The Devil Wears Kilts

by Suzanne Enoch

  She reached the front door as Owen came hurrying out from the servants’ hall, a huge gun in his hands. “Where were they?” she asked, falling in with him.

  “Ye should stay inside the house, m’lady,” he wheezed, turning up the street. The groom, Debny, was several yards ahead of them. Ranulf and the dogs had evidently outstripped all of them.

  Charlotte ignored the warning; this wasn’t about her. And her presence could possibly prevent whatever might be about to happen. Or she hoped it would. If the situation called for it, at this moment she found herself more than willing to punch someone. The MacLawrys were her clan, after all.

  Just inside the borders of a small park tucked behind a square of lovely old houses, she saw them. No one was on the ground and no one was bleeding, though she had no idea why—or whether that bit of good fortune would continue. Seven men stood around the two MacLawrys, clearly keeping them from either advancing or retreating.

  Ranulf ahead of her slowed to a walk, the dogs keeping pace on either side of him. Their hackles were raised, and she could hear the low, snarling growls even from thirty feet away. “Was there someaught ye wanted, Berling?” the marquis called out in a booming voice that held more danger in it than either of the dogs’ growls.

  The earl was there, she noticed, and so were George Gerdens-Dailey and that awful Charles Calder. Oh, no. Were they armed? She knew that Ranulf was not, because he’d been half naked just a few minutes ago.

  “We thought we might get a few things settled,” Berling returned, glancing from the marquis to the donkey-sized dogs and back again.

  “At least three of ’em have pistols, Ran,” his brother called. Arran had one arm around Winnie, putting himself between her and Gerdens-Dailey. The black-haired beauty looked truly frightened, and given how carefully her three brothers had protected her for her entire life, Charlotte wasn’t surprised.

  Stopping a few feet away from the group, Ranulf stood with his hands at his sides, his stance looking as relaxed as if he were chatting at a soiree—or even more relaxed than that. She knew him well enough to see the tension in his straight shoulders, but she doubted any but his own would know it.

  “What is it ye want to settle, then?” he asked smoothly.

  “I owe you a broken nose, at the least,” Berling returned, a slight, nasty smile on his face. “That’s a start.”

  “I’m right here, Berling. My sister and brother have naught to do with yer ugly face.”

  “You expect me to do something with those beasts standing there? I wouldn’t call that a fair fight, Glengask.”

  Ranulf actually laughed. The sound raised the hairs on the back of Charlotte’s neck. “So ye want a fair fight now, do ye? Ye’re a damned cladhaire, Donald Gerdens.”

  The earl slid a look at the man standing beside him. “Cousin?”

  “He called ye a coward,” Gerdens-Dailey translated. “And I’d have to agree with that.”

  “What?”

  “When ye bring six men with ye and go after a man’s sister, that makes ye a coward.”

  Berling’s face reddened. “Then why are you here, George?” he snapped.

  The earl’s cousin pulled a pistol from his pocket and aimed it at Arran. “Because I’m inclined to make an innocent man disappear. Unless Glengask would care to explain some things to me and take the ball himself.”

  Charlotte gasped, putting a hand to her chest. Ranulf flinched a heartbeat later, and she realized he hadn’t known she was there behind him. Beside her Owen lifted the blunderbuss. Terrible things were about to happen. Terrible, irreversible things. Taking a shaking breath, she held out her hands. “Rowena, come over here,” she called in her most soothing voice.

  “Nae,” Winnie sobbed, clinging to her brother.

  “Rowena, do as Charlotte says,” Ranulf echoed. “I’ll nae have one of these amadan shooting ye by accident.”

  Crying, the girl fled the corner of the park. Charlotte wrapped her arms around Winnie, angling them so that while she could see what transpired, Rowena wouldn’t be able to do so.

  “Now,” Ranulf said, taking a slow step closer to the armed Gerdens-Dailey. “What do ye want explained, George?”

  The earl’s cousin kept his weapon and gaze aimed at Arran. “I’ve a suspicion ye know what happened to my father, Glengask. And I’d like to know what possessed ye to take him from me two days after ye lost yer own.”

  “I didnae lose my father,” Ranulf retorted, emotion touching his voice for the first time. “Yer athair and yer athair”—and he pointed at Berling—“and yer uncle Wallace murdered him.”

  “The way I heard it,” Gerdens-Dailey returned, “’twas the Campbells’ doing.”

  Now Charles Calder frowned. “Never. Pigheaded as the MacLawrys are, the Campbell would never agree to killing Seann Monadh. They were friends, once.”

  Ranulf took another step forward, the dogs still keeping pace with him. “It wasnae the Campbells. After we found my father, I tracked riders back to Sholbray Manor.”

  “That’s nae—”

  “And I hid in the rain beneath the drawing room window and I heard yer father and Wallace boasting about how they and Berling murdered my father. I heard them say it, and I saw their faces.” Anger clipped his voice. Charlotte could hear it clearly, just as she could hear the truth in his words. She kept her attention on him; if, when, he moved, she would drag Rowena to safety because that was what he would be worried about. Just as she was terrified for him now.

  “That’s not the end of the story, though, is it?” Gerdens-Dailey said, turning his head to look at Ranulf.

  “That’s all I mean to say in front of these cowards. If ye want more, ye’ll put that away and stand where we can speak, two men together.”

  “Ha,” Berling bit out. “If you think any of—”

  “Shut yer mouth, Donald,” his cousin interrupted, and pocketed his pistol.

  “Arran, call the dogs,” Ranulf ordered.

  His face white and tense, Arran did as he said. Slowly, clearly reluctant and their tails down, the dogs left Ranulf’s side and slunk over to stand beside his brother. While Charlotte held her breath, Ranulf and George Gerdens-Dailey approached each other, stopping beside an old, leaning elm tree.

  “What are they doing?” Winnie whispered, twisting her head to look.

  “They’re talking.” She had no idea whether it was the wisest course of action or not—despite the fact, or because of the fact, that this was precisely what she’d urged him to do.

  “But they hate each other.”

  Charlotte nodded. “Very likely. But I think they also have a great deal in common.”

  “When they surrounded us, I thought … I thought they were going to murder Arran. And then—I don’t know what they would have done to me.”

  Hugging the younger lady, Charlotte kept her gaze on the two men. “All you need to remember is that you and Arran and Ranulf are all well. With all of us here, nothing’s going to happen now.”

  “But what about tomorrow? What if they go to the Lansfield ball tomorrow?” She shuddered. “What if one of them asks me to dance?”

  “You will tell them no,” she returned, wishing mightily that she could hear what the two men were saying.

  She understood why Gerdens-Dailey wanted to know for once and certain what had happened to his father, just as Ranulf had wanted to know. But if Ranulf confessed to two murders, especially to the son of one of his victims, he could well find himself in prison. Even hanged, if the English courts could be influenced to rid the Highlands of its most stubborn, troublesome resident.

  After what felt like hours, but couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes, Gerdens-Dailey gave a stiff nod and turned away. “We’re finished here,” he stated.

  Berling scowled. “But—”

  The earl’s cousin strode forward and grabbed the earl by the throat. “We two need to have a talk, ourselves,” he growled, “about why yer father lied to me.” He shoved, and Berl
ing stumbled backward, nearly falling to the street.

  “I don’t—”

  “Glengask, ye’d best be there, or I’ll come looking fer ye,” Gerdens-Dailey interrupted his cousin again.

  “I’ll be there. But not because ye’ll come looking fer me.”

  With a nod, George Gerdens-Dailey led the way to a standing group of horses. In less than a minute they’d ridden around a corner and out of sight. Only then did Charlotte begin breathing again, her knees feeling wobbly.

  “Dogs, off. Come,” Ranulf said, slapping his thigh. Immediately the hounds’ tails went up, and they romped over to him again.

  Arran followed a few steps behind. “Where is it ye’re supposed to be, precisely?” he asked, then pulled his older brother into a hard embrace. “And thank ye. That was aboot to get unpleasant.”

  Ranulf hugged him back, then caught up Rowena. “All’s well, piuthar. Dunnae fret.”

  “Charlotte said everything would be fine.”

  Looking over his sister’s head, Ranulf gave her a slow, delicious smile that warmed her to her toes. Then he took his sister’s hand, offered her his arm, and turned back for the house. “Owen. Put that damned blunderbuss away, will ye?”

  “What the devil happened?” the footman demanded, lowering his weapon.

  “I’d like to know that, too, Ranulf,” Arran commented. “Where are ye to meet that man? If it’s a duel, I’ll tie ye to a damned chair.”

  “It’s nae a duel,” Ranulf retorted, tightening his arm to bring Charlotte closer against his side. “I told him that I’d show him where his father’s buried.”

  “Ran,” Charlotte whispered.

  He shrugged. “It’s time fer it, leannan. All the wrong George Gerdens-Dailey did us is because the old Lord Berling told him ’twas the Campbells killed my father, and that the MacLawrys went after the Gerdenses fer the hell of it.” Deep blue eyes met hers. “Peace, all done with a few words. Imagine that.”

  She grinned. “And after I told you that bashing was acceptable.”

  “I will keep that in mind, lass.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Owen looked Ranulf up and down as he descended the stairs to the foyer. “I thought ye just settled things down. Are ye certain ye want to stir them up again?”

  Adjusting his silver-plated sporran edged in rabbit fur, Ranulf lifted an eyebrow. “Ginger nearly fainted,” he commented. “But as I happen to be a Scot, I mean to dress like one.”

  “And I cannae have my brother making me look like a Sasannach fop,” Arran took up from the landing. Like Ranulf, he’d donned a dark jacket, though Arran’s was gray rather than his brother’s black. And both men had donned kilts bearing the MacLawry tartan of black and gray and red.

  “Ye bring a tear to my old eyes,” Owen stated. “Right proper Highland princes, ye are.”

  “Don’t let the English hear ye saying that, or we’re likely to begin another war,” Ranulf noted dryly.

  Tonight he felt … exhilarated, as if a weight he’d been carrying for a decade had been lifted. It had, in a sense; they weren’t friendly, by any means, but at least Gerdens-Dailey had agreed that they were even. A death for a death. Horrific, perhaps, but it was what their kind was accustomed to. And unless Berling could somehow convince his cousin that it had indeed been the Campbells who’d murdered Seann Monadh, the Gerdenses would keep their distance.

  With the Gerdenses’ influence, the Campbells might, as well. At the least the old Campbell had been surprisingly … uninterested in stirring up old rivalries. As Charles Calder had said, though, the Campbell and Robert MacLawry had once been friends. That left the Daileys, but he much preferred the idea of facing one problem rather than three.

  “Ye’re smiling, ye know,” Arran pointed out as they climbed into the coach. “I do hope ye’re aware that neither of us was invited to the grand dinner at the Lansfields’ tonight.”

  “Aye, but we were invited to the dance afterward. I’ll consider that progress.”

  “So we’re still trying to be civilized and make the Sasannach like us? We’re the pet monkeys?”

  Ranulf frowned. “I broke Berling’s nose at the first grand ball of the Season. I nearly choked Gerdens-Dailey at the second. So when I’m invited to the third, I consider it progress.”

  His brother grimaced. “Well, when ye put it that way.”

  “That’s how I choose to put it.”

  When Arran kept gazing at him, Ranulf settled in to look out the window at the dark London streets. Was it dangerous that for the first time in years he felt … optimistic about the future? That he thought he could be the gentleman he’d promised Charlotte he would be?

  “Charlotte Hanover,” Arran said into the silence.

  “Aye? What aboot her?”

  “Are ye going to marry her?”

  “I’m thinking I will.” He turned to face Arran again. “Why? Do ye have an objection?”

  His brother shrugged. “She’s a proper Englishwoman who a very short time ago thought ye were a savage and a devil, if I recall. Are ye not that man any longer?”

  Ranulf settled deeper into the corner. “Maybe it’s that she’s not quite as stiff as ye think,” he returned.

  “I hope ye’re—”

  “Enough, Arran,” he broke in. “We’re going to a proper soiree, we’re going to behave, and I’ll figure out the rest, if ye dunnae mind.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  Well, wasn’t that splendid. The sense of euphoria that had filled him all day flattened. He was still a Highlander, the leader of his clan, and she was still an English lady accustomed to soft winters and warm summers. And whatever she might have said about understanding his use of “bashing,” as she called it, she couldn’t possibly feel easy about it.

  “Ran, I didnae mean—”

  “Ye’ve helped me quite enough, Arran. I only hope when ye find the woman ye love, she’ll be perfect and ye’ll ne’er have a complaint or worry aboot her. And vice versa.”

  “That sounds a wee bit dull, actually.”

  “Aye. And dunnae ye forget that.”

  Arran blew out his breath. “I wasnae trying to talk ye oot of anything. I’m only … I worry that she’ll be—”

  “She’s nae Eleanor,” Ranulf commented, finally understanding. “She’s nae after a title, and damn the consequences. I want her to be happy. Not just … by my side.”

  His brother looked out the window for a long moment, much as he had earlier. “Then I think she’s rather bonny. And I think ye look happy when ye’re together. Just … Be certain, Ran. Please. Fer both yer sakes.”

  Ranulf had informed Charlotte ahead of time that he would be in full Highlander regalia, giving her the opportunity to scowl or argue with him before he appeared in public. But she hadn’t done either, which at the time he’d taken as a good sign. Now he couldn’t help wondering if she was just … humoring him—and whether he actually embarrassed her. How could he be certain, as Arran suggested? The answer wasn’t in his mind, but in hers. And he couldn’t know it, until she told him. If she told him.

  That was a glum thought. When the coach stopped in the street outside Lansfield House he nearly changed his mind about going in. But he’d made his bed, so he might as well wear a kilt in it. Or something like that.

  “Lord Glengask and Lord Arran MacLawry,” the butler intoned, as they stepped into the ballroom. He could hear the swarm of whispers beginning at the front of the room and swelling to the back. Whatever the damned fuss over a man showing off his knees, he might as well enjoy it—or at least become accustomed to it.

  Now that he considered it, there was another possible solution; he could remain in London. The idea of not seeing Glengask except for the occasional holiday made him ill to his stomach, but he supposed he could do it if by staying in England he could have Charlotte.

  Almost as soon as he conjured that idea, though, he discarded it again. Whatever the MacLawry family crest said, it wasn�
��t any MacLawry whose presence at Glengask signaled to his people that all was well and they were safe and protected; it was the marquis, the clan chief, who needed to be there. And that, for better or worse, was he.

  A swirl of gold caught his eye, and he looked up as Charlotte and her family strolled into the ballroom. She’d chosen to wear a gold silk with an overlay of black lace and beads that made her look both elegant and eminently desirable. He let out a slow breath as he took her in from head to toe and back again. Magnificent.

  “Are we going to stand here all night, or—”

  Without waiting for his brother to finish, he set off toward his sister and the Hanovers. Tradition said he would have to ask Lord Hest for his daughter’s hand, and he likely should have asked by now. And he knew precisely why he hadn’t. Firstly, the earl would refuse him, and secondly, he still hadn’t been able to convince himself that taking her to Scotland wasn’t utterly selfish.

  She smiled as she caught sight of him, and he had to work not to speed his steps. Glorious, she was. All the men who’d looked at her and passed her by, out of courtesy or because they wanted a new debutante or because they only saw her as the betrothed of a dead man—they were all fools.

  “Good evening,” he said, inclining his head as he reached the group.

  “Glengask,” her father intoned, sending both him and Arran a sour look. “Why do you insist on making a stir?”

  “I’m nae making a stir,” he returned, straightening his shoulders. “I’m being the Marquis of Glengask.”

  His sister leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “I think you look brèagha, Ran,” she whispered. “You and Arran, both.”

  “My thanks, piuthar.”

  Charlotte held out her hand, and he lowered his head to kiss her knuckles. “I think you look brèagha as well,” she said with a smile.

  “Ye nearly have a proper brogue,” he returned. “Tell me there will be a waltz tonight.”