Page 27 of The Devil Wears Kilts
Chapter Five
The tailor didn’t much like him, Ranulf decided, but then given the way the man kept trying to add padding to his shoulders, the feeling was mutual.
“But it’s the very height of fashion, Lord Glengask,” the thin fellow pleaded, wringing his hands.
“I dunnae care,” Ranulf returned. He already stood a good head above most other men; padding his shoulders would look absurd.
“Yes, clearly, given… that,” Mr. Smythe countered, gesturing at the half-finished coat Ranulf had commissioned.
“Just make it fit, Smythe. Withoot padding. I’ll send my man by at six o’clock.”
“Yes, very well. Just please don’t tell anyone you came to me.”
“Oh, I willnae. You neednae worry over that.”
He and Fergus left the tailor’s shop, and with a swift glance up and down the street, Ranulf swung up on Stirling and headed at a trot for Tall House. Charlotte said he should try to fit in. The lass might have more sense than most, and if she’d taken a moment she would have realized that he would never fit in. Not in Mayfair. And so he might as well be what he was.
Once she’d entered his thoughts again, she refused to leave. It was very like having her there in person, actually, stubborn and lovely and commanding his attention whatever he might prefer. If she’d mentioned at the beginning that she had a fiancé, he would have taken pains never to think of her as… well, as a woman, as a bonny lass to be kissed and stripped naked and bedded well and thoroughly. And often. But he did think of her that way—which was why he’d felt like someone had cut off his balls when suddenly shedidhave a fiancé. And now she didn’t again.
All of which meant he’d likely never have another decent night’s sleep. Because his wee, stubborn brain knew that taken by another man or not, Charlotte Hanover was not for him. He knew that four days of acquaintance shouldn’t have left him feeling this way.
A few Scottish lairds remained scattered across the Highlands, and of those, a number had unmarried daughters. He would wed one of them, because that was what the Marquis of Glengask should do. A Highland lass for a Highland life.
In fact, when he and Rowena returned to Glengask, he would make marriage his next task. Taking a breath, Ranulf climbed the stairs to his rented bedchamber. A single kiss, and his mind turned all to stew. Thank Saint Andrew the younger lasses had interrupted them when they had. Especially now that he’d foolishly agreed to let Rowena extend her stay.
He’d done it for his sister’s sake, of course, because she looked so very happy. But if he’d been thinking of himself, of how he might welcome more time to become acquainted with Charlotte Hanover, for example, well, what a fool that would have made him.
Ranulf shoved open his bedchamber door so hard it rattled the windows. In response a figure by his dressing table squeaked and whipped around like a startled mouse. So now Gerdens was sending vermin after him.
Christ.It served him right for being distracted. “Who the devil are ye?” Ranulf spat, pulling the knife from his boot and striding forward. With a feral growl Fergus crouched, circling in from the other side.
“Ginger! Ginger, my lord,” the wee man rasped, picking up a hairbrush and holding it before him like a shield as he backed into the corner.
“What damned sort of name is that fer a man?”
“What? Oh! Edward, my lord. Edward Ginger. I’m your valet! Don’t murder me, for God’s sake!”
Someone thundered up the hallway behind him. Moving swiftly, Ranulf put the tall wardrobe between himself and the doorway, while Fergus kept the Ginger fellow at bay. The end of a blunderbuss sped into the room, followed by a winded Peter Gilling. “M’laird, where be ye?”
“Here, Peter. Don’t bloody shoot me.”
The footman immediately lowered the skittish weapon and removed the flint. “God split me in two and throw me into the pit before I’d ever do such a thing, m’laird.”
That was a colorful image. Ranulf flicked the end of his dagger toward the corner. “Ye let him in here?”
“Aye, m’laird. I would’ve told ye, but I were in the privy when ye came in.”
Given the footman’s flapping breeches and untucked shirt he was telling the truth—or he was already at one of the new maids Ranulf had also approved for hiring. “All right, then. Fergus, off. Go put that thing away, Peter. Both things. And take Ginger with ye. He looks like he could use a whisky.”
“My lord,” the valet put in, his voice still quavering, “I do prefer to be called…”
Ranulf looked at him. The servant’s lifted forefinger curled slowly back into his palm again. “What’s that, Ginger?”
“Nothing, my lord.”
“Good. And next time ye surprise a body in this house, don’t move except t’show yer empty hands or ye might get skewered on principle.”
“Yes, my lord. I shall remember that, I’m certain.”
