Page 11 of The Devil Wears Kilts
Her lips curved again in a smile. To himself he could admit that she had a pretty smile; if he’d favored tall, skinny English women who spoke when they shouldn’t, he would even say she had skin that looked as smooth as fine cream, and that up close her hair shone like silken sunshine.
“Are Janie and I under your protection, then?” she asked, amusement in her voice.
“Laugh if ye want, but aye. Ye’ve taken in a member of my family. That makes ye clan to me.”
“But we’re not Scottish.”
He tilted his head. “Nobody’s perfect.” Ranulf moved a breath closer to her. Her hair smelled of roses, he noted, ignoring the responding tug in his gut. “And I’d thank ye to keep in mind that what’s safe for Mayfair ladies might not be so fer a Highland lass.”
This time she looked full at him, spears of green lit by sunlight deep in her eyes. “It speaks well of you that you’re so protective of your sister,” she said after a moment, “but have you considered that she might not have tried to escape if your grip hadn’t been so tight?”
So this skinny, fair-haired woman thought she had him dissected and analyzed and stuck on a pin. “I’ll nae have a Sasannach woman telling me the right or wrong of what I’m doing,” he snapped. “Ye dunnae know me, or mine, or anything aboot me. And ye’ll nae advise me how to raise my own sister.”
Chapter Two
Charlotte stared at the Marquis of Glengask.Good heavens.She’d seen his lack of manners last night at being delayed in seeing his sister, but she had the sudden realization that she wouldn’t want to be there when he was truly enraged. His blue eyes practically crackled as he met her gaze, daring her to argue with him further.
Taking a breath, she inclined her head. “You’re absolutely correct, my lord. I don’t know you, and I have no right to criticize or advise you. What Idoknow is how I felt when I was Winnie’s age. She’s not a girl you can raise any longer. She’s a young lady with her own goals and dreams.”
“And still ye argue,” he muttered.
“You don’t mean to tell me that women in Scotland are mute, do you? You’ve had conversations with females before, surely.”
For a moment he walked beside her in silence, his massive wild-haired gray hounds keeping pace with him. Hellhounds, indeed. Undoubtedly he’d been called the devil, before. And this devil was an impressive specimen, indeed.
“Aye,” he said after a moment. “I’ve had conversations with females before. None who cared to risk a brawl, though. Lasses who know their place,” he finally said, something warmer touching his voice.
As if she would ever attempt to brawl with anyone. “Their place being in total agreement with everything you utter, I suppose? And for your information, an argument does not equate a wish to brawl,” she said stiffly, picking up her pace.
“Where I come from, it does. If ye question a man’s judgment in caring for his own, ye’re like to meet his fist. If ye’re a man to begin with, that is. I’d nae strike a woman.”
“What a relief,” she returned sarcastically. “A fight is the resort of those who can’t sensibly and logically defend their position with words. It’s for prideful braggarts and bullies who think only of themselves.”
“Words dunnae win battles, lass.”
Evidently he enjoyed an argument as well, whether he’d admit to it or not, since he persisted in countering everything she said. Goodness, he had no manners at all. “No, Lord Glengask. Words prevent battles—or brawls, or duels—from beginning in the first place.”
“Hm.”
She glanced up at him again. He could disagree with her, of course, even though his philosophy of battle before compromise was clearly wrong. But dismissing her—her argument—as insignificant, was not acceptable. “That’s your response?” she said aloud.
“My response is that I cannae argue the reasons I’m willing to fight. Nae to someone who’s never met a cause worth fighting for, lass. Ye’re English; I cannae expect ye to understand.”
That rather made her want to yell and stomp her feet, but luckily they arrived at the dress shop before she could conjure an appropriate retort. No wonder the Scots had such a reputation for savagery and barbarism. The men, at the least, were clearly lunatics.
Winnie went directly to the skeins of rich, jewel-colored fabric, which would never do for Almack’s. “A debutante must wear white,” Charlotte said, turning her back to the hot-blooded mountain and nodding as the dressmaker herself appeared from the back of the shop. “Mrs. Arven, we require an Almack’s gown for Lady Rowena here. Would you show her some appropriate material?”
“Oh, certainly, my lady. This way, Lady Rowena, Lady Jane,” Mrs. Arven replied, somehow managing to clap her hands together, curtsy, and walk all at the same time.
The massive dogs stood in the corner where the marquis had ordered them to go, their muzzles wrinkled as if they couldn’t puzzle out the scent of perfume and freshly laundered cloth. The two guards or grooms or whatever they were looked nearly as out of place in the small, feminine shop, and even more so when a chattering quartet of young ladies and a glowering mama crowded inside, as well. The Marquis of Glengask, barely dressed for polite company, wasn’t much better suited, and he was even more difficult to overlook.
“Lady Charlotte Hanover, isn’t it?” the mama said, pushing past her brood to walk closer and offer her hand.
Charlotte looked at her more closely, not easy to do considering the woman’s enormous green hat. “Lady Breckett,” she returned, putting on a smile. “And this must be Miss Florence.”
The round brunette with the freckled nose tore her gaze from Glengask and giggled. “I am. And these are my cousins, Elizabeth, Victoria, and Lucille Hunsacker.”
“Ladies.”
