Page 39 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“I know what you’re going to say,” she continued. “That Culloden was only the beginning of the most recent troubles, that the English tried to rob you of the right to wear kilts, to play the bagpipes, even to arm yourselves.”
“Very well,” he said, the list of wrongs beginning to make him lose his sense of humor. “Let’s say I did mention all that. I suppose ye have a point t’make aboot it?”
“Yes. You’ve gotten those rights back. And I know that most of the other clans have fallen, that for a great many of your peers bringing in the sheep was the only way to earn an income. And that they chose the sheep and the grazing land and their immediate families over the welfare and survival of their own clans.”
“That’s a very nice history lesson ye’ve provided me, lass, but I can tell ye it wasnae necessary. Ye read aboot it in yer books. I lived it. I still am living it.”
“I know that,” she snapped back, then blew out her breath. “I wanted you to know that I’m aware of the recent history of the Highlands.”
“Shall I give ye a prize, then?”
“Oh, be quiet.” Scowling, she lifted her finger away from him. “I need to pace. Come into the garden with me.”
“O’course. What sane man would refuse the offer to be privately yelled at in more detail?” With a grimace he turned to whistle for Fergus. “Peter, go discover what Rowena’s up to today, and keep an eye on ’er.”
“Aye, m’laird.”
Following Charlotte, his gaze drawn once more to her swaying hips beneath soft green and yellow sprigged muslin, Ranulf decided the mild English weather and the not-so-mild English beauty before him must have pushed him completely into madness. He simply couldn’t explain it, otherwise.
When she stopped, he nearly ran into her from behind. It wasn’t like him to be so unaware of his surroundings, but even mad enough to spit—unless she also considered that to be doing physical violence—she continued to distract him. “Sit down,” she said, pointing at the stone bench beneath a towering elm tree.
“I thought we were pacing.”
“I’mpacing. You’re listening.”
This was coming very close to being beyond his ability to tolerate, but he took a slow breath and dropped onto the bench. “Go on, then.”
True to her word, she walked to the row of roses and then back past him to a chest-high hedge. “Very well.” Finally she faced him again. “Youare the problem, my lord. Since you’ve come to London, have you actually run across any Englishman—any at all—who haven’t been kind and helpful to you?”
“I—”
“I’m not finished. Not everyone in Mayfair is my friend. I find some of these people… despicable and hateful and petty and small. My point being, they’re just people. So when you ride in and start calling everyone Sasannach”—and this time she pronounced it very carefully and correctly—“you’re doing them—and yourself—a disservice.”
“So if I’m hearing ye correctly,” he said slowly, using every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep his seat, “where we lay our heads doesnae matter to ye or to anyone else? A man’s a saint or a devil depending on his own preference, and I’ve made myself a devil?”
“No. Well, yes and no. Of course some people hate others for… where they lay their heads, as you said. But if you don’t stop being so suspicious and so angry at… everyone, you will be the cause of your own downfall.”
“Hm. Fascinating.” Slowly he stood. “Ye willnae mind, I assume, that while I consider yer wisdom I go collect my sister and remove her from this Sasannach household?”
She clenched her hands together. “Maddening,” she muttered. “Your sister doesn’t wish to speak to you. And last night she stated that she intends never to return to Scotland again.”
Ranulf blinked. “What?” he growled, ice piercing his heart.
“I won’t keep you from her, of course, but I suggest that you give her a day or two to remember how much she loves you and to forget what a spectacle you created last night.” She curtsied. “Good day, my lord.”
Ranulf turned on his heel and strode for the carriage drive. In his entire life, even when his father had been killed, even when Bear had been shot, he couldn’t remember feeling such… intolerable frustration. He wanted to shout at the sky, he wanted to grab Charlotte and shake her, he wanted to kiss her senseless and bury himself deep inside her until she cried out in pleasure.
At the edge of the garden he stopped and turned around. “Does this mean ye’ve done with me, lass?”
He watched as her shoulders rose and fell. “I suppose that’s up to you,” she said slowly, and went around the back of the house.
When he reached the drive he hoisted Fergus up onto the main seat of the phaeton himself. “Debny, stay aboot here for a time and make certain Rowena’s seen to. Have Peter inform Lord Hest that he’ll be staying on here. I doubt Hest will object.”
The groom looked puzzled. “Did someaught happen, m’laird?”
“Aye, someaught happened. But nothing to concern ye.”
By concentrating on breathing and nothing else, Ranulf made it back to Tall House without exploding. With Debny still out he unharnessed the team and went to saddle Stirling himself. Standing about and waiting would have been intolerable, anyway. Evidently sensing his mood, Fergus stayed by the stable door and watched in silence.
