Page 34 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“That. Oh. Aye. I’m a nice man.”
She snorted, covering the sound with a polite cough. “We’ve a few minutes before the waltz, and I am desperately in need of some fresh air. Will you accompany me out to the balcony?”
“I cannae leave Rowena with no one to watch over her,” he returned, the sharp pang of regret he felt at having to say the words startling him a little.
“She’s talking to your uncle. And I happen to know that the man who’ll be claiming her for the waltz is Robert Jenner, a very nice young man whose uncle is in the prime minister’s cabinet.”
“Ye have it all figured oot, then,” Ranulf commented, sending a last glance in Rowena’s direction before he allowed Charlotte to guide him toward the tall windows on the far side of the room. He’d have been easier standing directly beside—or in front of—his sister and demanding the credentials of every man who approached her, but she would never forgive that. Given Myles’s familiarity with his fellows, she was likely better off in her uncle’s company, anyway.
Either that, or he was grasping for reasons he could go walking thirty feet away with Charlotte Hanover. He would have either of his brother’s heads if they went off and left Rowena as he was doing, but he kept walking. The lass could lead him over a cliff and he’d likely follow. Given what he was and what she was, the fall over the cliff seemed highly probable, anyway. Ranulf lowered his gaze to her swaying hips and remained on her heels.
A handful of people stood out on the wide balcony, while another dozen or so wandered the gardens below. The air smelled like rain and horseshit, which was still more pleasant than the heavy, hanging aroma of dozens of French perfumes mingling inside.
“I am not trying to bewitch you,” Charlotte said into the relative quiet.
He grinned at the annoyed, matter-of-fact tone. “I ken that. If ye were, ye’d be nicer to me.”
Her hazel eyes, darker now in the torchlight, narrowed. “Why is it that when I’m trying to be pleasant and helpful you argue with me, and when I’m telling you not to be ridiculous, you’re amused?”
“I’m a conundrum.”
She scowled. “Oh, never mind, then.”
Ranulf put a hand on her shoulder before she could turn her back on him. “Ye’re a puzzle to me as well, ye know,” he said, keeping his voice low.
“Am I?” she returned, her smile a bit forced and brittle to his eyes. “It isn’t intentional.”
He moved in closer to her, taking his hand from her shoulder only to run a finger down her gloved arm to her wrist. Beneath his touch he felt her shiver, and he hoped it was from him rather than the cool evening. “And why is that?” he asked. “Why do ye dance only with old family friends and fools?”
She held very still, her gaze set on the stone railing by her elbow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, or what you’re implying. I’m not doing anything improper. And I’ve danced with you.”
“Aye, I’m the exception, likely because I bullied ye into it,” he conceded. “And of course ye’ve nae done a damned improper thing. Nor have ye ever, most likely. So why aren’t all the young bucks chasing after ye with their tongues hanging oot?”
“Well, that’s a fine image.” Her shoulders lowered a fraction. “They don’t chase after me because I’m five-and-twenty. Because I had a Season and found a beau, and then I spent a year in mourning.”
“Ye’re dead then, are ye?” Over her head he noted the last of the guests leaving the balcony as the orchestra inside began playing a few sour notes in preparation for the waltz.
Charlotte faced him straight on, what might have been a rueful smile briefly touching her mouth. She didn’t feel sorry for herself; he had to grant her that. “No, I’m not dead, sir, but I am firmly on the shelf. This is my sister’s Season. I am not going to compete with her for the attention of some young man looking to be struck by Cupid’s ar—”
Ranulf kissed her.Firmly on the shelf, my arse,he thought, the heat of her sinking into him. He nibbled at her lower lip, tasting Madeira and desire. When her arms swept around his shoulders, he placed his hands around her waist and lifted, sitting her on the wide stone railing.
Once their mouths met, his mind stopped yelling at him to leave her be, to walk away. He knew what entangling himself with a proper English lass could mean, but his body refused to go beyond knowing that he wanted her. Badly.
Her soft moan that made him hard; perhaps wearing a kilt hadn’t been the wisest decision tonight, though not for any reason of fashion. His grip on her waist firmed, but then her mouth stilled. Abruptly she shoved against his chest. Covering his annoyance at being denied, Ranulf lifted his head a fraction, their lips parting.
“Stop that,” she ordered, her voice breathless and unsteady.
“I already did.” With slow regret he shifted to set her feet back on the ground again. “Seems t’me ye have the wrong of it,” he drawled, wanting another glass of whisky to wash the intoxicating taste of her from his mouth.
“The wrong of what?” Charlotte demanded, brushing a hand down her skirt even though her insides felt far more disheveled than her outside must have looked.Good heavens.
“Ye’re nae dead, or put away on a shelf. Not even nearly so.” He took her chin in his fingers, lifting her face up so she had to meet his gaze. “I think ye want me, lass,” he continued in a soft murmur.
She frowned, attempting an air of defiance when what she truly wanted was for him to kiss her again. “Yes, I believe I’ve mentioned that I have a penchant for mannerless, forward barbarian devils. I gave you no leave to kiss me.”
His smile nearly turned her insides molten. “Next time ye will.”
“You overestimate your charms, Ranulf MacLawry.”
