The Devil Wears Kilts (16 page)

Looking less splendid and holding a palm to his bloody lip, Lord Berling followed a moment later, several of his friends exiting with him. That left her alone, standing in the middle of the room with everyone staring at her. The edges of her vision began to dim, and she drew in a ragged breath.

“Charlotte,” her father’s welcome voice came, and his strong hand cupped her elbow. “Let’s find you a chair, my brave girl.”

She sagged against him. “I don’t feel brave. I feel ill.”

“You stepped into the middle of a feud and stopped two men from pummeling each other,” he countered in a louder voice than seemed necessary, considering that he was close enough to wrap an arm around her shoulder.

Then she realized what he was doing—making that brawl about something other than her. “They nearly came to blows this morning in Hyde Park,” she returned. “Over sheep or grazing land or some such thing.”

A moment later the music began again for the quadrille, and some people thankfully decided to take the floor rather than continue staring at her. Slowly she sat in one of the chairs by the wall, her father on one side of her, and her mother abruptly on the other.

“Are you well, Charlotte?” her mother asked, taking both her hands and squeezing them. “Do you wish to leave?”

“Heavens no,” she forced out. “Though I do think I’m finished with dancing for the evening.”

“Quite understandable. That man is a brute.”

Of course the countess meant Glengask; he’d struck the first blow. But she’d already had more than a sneaking suspicion that Berling had known it would happen—had wanted it to happen, and that was precisely why he’d asked her to dance that particular quadrille with him.

Yes, perhaps she’d thought the two men would have words. And she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe that Lord Berling had intended to be punched. It was more likely that he’d anticipated an argument, which he figured to win.

As for Ranulf, he’d almost seemed to enjoy the fisticuffs. He’d certainly failed to impress her, however, and he’d done even worse at keeping an eye on his sister. Belatedly she lifted her head to look for Winnie, only to find her out on the dance floor with her uncle. Rowena didn’t look happy, but she
was
dancing. And that was good; if she continued to represent herself as the “civilized” MacLawry sibling, she might escape censure for her brother’s actions.

Some kind soul brought Charlotte a glass of wine, and she sipped it gratefully. Stupid man. Whatever despicable things had happened in the Highlands, this was London. And one did not brawl in the proper homes in London. If he hadn’t kissed her earlier, she was fairly certain she would be hating him at this moment. Instead, she mostly felt angry. And a little sad, for reasons she refused to consider. Not now.

After the quadrille Jane, along with Winnie and Lord Swansley, joined them at the side of the room. “You were a lioness, Char,” her sister said. “‘Stop that punching,’ and they did.”

Rowena seemed even more surprised. “He backed down,” she half whispered, her brogue stronger than it had been for better than a day. “Ye put a hand out, and he backed down. I’d never have dared.”

Myles Wilkie nodded. “He’s a crafty man, your brother,” he commented.

“Crafty?” Charlotte retorted. “How clever is it to begin a brawl? That’s precisely the opposite of crafty, I would think.”

“It’s very clever, if you’re outnumbered by your enemies and you want them to know you’re not at all troubled by that fact. When Berling left, he took his allies with him. How could he plot his revenge, otherwise? But when Ran left, he took all his rivals with him, leaving Rowena safe under our protection and with nary an enemy in sight.”

Charlotte looked at him. Had Ranulf seen Berling write his name on her dance card? Had he predicted the earl would try to force a confrontation? If so, why hadn’t he said anything? Why had he simply allowed her to be put in the middle as the apparent bone of contention?

Even as she wondered that, though, she knew the answer. He hadn’t said anything to her in advance because she wouldn’t have tolerated it. She would never have agreed to dance with either of them, and she certainly—well, more than likely—would never have gone out to the balcony with him and kissed him. Even if going out there had been her idea, and even if she hadn’t been looking for an excuse to kiss him on the chance that he wouldn’t kiss her first. Oh, but he had.

“I don’t care what he was doing,” his sister said, tears in her eyes. “It was terrible and loud and oh…” Winnie stomped her foot. “I shan’t forgive him. And I am not going back to Scotland. Ever. He might well have ruined everything, just because he has to control everything but the sun’s rise.”

“I’m mad at him too, Winnie,” Charlotte agreed, though “mad” wasn’t nearly a descriptive enough word. “And I have a few choice words to say to him, when next we meet.” If he still dared to call on her tomorrow, she intended to tell him precisely what she thought of him and his … method of solving problems at her expense.

And seeing him tomorrow would only be so she could yell at him. It had nothing to do with that look in his eyes when he’d ignored the rest of the world to gaze solely at her. And it had less still to do with the way her feet had literally and figuratively left the ground when he’d kissed her. Nothing to do with that, at all.

Chapter Seven

“Just leave it be, Ginger.”

“But my lord, I have—there are ways to conceal blemishes.”

Ranulf pulled the cravat from his valet’s hands and finished knotting it himself. “It’s nae a blemish; it’s a black eye.” He viewed the thin fellow in his dressing mirror. “Do ye think there’s one body in Mayfair who doesnae know I have this?”

The valet lowered his head, flushing. “Well, I—”

“Then there’s no point in hiding it, is there? Now fetch me that new coat and we’ll see how bloody English I look in it.”

The dark brown coat did fit quite well, and it gave his gray one a rest. In fact, with a dark green waistcoat and buckskin breeches and finished off with a pair of Hessian boots, he felt fairly well put together. And that was a good thing, because he needed every advantage he could get today. Charlotte was likely to rip his head off after last night, anyway, and she wouldn’t care about his reasons for any of it.

The fact that he looked forward to being chastised by a delicate English lass was in itself a surprise. With the exception of his brother Arran arguing over whether a new plan was likely to cause more trouble than it was worth, people didn’t chastise him.

As he left his bedchamber with Fergus at his side, Owen met him at the top of the stairs. “Ye have letters from Lord Arran and Bear, both, m’laird,” he said, holding them out. “I hope all’s well at Glengask.”

“As do I,” Ranulf returned, taking both missives. “How are we for calling cards today?”

“Nary a one.” The footman narrowed his eyes as he gestured at Ranulf’s cheek. “I’m thinking yer sudden unpopularity has t’do with that.”

“Aye, I reckon it does. Let me see to my correspondence, and have that phaeton brought ’round before noon.” He paused halfway to his rented office. “And if ye catch scent of anything interesting, let me know.”

“Could ye define ‘interesting,’ m’laird?”

“Men storming the house with muskets and torches would be interesting.”

“Oh, aye, I’ll keep an eye out fer that, then.”

With a half grin Ranulf settled into his chair and opened Bear’s letter first. In Munro’s usual straightforward, good-humored words he read that half the clan had been wandering by Glengask, asking if anything was amiss and offering one and all to ride—or walk—down to London to help him fetch Rowena back. And Lachlan had offered again to make the journey, which might or might not be significant, but was at least interesting.

Arran’s letter was, as he expected, more detailed, with the latest information about the weather and the growing herds of Highland cattle they’d been breeding, and a summary of the last month’s expenses from the schools matched up against the profits of the new pottery manufacture. So far his experiment to prove that a clan working together could not only sustain itself but profit seemed to be showing itself sound. And the fact that the Colonies were filled with outcast Highlanders who hated Cheviot sheep and all they represented but longed for good Highland cattle and Highland tartans and pipes and plates and bowls could only continue to aid them.

Both of his brothers also offered again to come south, as they had with every letter they sent. He set them both aside to answer later; he wasn’t nearly foolish enough to arrive late to call on Charlotte. He’d said noon, and by God he would be there by noon.

“No torches or muskets,” Owen reported from his post by the front door as Ranulf strolled into the foyer.

“That’s something, then.”

“And don’t ye worry, m’laird. I’ll put the boot to any Gerdens or Campbell as dares to show his face at yer doorstep.”

Ranulf smiled. “I expect no less.”

“Aye. And do give Lady Winnie our love, m’laird.” Owen sighed. “I miss hearing her bonny laugh.”

So did he. Settling for a nod, Ranulf walked out to the drive. Together he and Debny lifted Fergus onto the back perch of the phaeton where the liveried tiger was generally supposed to sit, and then he climbed into the high seat and sent the fine pair of bays into a trot. With both Debny and Peter riding alongside and his great horse of a hound perched behind him, he wasn’t a sight easily missed. It was likely too early for Berling to come back at him with anything, but he meant to keep an eye out, regardless. His father would be the last MacLawry who was ever caught unaware.

Charlotte stood on the shallow granite steps of Hanover House when he turned up the short, semicircular drive. He didn’t know if her being out there boded good or ill, but he couldn’t deny the … satisfaction he felt deep in his chest at seeing her. All wrong for him she might be, but his heart sped at the mere sight of her, regardless. No, she wasn’t fit for the Highlands. But he wasn’t in the Highlands at the moment, and he was a damned red-blooded man who enjoyed women. And she looked very fine.

“I wasn’t certain ye’d let me near the house,” he said, waiting for Debny to take charge of the horses before he hopped down from the seat, “much less wait out of doors fer me.”

“It was a close decision,” she returned. “And I’m not going trotting about London with you in a high-perch phaeton so that everyone thinks either that last night was about me, or that what you did is in any way acceptable behavior.”

Now that was closer to the reaction he’d expected. “What makes ye think last night’s tussle wasnae about ye?” As he spoke, he closed the distance between them, his body reminding him that a kiss would stop her mouth.

“I did, at the beginning. And then your uncle pointed out how effectively you’d cleared the room of your enemies.”

Uncle Myles, helping again. Ranulf stashed that bit of information away for later contemplation. “That’s only because cowards cling together.” He stopped on the bottommost step so that they were eye-to-eye. “Shall I point out some things to ye, then?”

She shook her head. “No. Now it’s my turn to point out some things to you, Ranulf.”

Folding his arms across his chest, he nodded. “Enlighten me aboot my spurious Scottish ways, then.”

“Aha!” Charlotte jabbed a finger into his chest. “
That
is your problem.”

He cocked his head. “What, that I’m Scottish? Ye and yer Sasannach friends are the ones named us devils. I am—”

“Stop it,” she cut in, the fact that she’d interrupted at all surprising him into silence.

Banter was one thing. But now she thought to stop him from talking? “What, then?”

“I looked some things up. The Battle of Culloden was seventy-three years ago. I daresay that most—if not every—man who fought there, English or Scottish, is long dead.”

She kept tapping her finger into his chest as she spoke, though he wasn’t certain whether it was because she was making a point or because she wanted to touch him. He preferred the latter explanation, and kept silent for that reason.

“I know what you’re going to say,” she continued. “That Culloden was only the beginning of the most recent troubles, that the English tried to rob you of the right to wear kilts, to play the bagpipes, even to arm yourselves.”

“Very well,” he said, the list of wrongs beginning to make him lose his sense of humor. “Let’s say I did mention all that. I suppose ye have a point t’make aboot it?”

“Yes. You’ve gotten those rights back. And I know that most of the other clans have fallen, that for a great many of your peers bringing in the sheep was the only way to earn an income. And that they chose the sheep and the grazing land and their immediate families over the welfare and survival of their own clans.”

“That’s a very nice history lesson ye’ve provided me, lass, but I can tell ye it wasnae necessary. Ye read aboot it in yer books. I lived it. I still am living it.”

“I know that,” she snapped back, then blew out her breath. “I wanted you to know that I’m aware of the recent history of the Highlands.”

“Shall I give ye a prize, then?”

“Oh, be quiet.” Scowling, she lifted her finger away from him. “I need to pace. Come into the garden with me.”

“O’course. What sane man would refuse the offer to be privately yelled at in more detail?” With a grimace he turned to whistle for Fergus. “Peter, go discover what Rowena’s up to today, and keep an eye on ’er.”

“Aye, m’laird.”

Following Charlotte, his gaze drawn once more to her swaying hips beneath soft green and yellow sprigged muslin, Ranulf decided the mild English weather and the not-so-mild English beauty before him must have pushed him completely into madness. He simply couldn’t explain it, otherwise.

When she stopped, he nearly ran into her from behind. It wasn’t like him to be so unaware of his surroundings, but even mad enough to spit—unless she also considered that to be doing physical violence—she continued to distract him. “Sit down,” she said, pointing at the stone bench beneath a towering elm tree.

“I thought we were pacing.”