Page 84 of The Devil Wears Kilts
Charlotte leaned closer over the map she’d found of the Highlands. Tracing out the latitude and longitude, she referred to the book of property holdings she’d liberated from her father’s office and marked out the approximate boundaries of Glengask. Even with the small scale of the map, Ranulf’s property was impressive and immense, dwarfing most English estates. It crossed the river Dee at two points, and was cluttered with vast, shallow valleys and craggy hills and gorges and windswept grass and farmlands.
For a long moment she sat looking at it, lost in imaginings of riding alongside the wild river and walking through high-walled canyons where trees found sanctuary from the cold and winds. And always beside her was Ranulf, showing her the beauty of the Highlands and making her love his land nearly as much as she loved him.
Blinking, she returned to the property book. She wasn’t there to measure the wealth of Glengask. Running her finger down the endless lists, she found the name Gerdens, and carefully marked out that property, then did the same with Campbell and Dailey and Calder.
Then she sat back. While Glengask was by far the largest estate—which made sense as the MacLawrys were the only ones to refuse to sell off any of their land—it was definitely surrounded by the others. From what she could tell he had a few allies at the fringes, like the MacTiers and the Orlins and the Lenoxes, but farther out in almost every direction lay someone who’d either threatened a MacLawry, or actually wounded or killed one.
“My goodness,” she breathed. Why hadn’t she realized it before? Ranulf wasn’t imagining enemies or puffing out his chest because he enjoyed being notorious or because he felt his pride was being dented. Now that she knew him better, knew how precious his family and his people were to him, she could see quite clearly that he had spent years making himself the largest, most frightening devil in the Highlands—a man no other man would dare to cross.
And she was telling him to be civilized, to settle his disputes with words. What would be more likely to stop one man from trying to kill another? A sternly worded warning, or the well-founded belief that if a fellow acted, he would be the next one put beneath the sod? These men had grown up in the wildest, most dangerous place in the kingdom. Even if some of them now lived in more civilized places, their ancestors, fathers, grandfathers, had passed down the traditions of hatred for fellow clans and fear of change. And most definitely they all feared a man who refused to bow to anyone—up to and including the current Prince Regent.
He’d already refused to react thrice when he’d been challenged—by Berling, Gerdens-Dailey, and once by Calder. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t convince herself that Clan MacLawry had been made safer by his actions. Or rather, his lack of action.
And he’d done it for her, because she was enlightened—or squeamish, or had once been hurt because a man had more pride than brains and she’d then decided that any show of force or violence was useless and barbaric. But she didn’t live in the Highlands, and she’d never been pressed by her fellows to alter who she was or how she chose to live.
She’d lost James to a senseless, stupid, utterly avoidable act of violence that he’d brought upon himself. He’d never had much of a sense of humor—at least not about his own foibles. Even five years after his death, she remembered the red-blotchy flush of his cheeks, the way he’d practically dared anyone to laugh at him for something as… innocent as tripping. And then someonehadlaughed, and nothing would serve but that he reclaim his honor and his pride by walking forty paces and shooting a pistol.
Ranulf MacLawry was not James Appleton. She doubted the two would have tolerated each other, much less have been capable of being friends. But where James had been obsessively self-concerned and frivolous, Ranulf seemed to be anything but that. And whatever else he might be, Ranulf was not foolish.
Charlotte stood up from the library’s table and walked to the window. One man had died senselessly, and by her advising a second, even more extraordinary man to be… civilized, she might well be dooming him to the same fate. And that—and that would be more than she could bear.
Arran had said that Ranulf was going to have luncheon at White’s today. He’d also muttered something about his brother going mad and deciding he needed Sasannach friends, but all she’d heard was that he was attempting to be civilized.
Now, though, she abruptly wasn’t so certain that was a wise idea. He’d led his clan for better than fifteen years now, and had found ways to provide his people with improved education, better houses, higher income, and an ongoing independence from England and the pressures from their neighbors to break the clan apart.
She clenched her fingers into the windowsill. More than anything else right now she wanted to see him, to apologize for trying to force him to follow her philosophy when she hadn’t understood his. And she wanted to kiss him, and to feel his warm, solid body against hers.
He lived a dangerous life. And even knowing that, she could not imagine anywhere she’d rather be than at his side. If she hadn’t destroyed him. She left the window and walked out of the library. “Winnie?” she called.
A footman stepped out of the dining room. “I believe you’ll find Lady Rowena in your sister’s bedchamber, my lady,” he said.
“Thank you, Thomas.”
She found Janie and Winnie lying on their stomachs across the bed, both of them perusing the newAckermann’s Repositoryand giggling. They looked so young, so carefree, so naïve—it was nearly impossible to believe that once, not so long ago, she’d been the exact same way. And for far longer than she cared to acknowledge.
Her sister looked up. “Char, can you see me in one of these bonnets?”
Charlotte walked forward, tilting her head to look. “I think it’s a monstrosity,” she returned, putting on a smile. “Good heavens.”
Both girls laughed. “I told you she would hate it,” Winnie exclaimed, the slight brogue she couldn’t quite disguise making her even more charming than she likely realized.
“Winnie, I wondered if you’d like to visit your brothers at Gilden House,” Charlotte said quickly, wishing she could just grab Rowena by the hand and drag her out the door. “I’d be happy to escort you.”
“She just saw Arran,” Janie returned, wrinkling her nose. “And Lord Glengask was in such a foul mood last night.”
Rowena, though, slid off the bed. “I was just thinking there was something I forgot to tell Arran.”
“Do you want me to come?” Jane didn’t sound even a little enthusiastic, and Charlotte had to smile at her sister.
“Oh, no,” Winnie said, taking Charlotte’s arm and pulling her to the door. “We won’t be long. Thank you for going with me, Charlotte. I think Mitchell’s still worried that Ran will sack her for helping me flee Glengask, and she’s trying to stay out of sight until he forgets.” She clucked her tongue, and a large gray dog squirmed out from beneath the bed. “Come along, Una. You can visit Fergus. I know you miss him.”
Charlotte asked for the coach to be brought around, and in ten minutes they were on their way to Gilden House. She had no idea how she would say it, but she knew she needed to apologize, and to tell Ranulf that he needed to stop listening to her when it came to managing his fellow Highlanders—and quickly, before something terrible and irreversible happened.
“You like him, don’t you?”
She jumped, looking across at Winnie. “Beg pardon?”
“Ran. I told him that if he would just stop bellowing and ordering people about, you would see that he wasn’t a complete devil.”
