Page 71 of The Devil Wears Kilts
It was all wrong, wrong, wrong. And even knowing that, she leaned closer to the window so she wouldn’t miss a word. Anything that could harm Ranulf needed to be stopped. At once.
“I’m not going toe-to-toe with him,” the second voice was saying.
“I already did. If I confront him again tonight, everyone will see me as the antagonist, and we’ll gain nothing.”
“I’ll do it,” the fourth voice drawled. “Havenae had MacLawry blood on my hands for a good three years, now. It’s an itch needs scratching.”
“Just keep in mind that you have to make him look like the aggressor, or it’s for nothing.”
“Ye don’t have to remind me of that, cousin.”
The music for the quadrille began, drowning out any remaining conversation. Very carefully Charlotte pulled the window closed, then sagged against the back of a chair. “Good heavens,” she whispered. “How did you know about this, Janie?”
Her sister had a hand to her chest and looked pale as moonlight. “I was leaving the dance floor and heard someone say they needed a quiet place to discuss Lord Glengask, and Lord Berling suggested the garden by the front wall.” She took a ragged breath. “My goodness. They were talking about hurting people. And worse than that.”
Charlotte straightened, sweeping forward to embrace her sister. “You were so brave,” she said feelingly.
“But what are we going to do?”
“We need to tell Ranulf.”
She had no idea what would come of it, and with the way her heart was pounding she felt just as likely to kiss him as to rail at him for… for being who he was. But he did need to know. At once.
“Come on,” she said, grabbing Janie’s hand and hurrying to the door. Every action had consequences, and she was about to set some very large actions into motion.
And yet.
And yet all she could think about was how safe and content and happy she’d felt in Ranulf’s arms. She couldn’t lose him. She wouldn’t lose him. Not on someone else’s terms. Not when she’d just discovered what she had.
Chapter Thirteen
“Where is she?” Ranulf demanded, grabbing a fistful of Arran’s lapel.
“I told ye, she and her sister ran off somewhere,” his brother grunted. Tellingly, though, he didn’t fight Ranulf’s grip. Evidently Arran had realized how very close to violence he was.
“And I told you to keep her close,” Ranulf returned, enunciating every word. In a crowd this big Charlotte could be anywhere, with anyone, and he couldn’t see any sign of Berling or his cronies, either. Yes, he was angry, but it wasn’t just that. He was worried. Extremely worried.
“Either pitch me off the balcony or let me help ye find her, then.” Arran lifted his hands in a placating gesture.
Exhaling with a growl, Ranulf released his brother. “I’ll look fer her,” he snapped. “Ye keep both yer eyes on Rowena, if ye can manage that.”
“Aye. I can. I will.”
The music for the quadrille began as he stalked back into the ballroom, Arran on his heels. People moved to the dance floor and others to neighboring sitting rooms or the card rooms or the refreshment tables—faces he didn’t know, blue bloods who served no purpose at the moment but to keep him from finding Charlotte.
Where the devil was she?He’d seen her dance card. He knew she’d agreed to dance the quadrille with the round man, Henning. Ranulf strode across the edge of the dance floor, unmindful of the stir he was causing. When he finally set eyes on Henning standing to one side and looking bewildered, his heart dropped. Charlotte wouldn’t leave a dance partner standing. It wasn’t polite.
He drew a deep breath to bellow her name, whatever the damned consequences—and then caught sight of her. Her sister in tow, she hurried into the ballroom through the hallway door.Thank God.Relief flooded through him, heady and welcome, and Ranulf moved forward. She was not going to dance with anyone until he’d touched her and made certain she was well.
A lean, dark figure stepped in front of him, blocking his view of Charlotte. Ranulf started around the man, only to find his path blocked again. “The Marquis of Glengask, as I live and breathe.”
With a scowl Ranulf wrenched his attention to the man now standing directly in front of him. Tall, though not as tall as himself, with reddish-brown hair that partly hid a faint scar running from just beneath his ear and down to the right side of his mouth. A tickle of familiarity pricked the hairs at the back of his neck, but he couldn’t quite place the face.
“Have we met?” he asked, still moving forward.
The fellow kept pace, backing up to remain in front of him. “Not directly.”
“Then ye’ll have to excuse me. I’m meeting someone.”
