Page 46 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“What’s Hogmanay?” Janie asked.
“Ah. The end of the year. New Year’s Eve.” He smiled. “And ye must at least try some haggis, prepared in the style of the Highlands.”
“What’s the style of the Highlands?” Jane whispered, leaning over to tug on Rowena’s arm.
Rowena grinned. “Boiled lungs of a sheep or cow or deer, diced and minced and served with oatmeal and other vegetables and spices.”
Her uncle, Myles, took a sip of wine. “You might consider filling up on the venison,” he said, sotto voce. “I’ve learned to tolerate haggis, but I wouldn’t say I like it.”
“Bear used to say it would put hair on my chest,” Winnie continued, chuckling. “Then I would cry when they made me eat it, until Uncle Myles boxed his ears.” She sat forward to look toward the head of the table. “Do you have a proper Highlands cook then, Ran?”
“Nae. Mrs. Flost is definitely nae Scottish. But Peter and Owen and I’ve been showing her how to make the venison and haggis.”
“Oh, dear,” Jane whispered.
The venison actually turned out to be delicious, and the group surprisingly merry. Ranulf explained how the celebration of Hogmanay involved the entire community, with farmers bringing in the choicest of their stores, and the laird of the clan hosting a night—or two nights, more likely—of dancing and singing and drinking and eating.
The way he spoke of it, with helpful interruptions from both Winnie and Lord Swansley, painted such a vivid portrait that she could almost see the dancers in the firelight, and see the young ones running about and trying to empty out the mugs of ale before their parents could spy them out.
“M’laird,” Owen announced as two footmen appeared carrying platters, “we have brought the haggis.” He frowned. “If ye’d allowed me to hire a piper, I could’ve announced it more properly.”
“I think ye did fine, Owen,” Winnie said, her accent deepening as she worked her way through a third glass of wine. “Finer than any piper.”
“I thank ye, Lady Winnie,” the footman said, blushing.
Charlotte studied the dish placed in front of her. It did look grainy, with bits of onion and liver, and what must have been the diced organs. The smell was quite pleasant, anyway.
“Take a bite, lass,” Ranulf urged with a grin. “It willnae kill ye.”
She giggled, a clear indication that she’d also had too much to drink this evening. That seemed to be part of the Scottish tradition, though, so she supposed she was only being friendly. Taking a breath, she scooped a large portion onto her fork and slid it into her mouth.
The taste wasn’t bad, but the texture reminded her of the worst parts of blood pudding. She kept chewing, forcing a smile. “Interesting,” she managed, lifting her napkin to cover her mouth as she spoke.
Ranulf laughed. She’d never heard him laugh before, she realized. The deep, rich sound delighted her to her toes. It warmed her everywhere, including places ladies weren’t supposed to talk about. Tomorrow, next week, next month—what did they truly signify? He, and tonight, were both supremely interesting.
“I don’t think I could eat another bite,” Jane exclaimed with a chuckle, eyeing her full plate as if it were a snake.
Swallowing, Charlotte shook her head. “Oh no, you don’t. Everyone has to take one bite, at least.”
Both Ranulf and Winnie were halfway through their servings of haggis, Ranulf especially eating with great gusto. “It’s nae perfect,” he said between mouthfuls, “but it’ll do.”
As the rest of the family tentatively scooped up choice forkfuls, Charlotte met Ranulf’s gaze across the table. His amused smile deepened, and he lifted his glass of whisky, tilting it in her direction before he took a swallow. Perhaps it was the generous amount of wine she’d been imbibing, but abruptly she wished the rest of her family—and his—were elsewhere, that it was just the two of them and the candlelight and the warm fire in the hearth opposite the windows.
The way the firelight behind her reflected itself in the window was quite remarkable, actually. She wondered if the architect had slightly altered the angle of the windows with that very thing in mind.
Except that the light from the windows kept glowing brighter. Her heart gave an odd thump. Charlotte stood, the fork forgotten in her hand. “Ranulf. The—”
The side door burst open in the same moment. Peter Gilling, the footman who’d been lodging at Hanover House, lurched into the room. “Fire, m’laird! The stable!”
Ranulf was already halfway to his feet. “Ladies, stay here. Dogs, guard!”
The two hounds who’d been lazing by the fire behind her came to attention, their tails outstretched and their noses in the air. “What can we do?” she asked, as he and Myles and her father hurried from the room, the two Scottish footmen and then the pair of English ones behind them.
His fierce gaze caught hers. “Stay safe,” he said, and vanished out the door.
“Oh, dear,” Winnie said, hurrying to the window. “This is like when the schoolhouses burned and Bear got shot.”
“Nonsense,” Charlotte forced herself to stay. “This is an old house with a new owner and a new group of servants. Someone likely kicked over a lantern.”
