The Devil Wears Kilts (8 page)

“Aye, m’laird. It’s just that he was at Glengask fer so long—”

“I know. Bring ’im in here.” He’d long ago learned the advantage of claiming a room and a seat, and had no intention of allowing Myles Wilkie the opportunity to do so. London might be Myles’s domain, but the MacLawrys claimed Tall House for themselves. For a fortnight, anyway.

A moment later Myles Wilkie stood in the breakfast room doorway, kind brown eyes taking in the setting and finally resting on Ranulf at the far end of the table. Ranulf watched him in return. Sympathetic gaze or not, the man had the wits of a fox and the stubbornness of a badger. He wasn’t about to forget that. Not for an instant. Not even when Una trotted forward, tail wagging furiously, to greet the viscount. Fergus remained under the table at Ranulf’s feet and huffed his disapproval. If he’d needed any further proof that most lasses didn’t have any sense, that provided it.

“You sent me a request to find you some likely servants,” the viscount finally said, and produced a folded paper from one gray pocket. “Keeping in mind your … particular requirements, I thought I’d best bring it by in person. I’ve located half a dozen men and three maids who should suffice.”

Ranulf nodded, flicking a finger at Peter. The footman went to retrieve the paper and unfolded it himself. “I cannae read these hen scratches, m’laird,” he proclaimed after a moment spent squinting at the page.

From the opposite side of the room Owen blew out his breath and walked past Myles to snatch the paper from Peter’s fingers. “Ye cannae read
any
scratches, and ye’ve nae fooled a one of us aboot that.” After a moment he looked up from the page, frowning. “These ain’t Scots names, Laird Swansley.”

“No, they’re English. Born and bred.” Myles squared his shoulders. “May I sit, Ranulf?”

“Aye. Give ’im back the paper, Owen, and go have Stirling saddled. We’re off in twenty minutes. Take Peter with ye.”

“But—”

“Now.”

The gray that had once sprinkled across Myles Wilkie’s temples had lightened and spread, turning his brown hair almost blond. That had all happened sometime in the past three years. His edges all seemed a bit worn, Ranulf realized, though it remained to be seen whether it was more than skin-deep. Nor did he judge anything based on the fact that Myles took the chair directly to his left rather than the opposite one at the far end of the table.

“I missed you, boy,” the viscount finally said. “You and your brothers. And Rowena, of course. You’re all that’s left of my family.” He took a breath. “And Rowena, for God’s sake—she was just a child when last I saw her. And now … She’s a lovely young woman.”

“Why only Englishmen on yer list?” Ranulf broke in, attempting to put a halt to the reminiscing. He hadn’t caused the split between them, after all.

“So it’s to be nothing but business, then?”

Ranulf picked up his slice of toasted bread. Slowly and deliberately he spread a thick layer of peach marmalade across it. “I believe I told ye that we’re no longer family, so we’ve naught to discuss but business.”

Myles sat forward, jabbing his forefinger into the polished tabletop. “If you still don’t trust me, why was it me you asked for help in finding servants?”

“Better the devil ye know. Isn’t that the saying?”

The viscount glared at him, then slapped the paper down beside Ranulf’s elbow. “Here in London,
you’re
the devil.”

“Aye. That I am.”

“I chose Englishmen because they’re less likely to know who you are, and less likely to have been approached by anyone who might wish you harm, especially now that everyone knows you’re in London.” He took a breath. “None are from my household, because I knew you wouldn’t allow that, but I have met and spoken to each one of them personally. And discreetly. They all come from fine households and with high recommendations. For that reason they’ll also cost you a fair penny.”

With a nod, Ranulf continued eating. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” his uncle burst out. “I’ve apologized a hundred times. I was trying to help!”

Help.
The word punched into Ranulf’s chest, dark and heavy. “Yer so-called help nearly got Munro—Bear—killed.”

“You’re all alone up there, Ranulf! You need allies outside your own clan, even if you won’t acknowledge that fact. The Donnellys made overtures. They seemed genuinely interested in the education system you’ve put in place for your cotters.”

“Aye, because they genuinely wanted to burn every one of my schoolhouses to the ground. The Donnellys and the Gerdenses are two of a kind, Myles. They allied their clans decades ago. And ye gave ’em a bloody map.”

“To show them how you’ve divided your land into districts, sharing the work and the income, allowing all the youngsters a chance at an education. I was bragging about all you’ve managed to accomplish, even with the Crown breathing down your neck.”

Ranulf took a hard breath. “Whatever yer intentions, because of ye I lost three schools. And if Bear had been two minutes earlier, he would have been right in the middle of the third blaze. He took a ball to the shoulder, as it was.”

“You think I don’t know that? It still keeps me awake nights.”

“Good.” Finally Ranulf sat forward. For a time he’d thought three years’ distance might blunt his anger and his fear over what had nearly happened, but every time Rowena or anyone else mentioned Myles’s name, it all flooded back. “Ye may have spent ten years in the Highlands, Myles, but ye’re nae Scottish. Ye dunnae understand how deep old wounds go. Ye never will. And I’ll never trust ye again, because ye still think ye were right in trying to step in.”

“I helped raise ye.”

“Nae. I was eighteen when ye came north. I’ll give that ye helped raise the others. And I’ll give that when Eleanor swallowed poison and orphaned Rowena and us lads, ye did come north. I know that wasnae an easy thing for ye.”

Myles swallowed. “She shouldn’t have done that. My sister—your mother—we all knew she didn’t belong up there. But she loved your father.”

“She loved being a marchioness. When I took the title, she wanted us all to move down to London. From the beginning she wanted us raised English. We’d be English aristocrats, with a seat up in Scotland. Just like all the others. Father wouldnae have it, and neither would I.” He’d been fifteen when they’d all lost Seann Monadh—the Old Mountain—as the clansfolk referred to Robert MacLawry. And from the first day he’d taken his father’s title, he’d had to fight.

“I know. She … didn’t do well by you. But if I might ask, why have you permitted Rowena a Season, now?”

“That’s her tale to tell, if she so chooses.”

The sad, hopeful look returned to Myles’s expression. “Then you’ll let me see her?”

“She’s nae here.”

“Oh.”

Damnation.
“She’s staying at Hanover House, so Lady Hest can sponsor her. Go see her there, if ye will. But ye’ll nae take her from the house unless Debny or Owen or Peter is with ye.”

“Understood.” The viscount pushed to his feet. “Thank you for that, Ranulf.”

“If she’s hurt in yer company, ye’d best nae let me find ye. And I’ll come looking. I swear it.”

Myles nodded. “If anything happens to her, I’ll already be dead.”

That almost sounded Scottish. “Ye can call on her tomorrow, then.”

For several minutes after Myles left the house, Ranulf sat where he was, gazing sightlessly at the remains of his breakfast. The last time they’d crossed paths Myles had found himself with a bloodied nose and bruised ribs. Arran had had to pull Ranulf off their uncle, in fact. Any Scotsman of his clan would have known better than to trust the Donnellys. That betrayal had been bad enough. But when Bear had stumbled, wounded and bloody, through the front door—
that
made Myles’s mistake unforgivable. This time seeing him, though, Ranulf had felt more … constrained than he had three years ago.

And he knew precisely why. That tall, blond lass. Charlotte Hanover. She didn’t like violence. Which wouldn’t have swayed him an ounce, because a Sasannach female knew nothing about how to survive in his world—except that he’d caught that look on her face when they’d danced. That look said things. That look said that she did know of what she spoke.

It had made him curious. And that was why he thought of her as he rose to collect Stirling and his pair of outriders, as he trotted past finely manicured gardens and tall, white houses, and as he turned up the Hanover House drive. Curiosity. Naught else. Because there couldn’t be an attraction. Not when she was English. No, however mad his rivals might think him, he was not so mad that he would voluntarily bring an Englishwoman to the Highlands. Not after he’d seen one—a woman with a five-year-old daughter and three sons under twenty—poison herself to escape it.

Ranulf shook himself as he dismounted in the shade of Hanover House. The places his mind went at times surprised him. His imaginings had led him to build schools and to go against the trend of clearing his land of cotters in order to graze sheep. They’d taken some of his father’s ideas and made them reality—at great cost both to his purse and to his safety.

And in all that, in all his adult years, he’d never so much as thought of bringing an Englishwoman to the Highlands. So he could only consider the unbidden thought of showing the Highlands to Charlotte Hanover an aberration. Either that, or the lass was a witch—though if she meant to entangle him, she would likely have spent less time arguing the philosophy of violence with him.

The front door opened as he reached the bottom step. “You’ve arrived just in time,” Lady Charlotte said with a warm smile. “We’ve decided to show Winnie the sights, beginning with Hyde Park.”

His first thought was that though he’d never seen it himself, Hyde Park would be too open, and far too crowded for anything less than an army to provide Rowena adequate protection. Or rather, that was his second thought. His first thought was more primal, and had a great deal to do with the form-fitting peach riding habit Charlotte wore. More precisely, with the slender curves beneath it.

“Good morning, Ran,” Rowena called, prancing up to kiss his cheek. “Look, I’m wearing those idiotic riding boots I had from Lach, after all.” She lifted the straight skirt of her dark green riding habit to show him her ankles.

“That’s enough of that,” he grumbled, swatting her hand away so the skirt fell back to its proper place. “Ye’ll have the Sasannach calling us savages and devils.”

“Oh, pish,” his sister returned, then giggled. “That’s a grand word, isn’t it? ‘Pish.’”

Ranulf narrowed his eyes. “Ye know what else is grand? Keeping to yer own k—”

“May I have a private word with you before we leave, Ranulf?” Charlotte interrupted.

If she hadn’t used his given name, saying it in that prim, musical way she had, he likely would have ignored her. Instead, clenching his jaw, he turned and walked over to where she stood beside her horse. “Aye?”

“I wanted you to know,” she said in a low voice, her direct hazel gaze meeting his again, “that I spoke with both my parents last night about your concern for Winnie’s safety. My father has asked Longfellow to assign two additional footmen to patrol the house all through the night, and the grooms have begun a twenty-four-hour watch of the grounds.” She smiled again. “Nothing to make her feel caged, but enough for us all to be aware before anything untoward can happen.”

It wasn’t enough, but it was more than he’d expected. And considering that Rowena had managed to slip away from Glengask even with all the men he had there, he wasn’t precisely in a position to complain.

“I appreciate that,” he said, inclining his head. “I’ll tell Peter he can stay in at Tall House tonight. But I’ll be leaving Una here.”

Her brow furrowed. “You’ve had someone watching Hanover House?”

“From dusk till dawn, aye.”

For a moment she cast her gaze about as though she expected the stout footman to leap out of the shrubbery. “I had no idea.”

“Ye were nae meant to.”

“And the dog?” she went on, glancing down at the smaller-framed Una.

As dogs went she was still at least a head above most, and any foxhound had best have three or four siblings if they thought to have half a chance against her. “She’s a mild-hearted lass, but she’ll give her life to protect Rowena. Ye’ve naught to fear from her, my lady. And ye’ve naught to fear from me.” He wasn’t certain what prompted him to say that last bit, but it seemed … necessary. Because of the MacLawrys she and her family were likely to find themselves in circumstances they could never even have dreamed of, after all.

She reached up, straightening a fold of his simply tied cravat. “Well, then,” Lady Charlotte said, then abruptly patted his chest and lowered her hand again. Clearing her throat, she turned away. “Benjamin, hand me up, will you?” she asked, looking at the groom who held her horse.

“I’ll do it,” Ranulf grumbled, warning the servant away with a glance.

Unsteady inside and not entirely certain why, Ranulf slid his hands around her waist and lifted her. He’d had his hands on her before when he’d moved her out of his way and again last night for the waltz, but this felt more … intimate.

Charlotte placed her hands on his shoulders. “The saddle?” she said breathlessly.

Christ.
Attempting not to dump her over backward, he set her onto the sidesaddle. The way he felt abruptly singed—the way his gut reacted to touching her—it did feel almost like witchcraft. He stepped back, wiping his hands on his thighs. “There. All proper now, I hope?” he grumbled, and turned his back to swing onto Stirling. Beside him Rowena was grinning excitedly, up in the saddle of a pretty gray mare and no doubt pleased to be having her way once more. “And who put ye into the saddle?” he asked.

“I did, m’laird,” Debny said, before she could respond. “One o’ them Hanover grooms near tried it, but I knocked ’im back.”

“Oh, dear,” Charlotte muttered from Ranulf’s left, but he pretended not to hear. No one was bloodied, so as far as he was concerned it had all been handled amicably.

The sedate walk they settled into hardly seemed worthy to be called a ride. Admittedly the mid-morning crowd of vendors, carts, hacks, shoppers, and other people meandering about aimlessly as they were, made anything above a trot near lethal, but that hardly made it more tolerable. By the time they turned up Park Lane and the grand park came into view on the left, even the dogs had their tails tucked.