Page 74 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“Nae. I wanted them gone, with no one able to weep over a tombstone or lay a thistle on a grave.” And awful as it had been, he would still have done it again.
She took another breath. “If you hadn’t killed them, what would have happened?”
“A clan war, most likely.”
“But that didn’t happen?”
“The MacLawrys figured the Gerdenses were involved in my father’s death. When the two brothers vanished, it made everyone a mite… uneasy. Up in the Highlands when the fog and the mist roll in, it’s easy to believe in witches and curses and the like. Folk began to say that justice had been done by some unknown hand. That was all I required. It was all anyone required.”
Ranulf sank back against a dresser. “I ken that ye would have brought in the local beadle and had the Gerdenses arrested and dragged before a magistrate. But it would have been an English judge, and English law, and the only one to hear a confession from the killers was old MacLawry’s eldest son, who might well have murdered the marquis himself to take the title. The Gerdenses would’ve gone free, and the accusations on both sides would have made things worse.”
He couldn’t know that for certain, of course, but he’d seen how legal claims, before and since, were handled in the Highlands. And justice generally had more to do with maintaining peace and keeping one family from standing too tall—especially a family that wanted naught to do with English rule. Independence, strength, and defiance were not encouraged. Ever.
“Why did you tell me this?”
Ranulf shrugged. “Firstly, ye asked me who George Gerdens-Dailey was, and that’s who he is. Secondly, if I hadnae told ye, nothing between us from here on would ever be completely honest.” He started to reach for her hand, then stopped himself. “I’ve never told a soul what I just told ye, Charlotte. Arran suspects I had a hand in the disappearances, and so does Myles, I’ll wager, but I’ve never admitted it to them. And I never will. None of what happened is Arran’s burden to bear, especially if he should inherit the title. It’s my burden.”
He looked at her intently, as if he expected her to pronounce sentence on him. Charlotte, though, stayed where she was. What was she supposed to say? How was she supposed to react? Ranulf MacLawry had just confessed to killing, murdering, two men. She should be more than shocked and unsettled. She should be appalled and sickened. She should flee the room and run straight to the Old Bailey to swear out a statement against him and have him arrested.
And she knew she would do no such thing. Not only because he’d trusted her in telling her any of this, but because in the deepest part of her heart, she couldn’t blame him for what he’d done. It was everything she’d railed against for the past four years, a man resorting to violence simply because it was the quickest, easiest way to solve a problem, to regain damaged male pride and erase embarrassment. Except that in this instance, in his shoes, she was fairly certain she would have done the same thing. Or she would very much have wanted to do so.
“What are ye thinking, Charlotte?” he asked.
An unbidden tear ran down her cheek, and she wiped it away. The things he’d been through, all while leading people who relied on him. She could scarcely imagine it.
Ranulf swore. “And now I’ve hurt ye for no damned good reason,” he growled. “Let me take ye back to yer sister. I’ll—”
“You asked me what I’m thinking,” she interrupted, ignoring a second tear. “Do you have any intention of letting me answer you?”
“I thought the tears answered it well enough.”
“Well, you’d be wrong.” She fought the stupid quavering of her voice. “What I think is that as a fifteen-year-old boy, you did what you had to do, and I’m so, so sorry that you’ve had to carry this burden all by yourself for so long. No one should have to do that.”
He stared at her. “Then…”
Clearly he wouldn’t believe her words alone. Charlotte stepped forward and tangled her fingers into his dark, lanky hair, pulling his face down to hers. “I said, I understand,” she whispered, and kissed him.
Ranulf lifted her into the air so that their faces were level. Tongues tangled until she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. They were at a grand ball, for heaven’s sake, with two hundred guests just beyond the flimsily latched doors of the dressing closet. Her sister and his uncle sat only feet away.
None of it mattered. All she wanted in the world was Ranulf. Everything else just faded away. What he’d told her—he no longer had to shoulder it by himself. Yes, his shoulders were broad, but she could be strong, too. For him, she could be.
He sat her down on the dressing table, pulling up her red skirt to step between her knees and continue kissing her. It wasn’t enough, though. Now that she knew what it was like to be with him, she craved him, constantly and badly. And they were not leaving this room until she’d had him.
“Touch me, Ran,” she murmured, taking his hands and placing them on her bared knees.
Shifting his kisses to her throat, he slowly and lightly ran his fingertips up her thighs, under the rumpled material of her skirt, until he curled his forefinger up inside her. She jumped, clenching her fingers into his hips and pressing against his hand. How something so… simple could feel so exquisite, she had no idea, but he made it so.
“Unbutton me,” he rumbled, taking her right hand in his free one and moving it to the front of his trousers.
She undid the top button of his trousers, panting as he teased at her again with his fingers.Oh, goodness.Charlotte moaned, hooking her hands into his waistband and pulling him closer.
“Christ, Charlotte.” Shoving her hands out of the way, he finished undoing his buttons and shoved his trousers down to his thighs. His impressive member sprang free, hard and jutting.
“What do you call this in Gaelic?” she asked, running her finger along the length of him.
“Ye want a lesson now?” he asked, his gaze on her fingers.
She curled around him, stroking gently. “Tell me.”
