Page 38 of The Devil Wears Kilts
As he left his bedchamber with Fergus at his side, Owen met him at the top of the stairs. “Ye have letters from Lord Arran and Bear, both, m’laird,” he said, holding them out. “I hope all’s well at Glengask.”
“As do I,” Ranulf returned, taking both missives. “How are we for calling cards today?”
“Nary a one.” The footman narrowed his eyes as he gestured at Ranulf’s cheek. “I’m thinking yer sudden unpopularity has t’do with that.”
“Aye, I reckon it does. Let me see to my correspondence, and have that phaeton brought ’round before noon.” He paused halfway to his rented office. “And if ye catch scent of anything interesting, let me know.”
“Could ye define ‘interesting,’ m’laird?”
“Men storming the house with muskets and torches would be interesting.”
“Oh, aye, I’ll keep an eye out fer that, then.”
With a half grin Ranulf settled into his chair and opened Bear’s letter first. In Munro’s usual straightforward, good-humored words he read that half the clan had been wandering by Glengask, asking if anything was amiss and offering one and all to ride—or walk—down to London to help him fetch Rowena back. And Lachlan had offered again to make the journey, which might or might not be significant, but was at least interesting.
Arran’s letter was, as he expected, more detailed, with the latest information about the weather and the growing herds of Highland cattle they’d been breeding, and a summary of the last month’s expenses from the schools matched up against the profits of the new pottery manufacture. So far his experiment to prove that a clan working together could not only sustain itself but profit seemed to be showing itself sound. And the fact that the Colonies were filled with outcast Highlanders who hated Cheviot sheep and all they represented but longed for good Highland cattle and Highland tartans and pipes and plates and bowls could only continue to aid them.
Both of his brothers also offered again to come south, as they had with every letter they sent. He set them both aside to answer later; he wasn’t nearly foolish enough to arrive late to call on Charlotte. He’d said noon, and by God he would be there by noon.
“No torches or muskets,” Owen reported from his post by the front door as Ranulf strolled into the foyer.
“That’s something, then.”
“And don’t ye worry, m’laird. I’ll put the boot to any Gerdens or Campbell as dares to show his face at yer doorstep.”
Ranulf smiled. “I expect no less.”
“Aye. And do give Lady Winnie our love, m’laird.” Owen sighed. “I miss hearing her bonny laugh.”
So did he. Settling for a nod, Ranulf walked out to the drive. Together he and Debny lifted Fergus onto the back perch of the phaeton where the liveried tiger was generally supposed to sit, and then he climbed into the high seat and sent the fine pair of bays into a trot. With both Debny and Peter riding alongside and his great horse of a hound perched behind him, he wasn’t a sight easily missed. It was likely too early for Berling to come back at him with anything, but he meant to keep an eye out, regardless. His father would be the last MacLawry who was ever caught unaware.
Charlotte stood on the shallow granite steps of Hanover House when he turned up the short, semicircular drive. He didn’t know if her being out there boded good or ill, but he couldn’t deny the… satisfaction he felt deep in his chest at seeing her. All wrong for him she might be, but his heart sped at the mere sight of her, regardless. No, she wasn’t fit for the Highlands. But he wasn’t in the Highlands at the moment, and he was a damned red-blooded man who enjoyed women. And she looked very fine.
“I wasn’t certain ye’d let me near the house,” he said, waiting for Debny to take charge of the horses before he hopped down from the seat, “much less wait out of doors fer me.”
“It was a close decision,” she returned. “And I’m not going trotting about London with you in a high-perch phaeton so that everyone thinks either that last night was about me, or that what you did is in any way acceptable behavior.”
Now that was closer to the reaction he’d expected. “What makes ye think last night’s tussle wasnae about ye?” As he spoke, he closed the distance between them, his body reminding him that a kiss would stop her mouth.
“I did, at the beginning. And then your uncle pointed out how effectively you’d cleared the room of your enemies.”
Uncle Myles, helping again. Ranulf stashed that bit of information away for later contemplation. “That’s only because cowards cling together.” He stopped on the bottommost step so that they were eye-to-eye. “Shall I point out some things to ye, then?”
She shook her head. “No. Now it’s my turn to point out some things to you, Ranulf.”
Folding his arms across his chest, he nodded. “Enlighten me aboot my spurious Scottish ways, then.”
“Aha!” Charlotte jabbed a finger into his chest. “Thatis your problem.”
He cocked his head. “What, that I’m Scottish? Ye and yer Sasannach friends are the ones named us devils. I am—”
“Stop it,” she cut in, the fact that she’d interrupted at all surprising him into silence.
Banter was one thing. But now she thought to stop him from talking? “What, then?”
“I looked some things up. The Battle of Culloden was seventy-three years ago. I daresay that most—if not every—man who fought there, English or Scottish, is long dead.”
She kept tapping her finger into his chest as she spoke, though he wasn’t certain whether it was because she was making a point or because she wanted to touch him. He preferred the latter explanation, and kept silent for that reason.
