The Devil Wears Kilts
Page 30
As she glanced about the crowded ballroom, he took her in again. Petite, slender, light green eyes, and hair … He wasn’t certain what color to call it. A long and curling mass straying from a knot, it looked like what would result if a painter ran a brown-tipped brush through gold and red in succession—a deep, rich mix of colors that together didn’t have a name.
He blinked. While he’d been known to wax poetical, he generally didn’t do so over a lass’s hair. “Why is it that Lady Vixen didnae already have a partner fer a waltz?” he asked.
“I only just arrived,” she returned in her silky voice. “Why was Sir Fox fleeing a peacock?”
So she’d noticed that. “I wasnae fleeing the peacock. That bird’s my sister. It’s the swan that terrifies me.”
The green gaze held his, and he found himself wishing he could see more of her expression. As a Highlander and a MacLawry, the ability to assess the threat of a scowl or a twitching eye swiftly and accurately had saved his life on several occasions.
“All swans, or just that one? Do they not have swans in the Highlands?”
Of course she knew where he was from; even if all of Mayfair hadn’t been buzzing about the MacLawrys brawling their way through drawing rooms, his brogue would have made it fairly obvious. Unlike his sister, Rowena, he made no attempt to disguise or stifle his accent. Being a MacLawry was a matter of pride, as far as he was concerned. “Aye, they do have swans there, though not many. It’s easier to avoid them in the Highlands, where a lad knows the lay of the land and there’s more space to maneuver.”
“I had no idea swans were so deadly.”
“Aye. They’ll catch hold of ye when ye’re nae looking, and they mate fer life.”
She laughed. “Unlike foxes?”
Did foxes mate for life? He couldn’t even recall at the moment. After a fortnight spent hunting for more human dangers, both male and female, a discussion of wildlife—even an allegorical one—seemed … refreshing. “This fox is nae looking for a thing but a partner for the waltz,” he returned, smiling back at her. “And the vixen?”
“I was looking for a friend of mine. An interlude with a fellow fox is an unexpected … distraction. And if you say something flattering, I won’t even be insulted that you only asked me to dance in order to avoid a bird.”
Was that a cut? Or a jest? The fact that he couldn’t be certain of which it was intrigued him. Sassanach lasses in his experience and with very few exceptions knew all about the weather and could discuss it for hours, but he couldn’t give them credit for much else. “Someaught flattering,” he mused aloud, trying to decide how much effort to go to. “Ye dance gracefully,” he settled on.
She laughed again, though it didn’t sound as inviting, this time. “Well. Believe it or not, you aren’t the first Scotsman to say so. You measure quite equally with the lot of them.”
Arran was fairly certain he’d just been insulted. He hid a scowl, not that she’d be able to see it behind the fox mask. “I’ve known ye fer two minutes, lass,” he commented, pulling her a breath closer. “I weighed saying ye had a lovely pelt and pointed ears, but I didnae ken ye’d appreciate that.”
“And why wouldn’t a vixen like to hear that a fox admires her pelt?”
“Because ye’re nae a vixen, any more than I’m a fox. Ye chose nae to wear a swan mask, which at least sets ye apart from a dozen other lasses here tonight, but I’m wearing a fox because my sister handed it to me. I reckon I’d rather be a wolf, truth be told.” Yes, the family generally called him the clever one, and Rowena had seemed pleased enough at the choice that he’d gone along with it, but it was a well-painted piece of papier-mâché—and nothing more.
“I wanted to be a vixen,” she said after a moment. “My father wanted me to be a swan.”
Now this was interesting. “And yet here ye are, nae a swan.” She also was a young woman—perhaps three or four years older than Rowena—with an attractive mouth, lips that seemed naturally to want to smile, and the shadowed green eyes that he imagined crinkled at the corners. If Arran hadn’t had both hands occupied with the waltz, he would have been fighting the urge to remove her mask, so he could see the whole of her face, to know if the parts were equal to the sum.
Her lips curved again. “And that is a compliment, Sir Fox.” She tilted her head, the gold lights in her hair catching the chandelier light. “Or do you wish me to call you Sir Wolf?”
PRAISE for SUZANNE ENOCH
and her bestselling romances
“A joyride of a novel … a sensual romantic caper sure to win applause.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
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—New York Journal of Books
“A highly gifted author.”
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“With her carefully drawn characters and plot chock-full of political intrigue, greed, and scandal, Enoch has put a nifty Regency spin on the Beauty and the Beast story.”
—Booklist
“Suzanne Enoch has a gift for piquing a reader’s interest.”
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“Ms. Enoch provides an entertaining read … an often amusing and just as often dangerous battle of the sexes that will delight fans.”
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About the Author
A native and current resident of Southern California, Suzanne Enoch loves movies almost as much as she loves books, with a special place in her heart for anything Star Wars. She has written thirty Regency novels and historical romances, which are regularly to be found on the New York Times bestseller list. When she is not busily working on her next book, Suzanne likes to contemplate interesting phenomena, like how the 3 guppies in her aquarium became 161 guppies in 5 months.
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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE DEVIL WEARS KILTS
Copyright © 2013 by Suzanne Enoch.
Excerpt from The Rogue with a Brogue copyright © 2013 by Suzanne Enoch.
All rights reserved.
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eISBN: 9781466838413
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / December 2013
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