Page 13 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“Twenty-five. I had my birthday this spring.” And she knew what was coming next. Why was she still unmarried? What foolish thing had she done to make herself unmarriageable? She’d heard them all by now, after all. The only real question was how she wished to answer. And how she felt having this large, volatile Scotsman asking her such an intimate thing.
“Were ye in London, then, the year Donald Campbell came down and made all that ruckus?”
“The…” Charlotte stifled a frown. It took her a moment to even recall what he was talking about, it was so far removed from the conversation she’d thought they were about to have. “That was actually the year before my debut,” she said slowly, remembering, “but we were in London for the Season. Mr. Campbell was pursuing some woman, as I recall. He wouldn’t leave her alone, and her brother shot him.”
“So that’s the story.”
By now they’d reached the end of Bond Street, and he turned them right along Picadilly and then south on Queen’s Walk, heading away from Mayfair. Green Park lay to their right, but once they passed that, she would have very little idea where they were. And of course he was likely lost already. But the conversation was quite interesting. “That’s not the true story, then?”
“Nae. Campbell came down after Jenny Baxter. The Campbells and the MacMillans—that’s the Baxter clan—have had a feud going on fer a hundred years or more, now. Her brother Thomas caught wind of the courtship and shot Donald dead on ’is own front step. Then he hauled his sister back to Scotland and married her off to a cattle drover afore the end of the month. A year later someone shot Thomas Baxter in the head while he was out fishing. Rumor has it, it was Donald Campbell’s uncle.”
“That’s terrible!” she exclaimed.
“That’s the Highlands. The order of faith there is clan, country, and God.”
Charlotte looked up at him again. “You’re the chief of your clan.”
“Aye.”
“How many people are in Clan MacLawry, then?”
He shrugged. “All the MacLawrys, the Laurences, MacTiers, Lenoxes, Tyrells, and all the families under them. These days it’s more aboot land and coin, but when we measure it by true strength, near three thousand fighting men.”
“That’s… that’s an army.”
“Aye.” The smile on his sensuous mouth was grim and cynical. “Nae someaught the other clans can manage any longer, with the lairds clearing out their cotters to make room for grazing sheep. And nae someaught the Crown likes, with us sitting on their shoulder, as we do.”
They stopped beneath an oak tree at the far end of Green Park, and the dogs flopped to the ground, tongues lolling. Just how far had they wandered from Mrs. Arven’s dress shop? “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I’ve given Rowena into yer household,” he returned quietly, his gaze studying hers. There was more to him than arrogance and brute strength, she realized abruptly, wondering why she hadn’t noticed it before. Behind his brogue and his bold words she glimpsed a keen, measured intelligence, a thoughtfulness she would never have expected on first—or second—meeting.
“Yes?” she prompted, even more curious now about the point he was obviously attempting to make.
“I want ye to understand why I have guards watching over her, and why ye and yer family need t’keep a careful eye on her. She’s accustomed to feeling safe, and doesnae consider that she’sbeensafe because she has three brothers and a great part of her clan keeping her that way.”
“Is it truly that dangerous for her to be here?” And for him to be here, for that matter, but she didn’t ask that aloud. With every ounce of her being she wanted to look around the quiet edge of the park for danger, though she had no idea what to look for.
“It could be. I ken ye didnae expect this trouble. If ye no longer wish the responsibility of having her in yer household, I’ll collect her today. I doubt an English family wants to be this close to clan troubles. And with yer distaste of punching, ye especially.”
That was an insult, of course, but she thought she understood the reason for it. This man standing before her, gazing at her, close enough to touch, was the nearest thing to a king that could be found in Scotland these days. He had enemies. Scottish—Highland—enemies who shot each other on the front steps of their own houses. Stupid, avoidable, prideful violence, more than likely over something no one remembered any longer.
“I should discuss this with my father,” she said evenly, “but I imagine he’ll only say what I’m about to.”
“And what might that be?”
“None of this… mess would seem to be Winnie’s doing. She wants only to enjoy a fortnight in Mayfair. I believe we can manage that for her.”
After a long moment he nodded. “Good. Though I’ll still be keeping a close eye on ye.”
Charlotte lifted an eyebrow, attempting to ignore the way her heartbeat accelerated at his words. “On me, or on Winnie?”
Glengask leaned in, his gaze on her face intent and unreadable. “Aye.”
Her heart fluttered again, a low shiver beneath her skin both warm and unexpected. Why, she had no idea; she couldn’t fall for his charms, because he had none. Or none that she cared to recall. And he wasnotthe sort of man who interested her in the first place.
Before she could tell herself that she hoped he wouldn’t… kiss her or something, he straightened again. A glint of humor warmed the blue of his eyes as he held out his arm. “I think we’d best make our way back to the dress shop, before anything uncivilized happens.”
With a sigh she couldn’t quite hide, Charlotte took his sleeve again. He still seemed determined to antagonize her, but somewhere this morning she’d stopped finding it quite as annoying as she had at the beginning of their conversation. Of course she’d known him for less than a day. At least she could be assured that he hadn’t gone out of his way to be other than what he was. She doubted he could dissemble if he wished to, and that, at least, was… refreshing.
