Page 90 of The Devil Wears Kilts
Looking over his sister’s head, Ranulf gave her a slow, delicious smile that warmed her to her toes. Then he took his sister’s hand, offered her his arm, and turned back for the house. “Owen. Put that damned blunderbuss away, will ye?”
“What the devil happened?” the footman demanded, lowering his weapon.
“I’d like to know that, too, Ranulf,” Arran commented. “Where are ye to meet that man? If it’s a duel, I’ll tie ye to a damned chair.”
“It’s nae a duel,” Ranulf retorted, tightening his arm to bring Charlotte closer against his side. “I told him that I’d show him where his father’s buried.”
“Ran,” Charlotte whispered.
He shrugged. “It’s time fer it,leannan.All the wrong George Gerdens-Dailey did us is because the old Lord Berling told him ’twas the Campbells killed my father, and that the MacLawrys went after the Gerdenses fer the hell of it.” Deep blue eyes met hers. “Peace, all done with a few words. Imagine that.”
She grinned. “And after I told you that bashing was acceptable.”
“I will keep that in mind, lass.”
Chapter Seventeen
Owen looked Ranulf up and down as he descended the stairs to the foyer. “I thought ye just settled things down. Are ye certain ye want to stir them up again?”
Adjusting his silver-plated sporran edged in rabbit fur, Ranulf lifted an eyebrow. “Ginger nearly fainted,” he commented. “But as I happen to be a Scot, I mean to dress like one.”
“And I cannae have my brother making me look like a Sasannach fop,” Arran took up from the landing. Like Ranulf, he’d donned a dark jacket, though Arran’s was gray rather than his brother’s black. And both men had donned kilts bearing the MacLawry tartan of black and gray and red.
“Ye bring a tear to my old eyes,” Owen stated. “Right proper Highland princes, ye are.”
“Don’t let the English hear ye saying that, or we’re likely to begin another war,” Ranulf noted dryly.
Tonight he felt… exhilarated, as if a weight he’d been carrying for a decade had been lifted. It had, in a sense; they weren’t friendly, by any means, but at least Gerdens-Dailey had agreed that they were even. A death for a death. Horrific, perhaps, but it was what their kind was accustomed to. And unless Berling could somehow convince his cousin that it had indeed been the Campbells who’d murdered Seann Monadh, the Gerdenses would keep their distance.
With the Gerdenses’ influence, the Campbells might, as well. At the least the old Campbell had been surprisingly… uninterested in stirring up old rivalries. As Charles Calder had said, though, the Campbell and Robert MacLawry had once been friends. That left the Daileys, but he much preferred the idea of facing one problem rather than three.
“Ye’re smiling, ye know,” Arran pointed out as they climbed into the coach. “I do hope ye’re aware that neither of us was invited to the grand dinner at the Lansfields’ tonight.”
“Aye, but wewereinvited to the dance afterward. I’ll consider that progress.”
“So we’re still trying to be civilized and make the Sasannach like us? We’re the pet monkeys?”
Ranulf frowned. “I broke Berling’s nose at the first grand ball of the Season. I nearly choked Gerdens-Dailey at the second. So when I’m invited to the third, I consider it progress.”
His brother grimaced. “Well, when ye put it that way.”
“That’s how I choose to put it.”
When Arran kept gazing at him, Ranulf settled in to look out the window at the dark London streets. Was it dangerous that for the first time in years he felt… optimistic about the future? That he thought he could be the gentleman he’d promised Charlotte he would be?
“Charlotte Hanover,” Arran said into the silence.
“Aye? What aboot her?”
“Are ye going to marry her?”
“I’m thinking I will.” He turned to face Arran again. “Why? Do ye have an objection?”
His brother shrugged. “She’s a proper Englishwoman who a very short time ago thought ye were a savage and a devil, if I recall. Are ye not that man any longer?”
Ranulf settled deeper into the corner. “Maybe it’s that she’s not quite as stiff as ye think,” he returned.
“I hope ye’re—”
