Page 16 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“Aye. Fer a fortnight.” And not a damned moment longer. All around the floor young ladies in white twirled about in ecstatic happiness—after all, they were now part of London’s elite. They were women, and had just embarked on their one task in life, that of finding wealthy, titled husbands. English husbands with English estates, the same men who wished him gone from the Highlands so they could continue the task of turning Scotland into nothing more than grazing grounds for their fat Cheviot sheep.
The irony was they didn’t wish him in England, either. Not until he’d lost his brogue and put away his tartan except for quaint holidays when everyone could pretend to be barbarian Scots in order to ridicule the culture. And that was when they weren’t talking behind their hands to accuse every Highlander of being a damned Jacobite.
“You’re holding my hand rather tightly, my lord.”
He shook himself, immediately loosening his grip. “I apologize,” he said stiffly. “My mind was elsewhere.”
“Then I’m clearly not holding up my end as your dance partner.”
That made him smile. The bonny lass had spleen, that was damned certain. The shift of her body beneath his hand, her quick, sure steps that matched his—now she had him thinking back to the last time he’d bedded a woman. And thoughts like that would do him no good here. At all.
“I was thinking of Glengask, my lady,” he improvised by way of explanation. It was partly true, anyway.
“You truly love it there, don’t you?”
She didn’t sound cynical or skeptical, so Ranulf nodded. “Glengask is a wild, lovely land as like to bludgeon ye as to cradle ye.”
“I think you’ll find that London Society is much the same.”
“Ye know,” he said slowly, feeling her muscles tense beneath his hands as he drew her a breath closer, “fer a lass willing to lie to keep two men from coming to blows, ye don’t shy away from an argument, do ye?”
Just when Charlotte had decided she knew how Lord Glengask would react to a given comment, he surprised her. Much the way she kept surprising herself by edging the conversation into what she knew to be dangerous territory. But in her defense, it was all rather confusing. He was rather confusing. Glengask had told her to refrain from giving advice where it wasn’t wanted, then he’d given her leave to use his Christian name. And as much as he seemed to… look forward to walloping people, he danced quite well.
“I enjoy a good debate,” she said aloud. Abrasive and defensive or not, he did seem to appreciate honesty. As far as she was concerned, that spoke in his favor. As did the way he protected and indulged and clearly adored his sister. “I detest when men decide an argument needs to be decided with their fists or with weapons, especially when it’s over something as idiotic and utterly useless as their own pride.”
In a heartbeat he’d pulled her still closer to his large, hard body. “And ye think a man can engage in a good debate without risking a physical confrontation?”
“I do.”
Stating that to him might be overconfident of her; until three days ago she hadn’t known of his existence. And one of the few things she did know about him was that he seemed to regard physical violence with the same nonchalance her peers granted to hailing a hack.
If her family hadn’t agreed to sponsor Lady Rowena, Charlotte would have taken pains to stay well away from him, though she wasn’t certain she would have been able to refrain from looking. She’d had more than enough experience with men who thought themselves immortal, only to fall prey to their own stupidity. More than enough to last her a lifetime.
“Ye look quite sad, lass,” Lord Glengask murmured. “If I’ve caused ye distress, I apologize again. Ye’ve been nothing but kind to Rowena.”
Charlotte swallowed, meeting his direct gaze once more. “It’s nothing you’ve done, Lord Glen—”
“Ranulf,” he interrupted, his fingers shifting a little on her waist and making her aware all over again of the intimacy of their contact.
“Ranulf,” she repeated, liking the taste of his name on her lips. She wanted to say it again, to savor it. Just not here, and not now.
“Better,” he drawled in his deep brogue. “If it wasnae me who’s hurt ye, tell me who it is.”
“So you can do violence to the offender?” she returned, though it was far too late for such a thing, even if she’d been so inclined. “As I believe I’ve stated how little regard I have for walloping, I hope you realize I would never want such a thing.”
“Aye, butImight.”
He had a very sensuous mouth, she decided, and not just because of the soft, rollingr’s of his brogue. The serious downturn, the slight upward curve when he glanced over to see his sister twirling about the floor. It was devilishly attractive, really. “That’s gallant of you then, I suppose,” she said when she realized he expected a response, “but as I just condemned men who fight for something as stupid as their own pride, I’m not about to approve a man brawling on behalf of someone else’s. I decline your offer.”
Lord Glengask—Ranulf—looked as though he meant to disagree, but before he could say anything further, the music stopped. Charlotte, torn between gratitude and an unexpected… disappointment at the interruption, led the way to the edge of the dance floor where her parents waited. Winnie was already there with Viscount Swansley, both of them out of breath and laughing.
“Did you see me, Ran?” she asked, catching both of his sleeves in her fingers. “I’m a debutante now.”
“I did see ye,” her brother returned with a warm grin of his own. “Ye were practically glowing. Put the other lasses t’shame, ye did.”
A hand touched Charlotte’s shoulder, and she was so focused on the conversation going on in front of her that she jumped. “Yes?”
She turned quickly to see the top of a balding head bowing at her. The head straightened to reveal the round face and kind, hopeful eyes of Mr. Francis Henning, and she relaxed—as much as anyone could at Almack’s, anyway.
