The Devil Wears Kilts (23 page)

“I was going to say open-minded,” she countered, sitting up to help him pull his shirttail from his trousers. “It was wrong that someone else’s poor behavior might convince you to leave London. I didn’t want you to go.”

“That’s very nice to hear,” he murmured, and captured her gloved fingers in his. “I want to feel yer hands on me, Charlotte.”

She nodded. “So do I.”

“Yer blisters?”

“I’ll manage.”

That made him grin. “I certainly hope so.” Bending over her hand, he opened the wee pearl buttons and carefully pulled off the glove. “Good?” he asked, lifting his gaze to find her studying his face.

“Good. The other one, now.”

He helped her remove it. The moment he did so, she pushed up the front of his shirt and brushed her palms lightly across his chest. The tickling featheriness of it made him shudder. When she ran curious fingers across his nipples, he drew in a hard breath, took the ends of his shirt, and pulled the thing off over his head.

“You look like a Greek carving,” she mused, her fingers warm and unsteady against his skin.

“Nae. A Scottish one.”

Charlotte laughed, the arousing sound nearly causing him to burst the seam of his trousers.
Sweet Saint Andrew
. Twisting to face her again, he drew her muslin sleeve down her arm. Slowly Ranulf leaned in to kiss her bared shoulder.

She tasted faintly of lemons. Did she have freckles she was trying to fade? He hoped she wouldn’t do such a thing; in fact, he would enjoy finding and kissing every freckle on her fair skin. As she curved her neck to him, he ran his lips across her ear and the pulse at the base of her jaw, then down her shoulder again, pulling down the front of her gown as he went. The top of her breast, the soft, perfect curve, the stiff pebble of her nipple.

“Ranulf,” she gasped, wrapping her hands around his forearms.

Still toying with her breast, he looked up at her. “Do ye wish me to stop?”

“No. Definitely not. But you don’t look terribly comfortable down … there.”

“Oh, I’m nae. Strangled, more like.”

“Then let’s do something about that,” she suggested unevenly, sliding her hands down his ribs to his waist.

Ranulf grinned, kissing her exposed breast. “I’d be a fool to argue with that. But dunnae hurt yer hands. I’ll do it.”

Sliding off the bed, he stood and swiftly unfastened the buttons of his trousers. Then, figuring now was good as later, he shirked the buckskins down his hips and kicked out of them. He watched her face, waiting for a maidenly exclamation, or … something. Though if she’d seen Greek statues she would have some idea of male anatomy.

Her lowered gaze lingered. Finally, hazel eyes lifted to meet his. “So that’s what you have under your kilt, Ranulf MacLawry.”

He laughed. “Now who’s being wicked?” he taunted, and returned to the bed. “Kneel, and lift up a bit.”

When she did so, he took the bottom of her gown and pulled it up, past her knees, up her thighs, above the tangle of soft golden curls, and lifted it up over her head and off.

“Well?” she prompted after a moment, sinking onto her backside again. She didn’t try to cover herself, or lower her eyes shyly.

Remarkable lass.
“More lovely than sunrise, ye are,” he said aloud, still smiling. “I think I’ll come to ye, this time.” He moved over her, tugging at her legs until she lay flat on her back beneath him.

This time her kiss was as hot and openmouthed as his own. He kissed her until they were both out of breath and panting, then slowly moved down the slender length of her, teasing at first one breast and then the other, tracing her breastbone with his lips and meandering down to her belly button and then lower until with a dart of his tongue he tasted her.

“Good heavens!” she squeaked, nearly clobbering him with a knee. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

By way of response Ranulf slid a finger inside her, and she groaned. Mm. She was hot and wet—for him. “Sweet Christ,” he murmured, moving in with his tongue again.

This time she shuddered and pulsed, coming with a sweet rush that made her cry out and his cock jump convulsively. “That … Oh, my,” she managed, laughing breathlessly.

“My turn now, I think,” he rumbled, kissing his way up her body again. He’d been more patient than a saint, for the devil’s sake, and he badly wanted to bury himself in her tight depths.

At the last moment he remembered the French condom he’d dropped into his coat pocket on the chance that his plans for the day had proceeded as he wanted. With a curse he rolled off the bed, found his coat by the door, and dug the thing out.

“What’s that for?” she asked, lifting up on her elbows and already looking deliciously disheveled.

“To keep ye from getting with child,” he answered, slipping it on and tying off the ribbon.

“So that’s how it’s done. It’s very pretty.”

“Nae,” he said, returning to the bed. “A man’s cock is ‘grand,’ or ‘handsome,’ or ‘proud.’ It is nae pretty.”

Moving over her once more, Ranulf nudged her knees apart and settled between her thighs to kiss her sweet mouth again, teasing at her breasts with his fingers. When he had her moaning in pleasure once more he canted his hips forward, entering her slowly and with as much care as he could manage. The urge to simply take her, immediately and repeatedly, pushed at him again, but he held himself back.

“Ready?” he drawled.

She nodded silently, her eyes wide and her fingers kneading into his shoulders. He told her to take a deep breath and hold it. When she did so, he pushed forward, past the thin edge of resistance, and entered her fully.

Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut, took a second shuddering breath, and looked up at him again. For a long moment he stayed where he was, kissing her until she relaxed again and swearing to himself that this was the last time he would ever cause her pain.

Finally he pulled back a little and pushed in again. “Better?”

“Yes,” she returned. “I want more.”

“Well, then.”

Ranulf rocked inside her again, then began a slow, full pump of his hips. She felt … exquisite and tight around him, her soft moans driving him faster and deeper. They both might know their philosophies as much as their lives made them incompatible, but it didn’t feel that way. Skin to skin, sweat intermingled, tongues tangled, they fit extraordinarily well.

She came again, pulsing around him, and finally he gave in to the urge to well and truly take her. Harder, deeper, faster, until with a surging groan he spilled into her.

Collapsing onto his back, he pulled her over across his chest. For a long moment they lay there, limbs tangled and her breath warm on his skin. Her carefully coiffed hair was a shambles, and one by one he pulled the pins from the soft golden mass, letting it fall across his chest like sunlight. Her blistered palm lay flat over his heart, and he wondered if she could feel it beating.

He’d never believed in fairy tales, in the phenomenon of love at first sight. That was what had driven his father to drag an English bride into the Highlands. She’d wanted a title, and he’d wanted her, and disaster had ensued. But he knew for certain that Eleanor MacLawry would never have run outside at night to help battle a fire on her own family’s property—much less anyone else’s. And she never would have stood her ground to the point that her hands blistered.

Charlotte had done more than that. She’d helped organize the chaos of men and buckets and water, and men who couldn’t possibly know who she was had listened and obeyed. She was lovely and kind, but stood her ground and spoke her mind—even to him, when no one dared do so.

Most tellingly, she’d come to his bed after he’d agreed not to run off and attack Berling. When he’d worn his proper, civilized attire and sworn to let logic and reason carry the day. Was that such a difficult thing to do? He’d been raised in a place where a man held power with both his fists and his mind. Was there a different way to proceed?

Ranulf frowned as he twined his fingers softly through her hair. He’d bedded his share of Scottish lasses. They were pretty, and enthusiastic, and otherwise forgettable. The woman presently in his arms was anything but forgettable. Were the two of them so incompatible, after all? What would he have to give up, but punching a deserving scoundrel or two? Evidently, since he’d gone to the bother of having sketches made and collecting evidence, he’d already decided that he was willing to utilize legal means to stop Berling. Whether he removed Donald Gerdens or the law did, the results would be the same—with one crucial difference. Charlotte Hanover.

“Are you asleep?” she whispered, curving a lazy circle now over his heart with her forefinger.

“Nae. I’m gathering strength for another go.”

“Mm.”

Just the way she said that went a fair way to making him hard again. “I’m thinking we spent a long afternoon at the museum and stood for quite a long time ogling those naked Greek statues ye like so much.”

She chuckled, the sound reverberating into his chest. “I think I prefer the Scottish version, actually.”

He damn well hoped so, because he had no intention of parting from this English lass. What had begun as a mild curiosity had altered and deepened. In fact, he meant to keep hold of her until he could put a ring on her finger and tell all the world that Charlotte Hanover belonged to him. Forever.

*   *   *

Charlotte rested her head on one elbow to watch Ranulf pad naked and magnificent to the bedchamber door. Pulling it open, he leaned into the hallway. “Owen!” he bellowed. “Sandwiches!”

“Very regal,” she commented, as he returned to his big bed and settled back against the headboard.

“I’m hungry.”

That was no surprise, considering his exertions. And she was rather famished, herself. “Are we dining in the museum’s tea room, then?” she asked, shifting a little to run a finger along his ribs. Touching a man’s skin—his skin—was indescribably arousing.

“Aye. And I assume we’re sipping tea from dainty cups and nibbling at wee sandwiches with the crusts trimmed off.”

“Yes, we are. And then I think we’ll take a leisurely stroll among the sarcophagi and mummies before you return me home.”

He slid down the bed until their faces were even. “I like the British Museum. What other sights around London could ye show me,
leannan
?”

“What does that mean?
Leannan
?”

Shrugging one shoulder, he captured her right hand and brought it up to examine it carefully. “Ye know, Debny has some horse liniment that would likely do ye.”

She grimaced. “I do not want to smell like horse liniment.”

One by one he kissed her fingertips. The sensation, the gesture, made her shiver. “We’ve been slathering it on fer years. Bumps, scrapes, sprains—it cures everything, according to Debny.”

“I prefer to suffer, thank you very much.” Charlotte flexed her hand. “You aren’t going to tell me what
leannan
means, then? I can ask Winnie, you know.”

“Ye’re a persistent lass, Charlotte.” He tugged her over his chest again, wrapping his strong arms around her. “I suppose the best translation would be ‘dear friend,’” he drawled.

That sounded very nice. What it didn’t sound like was a term someone would use to describe a partner in a one-time union resulting from simple mutual attraction. Of course, at this moment there was nothing at all simple about how she felt. Or how he felt against her. Indeed, the only simple fact was that she didn’t want this to be the one and only time she shared his bed.

“What’s this, then?” she asked, tapping her nose and trying to distract herself from unhelpful thoughts.

He tilted his head to look down at her face. “Ye’ve a yen to learn Scottish, then, do ye?”

“It’s a pretty language.”

Before either of them could question if she had more on her mind or not—something she certainly couldn’t even answer to her own satisfaction—his door rattled. “M’laird,” Owen’s voice came, “I’ve yer sandwiches.”

“Leave ’em on the floor.”

“Fergus already ate one of ’em on the way up here.”

“Oh, fer Saint Andrew’s sake,” Ranulf muttered, and slid out from beneath her again. Striding to the door, he pulled a blanket from the back of a chair and knotted it around his hips. Unlocking the door, he stepped into the opening. “Ye keeping the maid occupied?” he asked, taking the tray of food from the footman’s hands.

“She’s been as tight as a nun, m’lord, looking at us like we all smell rotted.”

Charlotte abruptly wondered if she wasn’t asking too much of Simms. The maid had been in her employ for the last seven years, since she’d turned eighteen, and in all that time she didn’t think she’d ever done a single thing for which she’d needed to enlist Simms’s discretion.

“I hope you’re not frightening her,” she said, gathering the disheveled sheets around her and standing.

“Nae,” the footman protested, craning his neck to see her around Ranulf’s shoulders. “We’re gentle as lambs, we are.”

Ranulf shifted, blocking Owen’s view again. “That’ll do. Go away.”

“I can’t stay much longer,” Charlotte put in.

His broad shoulders rose and fell. “Have the maid come up here in ten minutes,” he amended, “and the barouche brought round in thirty.”

“Aye, m’laird. Are ye certain y—”

Closing the door, Ranulf locked it again and faced her, the tray of sandwiches in one hand. For a moment his gaze took her in from head to toe, pausing at her breasts and her face. “Come over to the table,” he said, pulling a second chair over to his small writing table. “Ye may as well eat someaught before ye go.”

Stifling an urge to send a regretful look back at the bed, Charlotte hefted the trailing sheets and followed him. “We’ve accepted an invitation to the Duke and Duchess of Esmond’s soiree tomorrow night,” she said, sitting. “Will you be attending?”

Almost immediately she regretted asking, because he’d been forcibly removed from the last grand ball he’d attended, and for good reason. Odds were that he wouldn’t have received an invitation to the next one—or to any others this Season. She should have been thankful that he wouldn’t have another easy opportunity to brawl in public, but at this moment she mostly wished she had another chance to dance with him.