine that now she will very soon find him to be terribly dull—which he is.”

  “One can only hope,” he said dryly. But he had to concede her point; his first instinct had been to bloody the boy’s nose, but this would be much more effective, and his sister couldn’t blame any of it on his actions.

  “The first…” She trailed off, her hazel eyes widening as she caught sight of something behind him. The color left her cheeks. “Ranulf.”

  A hand tapped his shoulder. “Glengask, may I cut in?”

  He turned to look, and anger slammed into his spine. Charles Calder, the Campbell’s grandson, stood there, his expression arrogant but his eyes speaking of much less certainty. “Nae,” he said, as coolly as he could manage.

  “That’s hardly polite.”

  No, he didn’t imagine it was. And he was equally sure that an English gentleman would give up his claim to his dance partner the moment he was asked. “Go away, Calder. Ye’ve nae claim here.”

  “And you don’t belong here at all.”

  “It’s all right, Ran,” Charlotte murmured. “I don’t mind.”

  He did. He minded a great deal. And if he held out any longer, everyone would know. Charlotte would know he couldn’t even manage this small bit of civility. Clenching his jaw, he released her and stepped back.

  With a grin, Calder moved in and took his place, swirling away with Charlotte in his arms. Rather than watch, Ranulf turned his back and left the dance floor. Every curse word he could think of and in several different languages caught in his throat, fighting him to roar free. No. He wouldn’t allow it. He was a bloody gentleman.

  Charlotte’s parents, Lord and Lady Hest, stood talking with a small group of their friends. He didn’t know whether they were oblivious to their older daughter’s dance partner, or if the change made no difference to them. But now that he was far enough away that no one else was likely to notice him staring, he found her red-clothed form on the dance floor and didn’t take his eyes off her. And he continued repeating to himself that nothing would come of this, and that it would be worth it.

  Charlotte kept her gaze on the thin-faced man with one hand clasping hers, and the other on her waist. Light brown hair, forgettable brown eyes, and a broad, flat chin that gave him a permanent stubborn expression. She knew she’d seen him before, though as small as the English aristocracy was, she didn’t think they’d ever exchanged a single word.

  And as they turned lightly about the dance floor, she began to wonder if they ever would have a conversation. Or perhaps he hadn’t planned anything beyond attempting to take the dance over from Ranulf. Perhaps he’d expected a brawl, and he was now at a complete loss. She rather liked that idea. And silence was much easier, anyway. Heaven knew she had quite enough to think about as it was.

  Foremost in her thoughts, of course, as he had been almost from the moment they’d met, was Ranulf MacLawry. Even without looking she knew he stood at the fringes of the room, watching. Probably looking for a reason to step in and begin punching people. Well, she would not be providing him with the excuse. She wanted him to prove to her, to her father, to himself, that he could make his life, rule his clan, without resorting to fighting and feuds and bloodshed and death.

  “How do you know Glengask?” Charles Calder asked, nearly making her jump.

  “I don’t even know you, sir,” she returned with a slight, cool smile. She wasn’t about to give him information without gaining anything in return. After all, they might not have met, but she’d heard his voice quite clearly an hour or so ago.

  “Well, then. Charles Calder, at your service.” He gave a smile that was undoubtedly meant to be charming.

  “Mr. Calder.”

  “And I know that you’re Lady Charlotte Hanover. Now that that’s been taken care of, how do you know Lord Glengask?” he repeated.

  “His mother and my mother were friends.” There. True and innocent sounding, all at the same time.

  “Your family has an unblemished reputation, Lady Charlotte,” he returned mildly, his expression except for his eyes becoming one of kindly concern. “And that’s why I think you should know that every one of the MacLawrys is trouble. He most of all.”

  It took all her effort to keep her expression mildly curious. “Goodness, that sounds dire,” she commented. “What makes you say such a thing to a complete stranger, Mr. Calder?”

  “Because it’s important. The MacLawrys might claim blue blood for some favor an ancestor did for a king three or four hundred years ago, but these days they’re little better than animals. They don’t deserve their land or their title, and they damned well don’t belong among the good people of Mayfair.”

  Charlotte wanted to hit him. The very thought stunned her, but she was fairly certain no mere set of sharply crafted words could adequately describe how very angry he was making her. How dare he insult Ranulf? By association he’d insulted her, as well, but that didn’t matter. The deep slight to Ranulf, however, did. “If you have proof of any of this, why did you approach me? Why not my father, or the courts, or the Regent?” Ha. She was not as gullible or naïve as he clearly seemed to think her.

  “Because it’s you I see him hanging about, my lady. You’re always on his arm, and it’s you he watches from across the room. You therefore seem more in need of a warning than anyone else.” He offered her a slight frown. “For your own good, you should stay well away from him and his kin.”

  By now she expected the warning, but Charlotte was still somewhat surprised he had the nerve to deliver it. “Well,” she returned, deepening her careful smile, “I shall certainly keep what you’ve said in mind. Considering that I’m much better acquainted with the MacLawry family than I am with you, however, you’ll have to forgive me if I attribute most of what you say to some sort of jealousy or a private vendetta.”

  His grip on her hand tightened, then relaxed again. “That would be a mistake. You don’t want to be caught up in this. Blood’s spilled over it before, and I imagine it will again.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “And now threats. To me.”

  His sympathetic expression faltered. “My lady, I think you mis—”

  “I don’t think I’ve misinterpreted anything, Mr. Calder. You’re either trying to frighten me, or to convince me to tell Lord Glengask about this conversation in order to incite him to action. I won’t call you a coward, sir, but I will ask that you henceforth keep your opinions to yourself.”

  The forgettable brown eyes stared holes straight through her. “You’re about to step onto dangerous ground, Lady Charlotte,” he muttered. “Perhaps you should speak to your family before you continue. They may not agree with your conclusions.”

  No, they likely wouldn’t. And neither did she wish to see them put in danger simply because she had an overwhelming desire to tell Charles Calder to go to the devil. She lifted her chin. “Before you begin declaring English families with unblemished reputations to be your enemy, you might consider the ramifications of your actions. We don’t like to be threatened.”

  She put every ounce of regal affront she possessed into the comment, and had the satisfaction of seeing him blink. If Ranulf required proof that words could carry more weight than blows, this was a prime example. As the waltz came to an end, she pulled free and backed away.

  Before she could turn away and make her escape, though, Calder stepped forward and took her hand again, bowing over it. “You, my lady, ar
e a bitch and a shrew,” he murmured, “dried up, on the shelf, and so desperate for a man you’re willing to become a Highlander’s whore.” He straightened, releasing her fingers. “And I dare you to tell him I said that.”

  For a moment she couldn’t even move. No one—no one—had ever spoken to her like that. She felt almost as if she had been physically slapped and thrown to the ground and stepped on. Finally, before anyone could wonder why she stood alone in the middle of the dance floor, she forced herself to turn and walk back toward her parents.

  Was this a challenge to her philosophy, or the means by which Ranulf would fail to live up to it? He would kill Calder for saying that to her. At the least, the ensuing brawl would utterly ruin his reputation in London. And where her father was concerned.

  “Ye look pale as a banshee,” he said, walking up and offering his arm.

  She took it gratefully. “He’s quite an awful man.”

  “Aye. That he is.” They walked a few feet in silence. “Are ye not going to tell me what he said, then?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “No. It was just words.”

  Ranulf stopped, bringing her up short beside him. “What was just words?” he asked crisply.

  She would have to tell him something, if only for his own safety. And if she concealed the truth, it didn’t mean that Ranulf had kept his word to her about being civilized. It only made her a liar and a coward. “He said you and your family were trouble, and that I would be wise to keep my distance from you.”

  “Ah. And that’s why ye look ready to faint, leannan?”

  “I’m not ready to faint,” she retorted. “He called me some names. I believe I’ll survive.”

  Ranulf pulled her closer. “What names?” he enunciated very clearly.

  She met his fierce, burning gaze. “You gave me your word.”

  He continued glaring at her. “Aye, that I did. So tell me what he said to ye, Charlotte.”

  If she told him, she knew he would go straight for Calder’s throat. And if she didn’t, he might very well attack anyway. “He said I was a bitch and a shrew, old and so desperate for a man that I became your whore.” The words tasted strange and filthy on her tongue, and she hoped never to have cause to speak them again.

  Ranulf closed his eyes for the space of half a dozen heartbeats. She kept her grip on his arm, even though she knew that if he went for Calder she would never be able to stop him. It felt like minutes, but could only have been a matter of seconds before vivid blue caught her gaze again.

  “Just words,” he muttered, and moved forward again. “I think it’s time for us to leave.”

  “We can’t, Ran,” his sister pleaded as they reached the rest of the group. “I’ve promised every dance to someone.”

  “So have I,” Jane added. She’d danced the waltz with Arran MacLawry, Charlotte realized belatedly.

  “Is something amiss, Glengask?” Lord Hest asked, his expression cautious. From what he’d said about Ranulf, he no doubt expected trouble.

  A muscle in Ranulf’s lean jaw clenched. “Nae. Just a feeling.”

  “Then you’re free to go, of course. I think we’ll stay.”

  For a long moment Ranulf stood silent. “Come along then, Rowena, Arran.”

  He reached for his sister’s hand, but she took a step backward. “I’m not going, Ranulf.”

  “Then who do ye expect to keep an eye on ye, Rowena?” he returned flatly.

  “No one. For heaven’s sake, bràthair, this is a grand ball. Nothing is going to happen to me here. And I’m eighteen. I’m not a little girl with pigtails.”

  Ranulf hesitated. It was the first time in their acquaintance that Charlotte had ever seen him indecisive about anything. The effect was oddly heartbreaking. Finally he nodded. “Arran and I will go, then. Unless ye’ve other plans, Arran.”

  “Nae. I’ll go with ye,” Arran replied, looking rather stunned to be asked.

  “Good.” He sent a glance at his uncle, who nodded, evidently realizing his duty. Then he looked at her, a stiff smile touching his mouth and fleeing again. “I’ll call on ye tomorrow.”

  With that he and his brother left the ballroom. Immediately the room seemed smaller, the light dimmer, the music cheap and amateurish. And as much as she tried to deny it, her heart felt dimmer, too.

  Of course she was being silly; she’d spent weeks attempting to convince him to see her point of view. Insisting that it was wrong to answer words—especially words that only insulted a man’s or a woman’s pride—with bloodshed. So now that he’d listened, she had no right to feel like a fairy princess whose one true love had just walked away from the battlefield rather than staying to defend her honor.

  After all, she knew why he’d left; he’d done it so no one else would have any reason to threaten or insult her or Rowena or Janie. It had been the wise, mature decision. Neither had he been weak in conceding to his sister’s demand to stay. He’d only been attempting to avoid causing a scene, as any proper gentleman would do.

  And so she did not, absolutely did not, feel disappointed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ranulf had read somewhere about insects that devoured their victims from the inside, leaving perfect, empty shells in their wake. And he wondered whether fury could do the same thing to a man, eating his heart and organs alive, consuming them with heat and flame, leaving naught but a hollow wretch behind.

  Part of him wished that, if emptiness was the end result, his anger would hurry up and get it over with. Because the raw hate he’d been fighting during a night of pacing and drinking and punching half a dozen holes in his bedchamber wall showed no sign of easing.

  All he wanted to do was strike out—at Calder and at Gerdens-Dailey and at Berling—and permanently remove the threat those men represented to his loved ones. And that was the one thing he could not do. Not if he wanted to keep Charlotte Hanover in his life.

  Arran leaned around the breakfast room door frame. “There ye are,” he said, but didn’t move into the room. Instead his light blue eyes found Owen and one of the new footmen they’d hired. “My brother and I need a moment,” he said.

  “Aye, Lord Arran.”

  Once Owen had dragged the other servant out of the room, Arran stepped inside and shut the door behind him. Silently he poured himself a cup of tea, chose a hard-boiled egg and some ham slices from the sideboard, and took the seat at the foot of the table opposite Ranulf.

  “Ye’ve a note from Myles,” he said, sliding the folded paper down the table.

  After he took another drink from the whisky at his elbow and emptied the accompanying bottle of the stuff to refill his glass, Ranulf picked the note up and unfolded it. “I’ll be going to luncheon at White’s,” he said, refolding the note and pocketing it. Evidently Myles had found an Englishman or two for him to befriend. Lovely. Now he would have to find a way to be polite, when all he wanted to do was smash things into wee pieces.

  His brother nodded. “I thought I might see if Winnie and the Hanover lasses care to go for a picnic luncheon,” he said, his tone still low and flat and careful.

  “Ye do that, then.” Ranulf took another drink.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, before Arran cleared his throat. “I thought ye might’ve still been to bed this morning,” he said, “so I knocked on yer door. I think ye might have some wood beetles in yer walls. Ye’ve a bit of damage.”

  If he’d been in a better mood, the care with which Arran was speaking would have been amusing. “I noticed that,” he returned.

  “If ye need any assistance getting rid of these insects, I hope ye keep in mind that I’m here, and I’m more than ready to help.”

  That couldn’t be allowed. Not only could Arran be hurt—or worse—but any MacLawry doing violence could cost him Charlotte. “Nae. The world’s full of insects, and they’ll eat what they will.”

  “So ye mean to let ’em pull down yer house, just because that’s what they do?”

  It was a fairly apt meta
phor, Ranulf decided. “What I mean to do,” he said, standing, “is go to White’s for luncheon. And ye’ll be having yer picnic. If ye don’t mind, tell Charlotte I won’t be able to come by today, after all.”

  He wanted to. He could scarcely think of anything or anyone else. But he knew that seeing her before he’d found a way to wrestle his rage into something he could control would be exceedingly unwise. Because when he so much as imagined her golden hair and wise hazel eyes, all he wanted to do was go find the man who’d insulted her and force him to apologize. To make certain none of his so-called countrymen could ever hurt her or Rowena or anyone else in his family ever again.

  “I’ll tell her that,” Arran said, clearly not reading his brother’s thoughts. “Are ye certain there’s not someaught ye’d care to tell me?”

  Ranulf kept walking. “Aye. Stay oot of trouble.”

  His brother couldn’t possibly be satisfied with that response. Ranulf wasn’t happy with it, either, but there wasn’t a thing to be done about it. Yes, he could pursue the burning of his stable legally, but all he and Arran had been able to determine was that Berling had quite possibly not done it. As for the insults to Rowena and Charlotte, ungentlemanly or not he didn’t think it illegal. And unless he had overwhelming evidence of a heinous crime, trying to bring legal action would only make him look weak. Weaker.

  When he returned to his bedchamber, Ginger was attempting to hang a painting over one of the holes in the wall. Several of them were already covered, in fact, with an ill-fitting mismatch of paintings, a picture cut from a catalog, plates of delicate china, and what looked like a tea cozy.

  “I think that’s more pointing them oot than covering them up, Ginger,” he commented, and the valet jumped.