The Devil Wears Kilts (25 page)

That wasn’t him. The MacLawrys had risen to power because of the strength and loyalty of the clan. And now the clan would remain safe and prosperous because of the strength of the MacLawrys.

So he knew where he stood, but then he always had. He wasn’t the complication. Yes, Charlotte had proved herself brave, and yes, he knew her to be kind and thoughtful. And he supposed if he’d been his father he would simply marry her, drag her off to Scotland, and let the future fall where it would.

But clearly he wasn’t his father, because it wasn’t enough that Charlotte pleased his heart, made him happy, filled every other thought with a healthy lust to be with her. He wanted her to be happy in return. And that was where the difficulty lay.

“M’laird?”

Ranulf started. “Aye?”

“I thought ye’d turned to stone there, fer a moment.” Owen sent him a concerned look. “I called ye thrice.”

“And I decided to answer ye the third time,” Ranulf retorted. “Now were ye just calling me fer amusement, or did ye have a point?”

“I had a point,” the old soldier said, straightening his shoulders. “Lady Winnie’s just arriving.”

Ranulf turned around. Sure enough, a closed coach was stopped at the front of the house, and Rowena, closely followed by Una, stepped down to the drive. Peter Gilling, perched up front beside the liveried coachman, hopped down, as well. Rowena said something to the driver, and with a nod he sent the team back into the street. Only then did Ranulf notice that the vehicle bore the Hanover coat of arms on its doors.

“Sweet Saint Andrew, it looks even worse by daylight,” his sister said, lifting her skirts to carefully pick her way through the rubble.

“I’ll have a new one up before ye know it,” Ranulf returned, pulling off a glove to scratch Una behind the ears.

She nodded, glancing at him then away again. So far as he remembered, they’d parted on good terms both after the dinner and fire, and then yesterday when he’d returned Charlotte home. Whatever was unsettling her, he didn’t think he’d done it.

He stepped over a pile of wood, shedding his other glove and dropping them both onto a barrel. “Fancy a sit in my garden?” he asked, offering her an arm.

“I am not holding on to you,” she commented, wrinkling her nose. “You’re filthy.”

“Then I suppose ye don’t want me kissing yer cheek, either.” With a grin he motioned her to precede him up the short path to the walled-in garden.

“This is pretty. Did I tell you that?”

“Aye.”

“Oh. Well, it is.”

“Thank ye.”

She wandered about for a minute, then took a seat in one of the wrought-iron chairs beneath the big elm tree in the center of the flowery plantings. Ranulf dragged the other chair closer and sat down facing her.

“Now that we’re finished with the pleasantries,” he drawled, “what’s amiss?”

“Amiss? Nothing’s amiss. Why would you say that?” she returned, fiddling with her skirt.

“Because ye’re here, fer one thing. And because ye can’t seem to look me in the eye. Last time ye did that, it was because ye’d decided to freshen my bed with lavender, and dumped an entire bottle of scent into the middle of the mattress.”

Rowena laughed. “It smelled very pretty, after three days with the windows open.”

“And I still cannae abide lavender. So what brings ye here, Rowena? I thought ye’d be shopping, or having a coze with yer new friends.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “You’re my brother. Do I need an excuse to come see you?”

“Nae. But if ye had one, what would it be?”

Abruptly Una seemed to need a sound belly rub, because Rowena sank down in the grass to give her one. A prickle of uneasiness stole through Ranulf’s skin. His sister was thirteen years his junior. And in her entire life she’d never hesitated to talk to him about anything. Whatever this was, it couldn’t be anything pleasant.

“The Hanovers are very nice, aren’t they?” she finally offered, her gaze still on the happily wriggling hound.

Was that it? Did she wish to live with them permanently? His heart clenched, but he took a short breath to cover it. “Aye, they are.”

“I’m glad Lady Hanover and Jane kept in touch with me for all those years. It was nothing they were obligated to do.”

Yes, they’d been so friendly that she’d felt comfortable fleeing her home to come stay with them. But they were also Charlotte’s family, and so he wasn’t going to say anything ill about them. “Why wouldn’t they wish to correspond with ye, Rowena? Ye’re a bonny lass.”

“I didn’t know anything about Charlotte’s fiancé being killed in a stupid duel. I didn’t even know she’d been engaged. That was very sad, wasn’t it?”

“Aye.” Though he doubted he’d ever find himself weeping tears over James Appleton’s demise.

She glanced up at him, then down again. “Did you like the museum yesterday?”

“I liked it well enough.”

“I didn’t think Charlotte would speak to you again, after that fight at the Evanstone soiree. But since you went sightseeing together, I suppose she’s forgiven you.”

Ranulf frowned. “Berling tried to push at me, and I shoved back harder. There’s nothing I need to be forgiven for.”

“But you are friends, aren’t you?”

“What?” Ranulf didn’t know what the devil was afoot, but he didn’t like it. “Berling and I will ne’er be friends, Rowena. He nearly killed Bear, in case ye’ve forgotten, and I’ll wager he set this fire, too.”

“No, no, no. I didn’t mean Lord Berling. I meant Charlotte. You’re friends with Charlotte, aren’t you?”

Well, that made more sense. “I suppose so,” he agreed, trying not to put too much emotion into the words.

“I think she likes talking to you. Several times she’s said that you have a unique way of looking at things.”

Abruptly it dawned on Ranulf what his sister was about. “Are ye matchmaking, Rowena?” he asked.

Finally she abandoned Una and scooted over to take his hands in her slender ones. “I think you already like her. Otherwise you wouldn’t bother even talking to her.”

“Wouldnae that make me rude?”

She tilted her head. “There’s polite, and there’s nice, Ran. You’re being nice to her.”

“She called me a devil,” he reminded his sister, wondering whether it was amusement or terror he was feeling. If Rowena, so concerned with her Season and with whether Lachlan MacTier would come to his senses that she could barely see straight, had noticed a connection between him and Charlotte, others must have noticed, as well.
Damnation
. This business with Charlotte was complicated enough without everyone else putting in their pennies.

“Only because you were throwing punches willy-nilly. She’s accustomed to gentle gentlemen. She told me that ‘civilization’ has the word ‘civil’ in it for a reason, and that we’d all be better people for learning that calling someone a name doesn’t deserve a bloodying as a response, or we’re all no better than animals.”

Well, wasn’t that interesting?
“So she called me an animal?”

Rowena flushed. “Nae! No, I mean. We had that conversation directly after the ball, when we were all angry with you.” She squeezed his hands. “Just this morning she told me that you seemed to be a very fine, honorable gentleman.”

That answered that. “Ye
are
matchmaking, Rowena MacLawry.” He twisted his hands so that he gripped her palms in turn. “What makes ye think that a man who’s willing to throw punches—and worse—to protect his own is in any way compatible with a lass who thinks no blow ever struck is justified?”

He hoped she would have an answer. If she’d arrived there with miraculous answers to all of his concerns, he would have been willing to believe her. Because so far, he wasn’t having much luck seeking them on his own.

“It’s simple, Ran,” she returned. “If ye love her, ye need to learn to be more…”

“Civilized?” he supplied.

“English,” she countered, then swallowed. “But don’t—”

“‘English.’” He repeated slowly, the taste of the word uncomfortable on his tongue, mostly because he was saying it without the usual wash of contempt. “How so?”

“I…”

She trailed off, then retrieved her hands and stood. Clearly she was as surprised by his response as he was. But if he couldn’t figure out precisely what it was that Charlotte wanted, and more importantly, how to go about achieving it, he’d already lost.

“First of all, then, no more kilts.”

“My kilts dunnae punch people.”

Rowena’s mouth twitched. “No, but it makes you seem more antagonistic. It’s as though you’ve called everyone out, and you’re only waiting to see who steps forward first.”

There were occasions when he
had
to wear a kilt—when he stood at weddings, at formal clan meetings, funerals, all the sundry duties the chief of the clan had to his name. But none of those took place in London. “At home
not
wearing a kilt is antagonistic. But I think I can manage to wear naught but trousers in London.”

His sister nodded, then furrowed her brow. “I didn’t think ye’d even agree to that,” she confessed, her surprise showing in the return of her Highlands accent. He’d missed hearing it, but now didn’t seem to be the time to comment. “Give me a minute to think of the rest,” she continued.

“Why don’t ye come in and have luncheon with me?” he suggested. “Arran’s off seeing friends, and I’ve missed chatting with ye.”

“If you weren’t so dirty, I would hug you, Ran.”

He grinned, feeling lighter than he had since he’d parted with Charlotte yesterday. In all his imaginings he would never have considered that the person who could best help him win Charlotte Hanover would be his bairn of a sister. “Well, I’ll go change my shirt and we’ll see to that, then.”

*   *   *

The tall man with the thin scar across the bridge of his nose sent a sideways glance at Arran MacLawry. “I imagine I can get us into Boodles this close to luncheon,” he said, directing his chestnut gelding around a slow-moving rag and bone man. “But White’s won’t have a table for an hour.”

London was more crowded than it had been the last time he’d passed through, but Arran noted that only peripherally as he held in his quick-footed black Thoroughbred, Duffy. His last visit hadn’t been during the middle of the Season, of course, which could explain the difference, but he preferred places where he could better see his surroundings. “I know it’s an inconvenience,” he returned, “but there’s someone I need to take a look at, and I have it on good authority that he’s at White’s.”

His companion sighed. “I suppose that’s why you called it a favor.”

“Aye. And I’ll owe you a large one after this, Will.”

“Am I permitted to ask who it is you’re looking for?” William Crane, Viscount Fordham, asked, keeping his gaze and presumably his attention on the crowded street.

Will was likely to figure it out on his own soon enough, anyway. “The Earl of Berling.”

“Ah. Does this have anything to do with the beating your brother handed him last week?” Fordham asked, not sounding the least bit surprised.

“Not entirely. But if we should coincidentally come across him at White’s, and as I dunnae think he knows who I am, if ye could call me John Reynolds, say, I would appreciate it.”

Will coughed. “Wasn’t that the name of the captain you wagered a hundred quid over whether you could shoot his hat off his head?”

Arran sent his friend a mock frown. “I
did
shoot his hat off his head.”

“Along with half his ear.”

“He moved.”

They reached the plain-looking front door of the club, and a stable boy ran up to collect their horses. As Fordham had warned, White’s was packed to the gills, and the best the head footman could offer them was a pair of seats and a bottle of cognac in the library.

“If I need to introduce you,” the viscount asked quietly, “are you certain you want to be Scottish?”

“Nae. Say I’m yer cousin from York.”

“You don’t sound like you’re from York.”

“I will. Take us by way of the dining room, if you please.”

Shaking his head again, the viscount surreptitiously handed five pounds to a second footman, who immediately left them on their own. “I don’t see your friend,” he said after a moment, as they made their way through the obstacle-laden dining room.

“Keep looking. I heard he was here.” It had cost him twenty quid to root out the information, actually, on top of the favor he now owed William Crane. “And introduce me to as few people as possible. I don’t want them realizing I’m not who I say.”

“You’re not titled, Ar— John. No one cares who you are or what you’re doing here, so long as you don’t cause trouble.”

That was the way he preferred it. He knew London—and the English—better than either of his brothers or his sister, but there were things—alliances, friendship, animosities—that he needed to view and decipher for himself. And at the top of the list of things he needed to see with his own eyes was Donald Gerdens, Lord Berling.

“There he is,” Will said, on the tail of his thought. “Blue coat, eating pheasant, bruised jaw. On the left.”

“I see him.”

Berling didn’t look all that formidable, with his delicately held fork and the hanging weightiness on his face. But danger didn’t always come from straight ahead, and it didn’t take physical strength to light a fire. Arran kept a blank expression on his face as he walked up behind Will.

“Lord Berling, isn’t it?” Fordham said, utilizing all of his considerable charm. “Fordham. I know we haven’t been formally introduced, but since last week I’ve been wanting to shake your hand.”

The earl inclined his head, wiping off his fingers and shaking hands with the viscount. “It’s good to meet another man of conviction,” he said with a brief smile, then gestured at the two men seated with him. “Fordham, Charles Calder and Arnold Haws. Gentlemen…”

“Will Crane, Lord Fordham,” Will supplied with a smile. “Pleased to meet you.” He gestured at Arran. “This is my cousin, Mr. John Reynolds, down from York.”

Ranulf had warned him that Berling seemed to have allied himself with the Campbells, so he wasn’t surprised to see them sitting there together. Steeling himself, Arran also shook hands with the three men. If he’d been the sort of fellow who preferred a knife, he might have ended Berling and his cronies right there. But for some reason Ranulf had been set on gathering proof, which evidently meant they were going to attempt something legal. Either that, or blackmail.