The Devil Wears Kilts (31 page)

“Why?”

So he could prove to a stubborn lass that he was civilized.
“Because I clearly cannae trust my own kind here. How better to learn the lay of the land than by making the acquaintance of its people?”

“That sounds very reasonable.”

“I am very reasonable. Or I’m trying to be.”

His uncle clearly remained skeptical, but as long as the viscount did as he was asked, Ranulf could tolerate Myles’s doubts. God knew he had them, himself. The quadrille seemed to last forever, but when it finally ended he watched Henning return Charlotte to her parents, then moved in as the pretty lad likewise relinquished his sister.

“Introduce me, why don’t ye, Rowena?” he suggested smoothly.

She blushed. “Lord Glengask, this is Mr. Harold Myers, Viscount Chaffing’s brother. Harold, my brother, the Marquis of Glengask.”

From her expression she expected him to run the delicate fellow off with a boot to his arse. But Charlotte and her family were right there, so Ranulf smiled and offered his hand. “I’m glad to see my sister making the acquaintance of proper young men,” he said.

“Thank you, my lord.”

Perhaps this was how the English conducted themselves; a smile and handshake on the outside, and bored disdain on the inside. Was that all it was? He needed to learn to be a better liar? It seemed … wrong, unworthy, but Charlotte was smiling. She wasn’t a liar, but then she was also one of the few truly good-hearted people he’d ever met. It was the sour ones who lied, then. The ones who were rotted on the inside and trying to keep their decay a secret.

Well, he didn’t think he was that far gone, but neither was he as pure as Charlotte. All of which had the effect of making this business of not speaking his mind, of not taking the action his heart told him to, that much more difficult. But he would do it. He would learn to do it, for Charlotte.

“That was very nice of you, Ran,” his sister said, looking at him like he’d sprouted wings from his forehead.

He inclined his head. “Who are ye dancing the waltz with?” he asked, keeping his tone light and unconcerned.

“Sir Robert Mason,” she returned, practically bouncing on her toes. “He’s a war hero.”

“Did he tell ye that himself, then,
piuthar
?” Arran put in as he joined them again.

“He did not. Jane’s friend Susan told me. And he has a limp.”

Arran laughed. “Tom MacNamara has a limp, too, but he got his from drinking too much and trying to milk a bull.”

Rowena slapped Arran’s arm. “Sir Robert did nothing so foolish.”

“Well, I wouldnae admit to that, either. It’s a tale everyone else tells.”

“Never mind that.” What Ranulf wanted to say was that Sir Robert Mason had likely never attempted to milk anything in his entire soft life, but that definitely wouldn’t help anything.

“I happen to know Sir Robert,” Myles put in. “He’s a very pleasant fellow.”

That sounded somewhat like damning with faint praise, but again he kept his thoughts to himself. Keeping his own counsel, at least, was something to which he was accustomed. Even so, when the orchestra struck up the fanfare for the waltz, he was more than ready for a moment to have Charlotte in his arms once more.

Stepping forward, he offered his arm. “I believe this is my dance,
leannan,
” he drawled, using the word intentionally and catching the stunned look Arran sent him. Even Rowena looked surprised, and she’d tried a bit of matchmaking on his behalf.

She wrapped her hand around his sleeve, and he walked her out to the dance floor. Stunning as she was, a handful of other men turned to watch her pass.
Let them look;
he was the one who’d been inside her thirty minutes earlier. She belonged to him, whether he could yell it to the sky yet or not.

“Tell me something,” she said, as he placed a hand on her waist and stepped into the swirling, twirling waltz with her.

“Aye?”

“You’ve called me
leannan
twice tonight in front of your family, and Arran, especially, nearly had an apoplexy. What does it mean, truly?”

He smiled. Of course she would notice his family’s openmouthed reaction. “Love,” he returned. “Lover, sweetheart—all of those things.”

“You might have told me that before.”

“I didnae want to scare ye away, lass.”

Charlotte grinned back at him. “Words don’t frighten me.”

She had the right of that. “What aboot a blizzard so harsh the snow falls sideways?” he asked. “Would that frighten ye?”

“That depends,” she replied “Am I inside by a fire or at least wrapped in a warm coat, or am I standing in the middle of the snow in nothing but my night rail?”

“A roaring fire in a fireplace tall enough fer a man to stand upright in. And a warm blanket and mulled ale, besides.”

“Then no, that wouldn’t frighten me.”

“I might’ve waxed a bit poetic there,” he conceded. “Those storms can last for days, lass, with a cold that digs into yer bones and willnae let go. And the Highlands is a great, empty land with more red deer than people. There are only a few grand houses close by Glengask, families of clan chieftains and the like.”

She didn’t look the least bit hesitant. “Tell me more.”

“The village of An Soadh is on my land, down the hill at the foot of the falls, with Mahldoen up higher in the hills at the other end. Handfuls of cotters’ houses lie scattered here and there, by planted fields or farther up on the lake for the fishermen, and drovers and herders tend the cattle. And that’s it. There are nae parades of carriages driving aboot, nae grand theaters or museums until ye drive all the way to Perth or Aberdeen—which we only do two or three times during a year.”

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, are 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.