Page 23 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“Ah,” he broke in again, his voice warming. “Good, then.” She heard him take a breath. “What were ye thinking, galloping off like that?”
“I was thinking about James Appleton, if you must know,” she burst out, turning Sixpence away from him and setting off again at a much more sedate pace.
“And who is James Appleton?” he demanded.
She kept her gaze between Sixpence’s ears. “My fiancé.”
Chapter Four
Fiancé.
Ranulf stared at Charlotte’s deliberate profile. It made no sense. Neither did the angry, sick feeling in his gut, as if he’d just missed the last boat leaving a sinking ship, but he preferred to consider her statement itself rather than how… surprised it left him feeling. Because it must be surprise roiling through him. Nothing else made sense.
“So where is this bonny James Appleton, then?” he forced himself to ask.
Her hazel eyes flicked in his direction, then away again. “I beg your pardon?” she asked faintly, an unexpected affront in her tone.
He had no idea what had raisedherhackles; he was the one who’d just had a fiancé flung at him. Not that it affected anything but his curiosity, of course. Even if he might for a moment consider her attractive, even if he might for a moment have imagined her naked in his arms, she remained the one thing that could never be a part of his Highland life—an Englishwoman.
“Ye heard me,” he pressed anyway. “Who is this fine fellow who couldnae be bothered to join ye at Almack’s, or fer a pleasant ride on a fair morning in Hyde Park?” He shifted in the saddle, wanted to grab her arm, to make her look at him, but restrained himself. It was still merely curiosity, after all. “Ye ken what I think?” he continued when she didn’t respond.
“I’m certain I haven’t the slightest interest in what you think, my lord.”
Somehow he’d gone back to being “my lord” again, a sure sign that he’d stumbled across something that made her uncomfortable. A true gentleman would likely stop pursuit of the topic, but everyone in London knew he was no true gentleman. Instead he edged Stirling closer. “Well, I’ll tell ye, anyway,” he pushed, keeping his tone low enough that the throng around them couldn’t overhear. “I think there’s nae such man as James Appleton.”
This time she turned her head to face him fully. Her fair cheeks went white.“What?”
“That’s it then, aye?” he went on, his gaze lowering to her soft mouth almost in spite of himself. “Ye cannae abide a devil like me giving ye a kiss, so ye conjure an imaginary beau fer yerself instead of telling me to my face that ye want naught to do with a Highlander. It’s a cowardly English lie, Lady Charlotte, and I’m sorry t’admit that I thought better of ye.”
For a long moment she stared at him, her entire body shaking. If she meant to faint he would have to catch her, he supposed, but that would be the end of it. No more touching her, no more thinking about her. He was the damned chief of Clan MacLawry. And he had better things to do than waste a moment daydreaming about a lass who wanted naught to do with him. For Christ’s and Saint Andrew’s sake, women fought among themselves for a night in his bed. This was ridiculous.
Her hands clenched around the reins, and for a heartbeat or two he thought she meant to slap him.Ha.That would put a nail into her coffin of abhorring physical confrontation—though that had all likely been a lie, as well, something meant to keep him at a distance.
Then she reached up and with trembling fingers unfastened the small oval locket from around her neck. She held her arm out, the locket dangling from her fingers. “Take it,” she bit out.
Kneeing Stirling closer, he took it from her fingers. “I didnae give it to ye, lass.”
“I know that. Open it. The little fastening on the side.”
Reining in the bay, he did as she ordered. The thing was old and absurdly delicate, but with a bit of effort he managed to get it open without breaking it. On the inside of the lid he made out the inscription “Forever in My Heart.” The opposite side held a wee portrait, a young man with light hair and rosy cheeks, a high cravat covering what looked like a soft chin, and soulful green eyes that gazed out at nothing.
“That, Lord Glengask, is James Appleton.” She’d stopped close beside him, he realized, her voice quiet and controlled. “The reason he didn’t join us at Almack’s, and the reason he isn’t here riding with us today, is because three years ago he tripped on a dance floor and fell into a potted plant. And then he decided to challenge the first man who laughed at him—and there were several—to a duel. He was killed the next morning. Because of a waxed floor and a potted plant, and because he was embarrassed.” She held her hand out to him again, palm up. “Now return him to me, if you please.”
“The…” Trailing off, he handed her locket back to her. This time he’d put his foot in it, all the way up to his thigh. No wonder she loathed prideful violence. “Lass, I—”
“No. You kissed me, and I thought of James. He reminds me not to fall for the charms of hotheaded, thin-skinned brawlers ever again. I did not lie to you, sir, and I am not a coward. You, however, are a savage and a devil. And I am finished talking to you.” With that she clucked to her horse, and the chestnut mare trotted over to where her sister and Rowena giggled about something or other.
A savage and a devil. Well, he’d been called worse, and with less cause—which was likely why Charlotte Hanover’s words stung. He deserved them. However much an idiot her fiancé might have been, Ranulf had jumped to a damned conclusion—a wrong one—and she’d called him on it. Almost no one had ever done that to him before. The lass owned a bloody ocean of courage to stand up to him, and that was damned certain. And those things she’d been saying about how words could bite as deeply as a sword felt abruptly and painfully true. She’d cut him deeply, no doubt about that.
Now he needed to apologize. It wasn’t something he did often or well, but by God he was man enough to own up to a mistake when he made one. He turned Stirling—and Fergus gave a low growl to his left.
At the same time the hair on the back of Ranulf’s neck pricked. That wasn’t a growl for showing off. One hand sliding toward the pistol in his pocket, he shifted a little to look in the direction both dogs were now staring, bodies low and tails stiff and parallel to the ground—awaiting his order to charge.
A trio of riders stood to one side of the path, all three of them gazing at him. None of them had weapons aimed at Rowena or him. Good. Then he might not have to kill any of them today.
Out of the corner of his eye he noted Owen and Debny cutting a path through annoyed park visitors, closing in on where Rowena and the two Hanover lasses were now enjoying a lemon ice. They knew their duty. Above all else they—Rowena—needed to be protected. Likewise a lass with sunshine hair who’d lost her love to his own pride was not to be put in danger because of another man’s. The strength of that particular thought surprised him, but just as swiftly he put it aside for later contemplation.
Turning his attention back to the motionless trio twenty feet away across the path, he deliberately took a moment to assess each of them in turn. The man to the right possessed so many overly large muscles he likely didn’t have much space left for thinking. He would be the enforcer, then. By contrast, the man seated to the left was sleek as an otter, garbed all in black and his eyes shadowed by the black beaver hat on his head. The adviser, who would try for a knife to the back rather than a punch to the face. By far the more dangerous of the two. Which left the man in the middle.
