The Devil Wears Kilts (30 page)

He looked at her intently, as if he expected her to pronounce sentence on him. Charlotte, though, stayed where she was. What was she supposed to say? How was she supposed to react? Ranulf MacLawry had just confessed to killing, murdering, two men. She should be more than shocked and unsettled. She should be appalled and sickened. She should flee the room and run straight to the Old Bailey to swear out a statement against him and have him arrested.

And she knew she would do no such thing. Not only because he’d trusted her in telling her any of this, but because in the deepest part of her heart, she couldn’t blame him for what he’d done. It was everything she’d railed against for the past four years, a man resorting to violence simply because it was the quickest, easiest way to solve a problem, to regain damaged male pride and erase embarrassment. Except that in this instance, in his shoes, she was fairly certain she would have done the same thing. Or she would very much have wanted to do so.

“What are ye thinking, Charlotte?” he asked.

An unbidden tear ran down her cheek, and she wiped it away. The things he’d been through, all while leading people who relied on him. She could scarcely imagine it.

Ranulf swore. “And now I’ve hurt ye for no damned good reason,” he growled. “Let me take ye back to yer sister. I’ll—”

“You asked me what I’m thinking,” she interrupted, ignoring a second tear. “Do you have any intention of letting me answer you?”

“I thought the tears answered it well enough.”

“Well, you’d be wrong.” She fought the stupid quavering of her voice. “What I think is that as a fifteen-year-old boy, you did what you had to do, and I’m so, so sorry that you’ve had to carry this burden all by yourself for so long. No one should have to do that.”

He stared at her. “Then…”

Clearly he wouldn’t believe her words alone. Charlotte stepped forward and tangled her fingers into his dark, lanky hair, pulling his face down to hers. “I said, I understand,” she whispered, and kissed him.

Ranulf lifted her into the air so that their faces were level. Tongues tangled until she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. They were at a grand ball, for heaven’s sake, with two hundred guests just beyond the flimsily latched doors of the dressing closet. Her sister and his uncle sat only feet away.

None of it mattered. All she wanted in the world was Ranulf. Everything else just faded away. What he’d told her—he no longer had to shoulder it by himself. Yes, his shoulders were broad, but she could be strong, too. For him, she could be.

He sat her down on the dressing table, pulling up her red skirt to step between her knees and continue kissing her. It wasn’t enough, though. Now that she knew what it was like to be with him, she craved him, constantly and badly. And they were not leaving this room until she’d had him.

“Touch me, Ran,” she murmured, taking his hands and placing them on her bared knees.

Shifting his kisses to her throat, he slowly and lightly ran his fingertips up her thighs, under the rumpled material of her skirt, until he curled his forefinger up inside her. She jumped, clenching her fingers into his hips and pressing against his hand. How something so … simple could feel so exquisite, she had no idea, but he made it so.

“Unbutton me,” he rumbled, taking her right hand in his free one and moving it to the front of his trousers.

She undid the top button of his trousers, panting as he teased at her again with his fingers.
Oh, goodness.
Charlotte moaned, hooking her hands into his waistband and pulling him closer.

“Christ, Charlotte.” Shoving her hands out of the way, he finished undoing his buttons and shoved his trousers down to his thighs. His impressive member sprang free, hard and jutting.

“What do you call this in Gaelic?” she asked, running her finger along the length of him.

“Ye want a lesson now?” he asked, his gaze on her fingers.

She curled around him, stroking gently. “Tell me.”

“In English, it’s a cock. In Gaelic, a
ball-bearta.
” Lifting his gaze to her eyes, he reached up to cup one breast through her silk gown.
“Bruinne,”
he murmured, then slid his hand beneath the lace to pinch her nipple. “
Sine.
Do ye wish to continue quizzing me,
leannan
?”

With a chuckle that sounded breathless to her own ears, Charlotte shook her head. “Show me, instead.”

Ranulf put his hands around her thighs and drew her forward until with a satisfying slide he entered her. Trying to stifle the pleased moaning sounds she couldn’t help making, Charlotte buried her face against his shoulder. The hard muscle with its velvet-soft skin sank hot into her again and again until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but hold on to him and try not to shriek with pleasure as she came around him.

With a low groan he started to pull away from her. She knew why. She knew what it meant. And she wrapped her ankles around his hips, folding her shaking hands into his lapels at the same time. “No,” she said, looking up at him.

“Charlotte.” He grunted, then pushed deep into her again, shuddering.

It was about trust, and the way she felt more alive, more … necessary when she was in his company. It was about showing him that she meant it when she said she would share his burdens. But how did anyone put that into words? This was the best she could manage.

He leaned his forehead against hers. “Ye shouldnae have done that,
leannan,
” he murmured. “Ye make me wish I lived a safer, saner life.”

That sounded like he was about to walk away and leave her behind. After he’d teased her about courting her, after he’d told her his darkest secret. Did he not want her in his life, or did he think her incapable of sharing it with him?

Was she, though? Capable? Could she live in a world where fathers were murdered and killers vanished and the wrong word said to the wrong person could at best mean a fight, and at worst mean a war? It was maddening, wanting to be with him so badly and not knowing if she had the courage to remain. Or even if he wanted her to.

“We should get back,” she said slowly, lifting her head to gaze at him again.

He brushed a finger across her cheek and kissed her, this time so gently it made her heart ache. “With George Gerdens-Dailey here, lass, everything’s more complicated.”

She nodded, steeling herself for what she needed to say next. “I think he might be the one who shot your brother.”

Ranulf’s expression cooled to ice. “What makes ye say that?”

Oh, dear.
She wouldn’t have told him, but he’d shared so much with her. “No bloodshed, Ranulf. Please. Not because of anything I tell you.”

He backed away, tugging her skirt down roughly and then refastening his trousers. “Ye want a bargain, do ye?”

“I said I understood what you did when your father died,” she said, hopping down from the dressing table and straightening her skirts. “That doesn’t mean I want to be the reason you murder someone.”

Abruptly he approached her again, seizing her hands in his. “If I prove to ye that I can be a peaceable man, Charlotte, if I find a way to stay away from these troubles and keep them away from my family, could ye…” He trailed off. “I love ye, ye know,” he finally said, his voice low. “Ye drive me mad, but I love ye.”

Her heart stopped, so quiet she could hear it whispering to her, sighing in surprised happiness. It wasn’t just her. Whatever either—both—of them had intended when this began, he felt it, too. Relief, joy, a hundred things galloped through her as her heart began drumming again. Future be damned. At this moment Ranulf loved her. It was enough for now. It would have been enough for forever, if she had any faith at all in happy endings.

“He said he hadn’t had MacLawry blood on his hands in nearly three years, and that he had an itch for more.” Charlotte took a ragged breath, afraid if she stopped she would lose her nerve again. “I love you, too, Ranulf. And you drive me mad, as well.”

Chapter Fourteen

The conundrum seemed something more fit for Tantalus or Solomon, Ranulf decided as he escorted Charlotte back to her sister.

While he would always consider Berling a party to his brother’s shooting, he now knew who’d actually fired the shot. A man whose father he’d taken away in retaliation for losing his own. The Gerdenses had struck first, of course, but the deed had been done.

For Gerdens-Dailey to shoot Bear, who’d been eight when the Gerdens brothers had vanished, and now to turn his gaze on Rowena, who’d only been two—Ranulf wouldn’t have been inclined to excuse that, regardless. And now the stable fire, which—if what Arran had surmised was true and Berling hadn’t set it—looked very much like George Gerdens-Dailey’s handiwork.

If he took his revenge as he wanted to, though, he would be proving to both Charlotte and himself that he
was
a savage, a man who’d be a fool to bring any kind of proper wife into his life—much less one who couldn’t abide the idea of fighting over words or deeds. And he wanted her in his life, as much to prove that he could head a clan in an intelligent, progressive way as because she comforted and settled and inspired him with merely a smile.

“We were beginning to worry,” Jane said when they stepped through the sitting room door. “You were gone for quite a while.”

“I had a great deal of explaining to do,” Ranulf said, avoiding his uncle’s gaze.

“Are we leaving the party, then? I’ve already missed two dances, and I need to make my apologies to, oh, everyone.” Young Jane scowled.

“We’re staying,” he decided. “Ye’re feeling much improved, Uncle.”

“I’m feeling much improved, suddenly,” Myles repeated.

Ranulf took Charlotte’s right hand, and Jane’s left. “If ye cross paths with any of those men ye overheard, ye’ll have to pretend to know nothing of their conversation. Can ye do that, lasses?”

“Yes,” Charlotte said without hesitation, squeezing his fingers.

“I think so,” Jane seconded, not sounding nearly as certain. “I’m just glad my card is full so none of them can ask me to dance. That would be terrifying.”

“Well, they won’t, so you needn’t worry,” Charlotte put in, releasing his hand and instead putting an arm around her sister. “And none of them but Berling have ever so much as given me a glance, so I have no concerns at all.”

Together the four of them returned to the ballroom, and Ranulf had to watch Charlotte apologize to Henning for missing their quadrille and offer the round man the very next dance. He didn’t want to share her, even with her friends.

“You called her
leannan,
” his uncle muttered under his breath as they came to a stop at one side of the room.

“I know what I called her. It wasnae an accident. She has my heart.” And his mind, and his soul. Saying it aloud was easier than he expected, though he imagined making the same statement to Arran would be a much stickier conversation. Time to stop dissembling, though—it felt like he was dishonoring Charlotte by doing so.

“Do you mean to marry her?”

“Nae unless I can be sure my life won’t bring her hurt and heartache.”

“Ranulf, that—”

“I know. It sounds like an impossibility.” He forced what he hoped was a jaunty smile. “I do like a challenge, ye know.”

Rowena was dancing a quadrille with Arran, which had at least served to keep his younger brother and sister out of trouble. As for Berling and his cowardly friends and his troublesome cousin, they were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they’d decided to leave and plot another tactic when insulting his family to his face hadn’t worked.

He could only hope that they would continue to target him, alone, while he decided on a way to deal with them that would satisfy Charlotte, his family, his clan, and his God. He paused. Evidently he’d altered the order of his loyalties without even realizing it. The new order might not be entirely Scottish, but it satisfied his heart.

“What the devil happened?” Arran demanded the moment the dance ended and he and Rowena managed to navigate through the crowd to where Ranulf and Myles stood. Evidently his uncle had decided to serve as his bodyguard tonight. While it likely wouldn’t alter anything, he did appreciate the gesture.

“Naught I care to discuss here,” he said aloud. “Keep yer eyes and yer wits about ye. And the MacLawrys—none of us—are to begin, finish, or middle any altercations tonight. Is that clear?”

“I thought we already had this particular conversation,” Arran retorted.

“We did. Things have changed.”

Arran glared at him. “What things?”

Ranulf took a deep breath. “George Gerdens-Dailey is here tonight. I just wanted ye to know, so ye’d not be surprised if ye set eyes on him.”

“George … Damnation. I thought he kept to Aberdeen.”

“Evidently not.”

Ranulf recognized the look on his brother’s face. “Yer word,” he said, forcing Arran to meet his gaze. If his brother went after one of Berling’s cronies, Ranulf would have to support him. And that would ruin everything before he’d barely begun.

“Aye,” Arran grated. “My word. No trouble. I only hope to hell ye know what you’re aboot, Ran.”

Sending a glance at Charlotte prancing about the room with a mollified-looking Henning, Ranulf nodded. “I do,” he returned. He was keeping his word, in exchange for a lass. That was what he was doing. Trying to justify it any other way was just a useless complication.

Rowena was dancing now with a light-haired lad far too young and pretty for Ranulf’s peace of mind. His sister hadn’t so much as mentioned Lachlan MacTier in days—a far cry from a few weeks ago, when she could barely speak a sentence without uttering his name. If he hadn’t been so consumed with Charlotte, he would be concerned. After all, if he married an Englishwoman, they would—could—return to Glengask. If Rowena married a Sasannach, he’d likely never see her but at Christmas and if he came down to London again for the Season. That was unacceptable.

“I don’t mean to pry, lad,” Myles said after a moment. “But—”

“Aye, ye do mean to pry, Uncle,” Ranulf cut in. “I need ye to introduce me to a few likely … friends. English ones.”