The Devil Wears Kilts (21 page)

“Nae. But I do think when Ranulf MacLawry mentions a Sasannach lass five times in one letter, together with adjectives like ‘bossy’ and ‘headstrong’ and ‘unfathomable,’ then someaught’s afoot.” Arran rubbed at his forehead. “And since ye also said ye were outnumbered
and
Winnie said she’s nae coming home
and
ye went and bought a house, I thought ye might be able to use another MacLawry in London.” He cocked his head. “Am I wrong?”

Ranulf shook his head. “I’m glad to have ye here, as I said. But keep yer damned opinions to yerself.”

“I can do that.”

After they finished a quick breakfast, the two of them went out to the stable. There was little left but part of one wall and a pile of broken, blackened rubble. All of the stableboys swore they’d done nothing to cause the fire, and that in fact they’d all been in the side room eating when the fire started at the back of the stable.

Walking the rear perimeter, Ranulf’s foot crunched on broken glass. When he squatted down and dug through the burned grass and ashes he found the half-melted collar and burner of a lantern. After he called Arran over, they found a few more pieces of shattered glass. Whatever this had hit, it had done so with some force.

“It could have come down from inside the wall,” his brother said absently, marking a spot four feet from where the wall had stood—the place where they’d found the most distant piece of glass. “But it’s more likely it was thrown against the wall from the outside.”

Ranulf had already come to that conclusion, himself. When Berling had burned down the schools around Glengask and An Soadh—and he
knew
it had been Berling and his men, with or without definitive proof—he’d flung oil and then lanterns at the walls. Not identical to the way the stable fire had likely begun, but close.

“Arran, ye make a decent sketch. Draw the back of the yard here, and mark where we found the pieces of lantern. I’ll fetch a box fer all the bits of it.”

“We’re gathering evidence, then?” his brother asked skeptically.

“Aye, we are. Shut up and find some paper and a pencil.”

“As ye order, m’laird.”

Debny rode up as Ranulf was putting the last piece of lantern safely in a box. Immediately he straightened to approach the head groom. “How are Rowena and the Hanovers?” he asked, stopping himself from asking specifically about Charlotte.

“All well. Lady Charlotte said she feels like she has cannonballs strapped to her arms, but she’s well otherwise.” The servant dug into his pocket and pulled out a folded note. “She sent this for ye, m’laird.”

Ranulf wiped his sooty hands on his trousers to give himself a moment to steady his racing thoughts before he took the missive and unfolded it.

“‘Ranulf,’” he read, “‘Thank you for an unforgettable evening. If you need to cancel our visit to the museum, I completely understand, but please let me know. Affectionately, C.H.’”

He grinned. “Remarkable lass.”

According to his pocket watch it was nearly half ten, and he badly needed a bath and a shave. Because not only did he plan to visit the museum with Charlotte, but he meant to look his most civilized while doing it. Why that was suddenly more pressing than proving who’d set fire to his stable, he would debate later.

Arran leaned in the doorway of the master bedchamber as Ginger was struggling with the knots in Ranulf’s cravat. “Do ye mind if I take the room at the other end of the hallway?”

“That’s fine.”

His brother hesitated. “Ye look very bonny.”

“Shut up. I’m off to Hanover House. I can leave ye off there if ye want to see Rowena.”

To his credit, whatever additional observations or questions Arran had, he kept them to himself. Instead he retrieved his satchel and wandered toward the back of the house. He’d arrived with even less luggage than Ranulf had; if he meant to stay for a time, they’d be making another visit to the prissy, padding-obsessed tailor.

Arran’s presence gave Ranulf an additional body to watch over, but he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t a relief to have an ally. Even a nosy one who noticed things he shouldn’t. The most immediate question was whether Berling would see the arrival of another MacLawry in London as a threat or as an invitation to make more trouble.

And figuring that out would have to wait until he’d set eyes on Charlotte again, devil take the rest.

*   *   *

“Two letters and a poem, Winnie, and that’s just today!” Jane said, taking the perfumed paper from Rowena’s hand and smoothing it over her knee. “I don’t know that ‘N’er a copper penny as bright as the smile of Winnie’ is terribly romantic, but it does rhyme.”

When Charlotte looked over at their houseguest, Winnie seemed more interested in studying the clouds passing by outside the drawing room window than in giggling over her latest conquest’s attempt at poetry. “Winnie, your brother would send word if anything further happened. You know that.”

With a sigh Rowena sank back onto the couch. “Aye, I know.” She scooted over and took Charlotte’s hand, careful not to press at the blisters. “Thank you for keeping me away from the picnic. I sometimes forget there’s a difference between being independent and being responsible.”

Charlotte nodded, smiling. “That’s a very wise thing to say.”

“I’ve been thinking about it for a time, now. My brothers, and especially Ran, have spent so much of their time making certain I’m happy and well protected that they’ve stopped considering themselves. Perhaps it’s my turn to look after them, for once.”

“But two of the three of them are in Scotland,” Jane put in. “And Lord Glengask seems supremely capable of looking after himself.”

Rowena looked up at Charlotte’s face. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

Charlotte wanted to ask if she was referring to something in particular, but before she could do so Jane resumed looking through their morning correspondence. “What I want to know is, does looking after your brother mean we can’t go looking for hair ribbons today?”

“Oh, I think we can do both, Jane.”

“That’s a relief.”

Whether Rowena’s sudden sense of responsibility was due to the fire last night or not, Charlotte was relieved to hear it, and so likely would Ranulf be when she told him. Even if perhaps she’d thought he might be exaggerating the quality and quantity of the danger that lurked around the MacLawrys, she’d certainly become a believer last night.

A shiver ran through her. She’d half hoped he would send back word that he needed to cancel their outing today—not because her arms ached, which they did, or because she didn’t wish to see him, which she did—but because he would be spending the museum visit angry and plotting revenge. She would, and already did, feel the need to counsel him about how he planned to retaliate, and then they would argue again. Not the interesting type of argument, either. She couldn’t quite pin any of this to pride, but she wouldn’t be surprised if it came down to that in the end.

The morning room door opened at two minutes past noon, and she and the other two girls rose as Longfellow came to attention in the doorway. “My ladies, Lord Glengask and Lord Arran MacLawry,” he intoned, and moved out of the way.

Winnie was already halfway to the door. “Arran!” she exclaimed, throwing herself into the arms of a dark-haired man who looked like a leaner, less chiseled version of his older brother.

“There ye are, my sweet Winnie,” he drawled, and kissed his sister on both cheeks.

“How did you get here so quickly?” she demanded.

“I try to anticipate trouble.”

They continued gabbing excitedly and introduced a blushing Jane into the mix, but Charlotte ceased paying attention as Ranulf moved around them and approached her. Something had happened last night; she couldn’t define what it was, but when the Marquis of Glengask walked into the room, everything else seemed to fade away. It was ridiculous that after a pair of kisses and a pair of waltzes and a handful of fascinating, aggravating conversations she felt so … drawn to a man who was so wrong for her, especially when he only meant more trouble.

And yet she had to stop herself from meeting him halfway across the room, from throwing her arms around his shoulders and kissing him. She swallowed. Clearly she’d become overtired last night, and had lost her bearings.
Be logical,
she ordered herself. Facts could never lead her astray.

However impressive he’d been in his kilt, he seemed to have done away with it entirely; today, if she didn’t think he would consider it an insult, she would say that he looked very English, from his brown coat to his buckskin trousers to his highly polished Hessian boots.

“How’re yer hands, lass?” he asked, taking them both in his larger, broader ones and turning them palms up.

Not so English after all, once he spoke. A tremor ran down her spine, settling into a low excitement between her thighs. “They sting a bit,” she said in as even a voice as she could manage, “but I think with a pair of gloves and some caution I’ll manage quite well. How are you?”

Deep blue eyes raised to meet hers. “The fire’s stayed out and the worst injury seems to be a pair of blistered palms. I’m relieved. And furious.”

The way he said it so matter-of-factly made the words somehow even more deadly sounding. She could understand his anger, but he was not a man who would settle for exchanging words. “I am not going on a drive with you if you mean to jump out and bash people along the way.”

“So I expect. I’ll do nae bashing or jumping whilst I’m in yer company.”

And he agreed so easily she couldn’t help being suspicious. “The fire was an accident, then?”

“Nae, I reckon it was done deliberately.”

Charlotte frowned. “Then why—”

“Why do I mean to be a proper gentleman today? Because of these hands,” he said quietly, stroking his thumbs gently across her palms. “Because of what ye did fer me last night,
leannan
.”

“I’m not the only one who helped. For heaven’s sake, all I did was turn a crank.”

A slow smile curved his mouth. “What say we forgo the museum and I’ll find somewhere quiet just for us?” he murmured, moving a breath closer to her. “I’ll explain my gratitude to ye.”

Somehow, the way he said it made it sound even naughtier than it already was. And there she stood, five-and-twenty, past the age of making a good marriage, looking at a man who couldn’t possibly want her for a bride. And a man far too dangerous for her to want as a husband. Perfect, in its imperfection.

“If you can manage that without ruining the life I have,” she whispered back, “I might well be amenable.”

Brief surprise lit his gaze. “What changed yer mind, lass?”

Men.
Charlotte favored him with an exasperated grin. “Do you really want me to explain it to you?”

“Nae. Not if there’s a risk of ye deciding against it again. Let’s be off then, shall we?”

“It might not be as simple as all that, you know.”

He nodded, his slight smile sending butterflies through her chest. “Leave that to me,
leannan.
Where are yer gloves?”

“Simms has them. Simms?”

Her lady’s maid came forward, and together they managed to get the soft white kid gloves over her blisters without overmuch teeth-gritting on her part. She had to fight a wince every time she flexed a hand, but a few blasted blisters were not going to keep her home today. No matter what.

When she looked up again Ranulf’s brother Arran stood gazing at her, his lighter blue eyes curious. No wonder; she’d completely forgotten he was in the room. “So you’re Arran,” she said, offering her hand. “Winnie talks about you and Munro all the time.”

He grinned. “I’ll give ye a bow, and I hope ye don’t take my refusing to shake yer hand as an insult, Lady Charlotte.”

She grinned back at him, sensing in him an easier temperament than his older brother possessed. Equally handsome, perhaps, in a different way, but not nearly as compelling. “I’m quite relieved, actually. Thank you.”

With almost absurd caution Ranulf took her outstretched hand and wrapped it over his sleeve. “Arran, I leave ye to do Winnie’s bidding. Don’t cause too much of a ruckus, either of ye.”

Charlotte chuckled as he led her through the foyer and out the front door to his waiting barouche. “Your poor brother. You’ve just sentenced him to go hair ribbon shopping.”

Ranulf shrugged as he helped her into the open carriage. “Arran’s accustomed to it. According to Rowena, he’s the only brother with taste other than in his mouth.”

“I don’t know about that. You look very fine this afternoon.”

“I’ll tell bloo—black-hearted Smith the tailor ye said that. He accused me of shaming his entire profession because I wouldnae let him put padding in my shoulders.”

If there was one man in London who didn’t need the cut of his shoulders enhanced, it was Ranulf MacLawry. “I’m glad you didn’t give in.”

“As am I. Th—” He started to climb into the barouche beside her, then stopped when he noted Simms standing directly behind him. “And what do
ye
want?”

“I’m going with you, my lord,” the maid said, putting every ounce of affronted dignity she possessed into the sentence.

“The hell ye say.”

Charlotte stifled a laugh. “She’s our chaperone. I can’t accompany you without her or another appropriate female present.”

With a low breath that sounded like a bear growling, Ranulf moved back and handed the lady’s maid into the carriage. Simms started to sit beside Charlotte, but he shook his head. “Nae. Ye can sit there,” he said, pointing at the backward-facing seat.

“Ranulf.”

“I’ll be sitting beside ye, Charlotte. From over there she can better see if I try to ravish ye—which clearly I willnae be doing now.”

Warmth crept up Charlotte’s cheeks all over again. “I told you it wouldn’t be a simple matter,” she murmured as he leaned in to sit next to her, warm and solid and compelling.

“Ye might have warned me of the details,” he returned, settling in close enough that their thighs brushed. “She didnae come along with us before.”

“Because Jane and Winnie were along. We all guard what we and Society say is precious.”