Page 50 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“As ye order, m’laird.”
Debny rode up as Ranulf was putting the last piece of lantern safely in a box. Immediately he straightened to approach the head groom. “How are Rowena and the Hanovers?” he asked, stopping himself from asking specifically about Charlotte.
“All well. Lady Charlotte said she feels like she has cannonballs strapped to her arms, but she’s well otherwise.” The servant dug into his pocket and pulled out a folded note. “She sent this for ye, m’laird.”
Ranulf wiped his sooty hands on his trousers to give himself a moment to steady his racing thoughts before he took the missive and unfolded it.
“‘Ranulf,’” he read, “‘Thank you for an unforgettable evening. If you need to cancel our visit to the museum, I completely understand, but please let me know. Affectionately, C.H.’”
He grinned. “Remarkable lass.”
According to his pocket watch it was nearly half ten, and he badly needed a bath and a shave. Because not only did he plan to visit the museum with Charlotte, but he meant to look his most civilized while doing it. Why that was suddenly more pressing than proving who’d set fire to his stable, he would debate later.
Arran leaned in the doorway of the master bedchamber as Ginger was struggling with the knots in Ranulf’s cravat. “Do ye mind if I take the room at the other end of the hallway?”
“That’s fine.”
His brother hesitated. “Ye look very bonny.”
“Shut up. I’m off to Hanover House. I can leave ye off there if ye want to see Rowena.”
To his credit, whatever additional observations or questions Arran had, he kept them to himself. Instead he retrieved his satchel and wandered toward the back of the house. He’d arrived with even less luggage than Ranulf had; if he meant to stay for a time, they’d be making another visit to the prissy, padding-obsessed tailor.
Arran’s presence gave Ranulf an additional body to watch over, but he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t a relief to have an ally. Even a nosy one who noticed things he shouldn’t. The most immediate question was whether Berling would see the arrival of another MacLawry in London as a threat or as an invitation to make more trouble.
And figuring that out would have to wait until he’d set eyes on Charlotte again, devil take the rest.
***
“Two letters and a poem, Winnie, and that’s just today!” Jane said, taking the perfumed paper from Rowena’s hand and smoothing it over her knee. “I don’t know that ‘N’er a copper penny as bright as the smile of Winnie’ is terribly romantic, but it does rhyme.”
When Charlotte looked over at their houseguest, Winnie seemed more interested in studying the clouds passing by outside the drawing room window than in giggling over her latest conquest’s attempt at poetry. “Winnie, your brother would send word if anything further happened. You know that.”
With a sigh Rowena sank back onto the couch. “Aye, I know.” She scooted over and took Charlotte’s hand, careful not to press at the blisters. “Thank you for keeping me away from the picnic. I sometimes forget there’s a difference between being independent and being responsible.”
Charlotte nodded, smiling. “That’s a very wise thing to say.”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a time, now. My brothers, and especially Ran, have spent so much of their time making certain I’m happy and well protected that they’ve stopped considering themselves. Perhaps it’s my turn to look after them, for once.”
“But two of the three of them are in Scotland,” Jane put in. “And Lord Glengask seems supremely capable of looking after himself.”
Rowena looked up at Charlotte’s face. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”
Charlotte wanted to ask if she was referring to something in particular, but before she could do so Jane resumed looking through their morning correspondence. “What I want to know is, does looking after your brother mean we can’t go looking for hair ribbons today?”
“Oh, I think we can do both, Jane.”
“That’s a relief.”
Whether Rowena’s sudden sense of responsibility was due to the fire last night or not, Charlotte was relieved to hear it, and so likely would Ranulf be when she told him. Even if perhaps she’d thought he might be exaggerating the quality and quantity of the danger that lurked around the MacLawrys, she’d certainly become a believer last night.
A shiver ran through her. She’d half hoped he would send back word that he needed to cancel their outing today—not because her arms ached, which they did, or because she didn’t wish to see him, which she did—but because he would be spending the museum visit angry and plotting revenge. She would, and already did, feel the need to counsel him about how he planned to retaliate, and then they would argue again. Not the interesting type of argument, either. She couldn’t quite pin any of this to pride, but she wouldn’t be surprised if it came down to that in the end.
The morning room door opened at two minutes past noon, and she and the other two girls rose as Longfellow came to attention in the doorway. “My ladies, Lord Glengask and Lord Arran MacLawry,” he intoned, and moved out of the way.
Winnie was already halfway to the door. “Arran!” she exclaimed, throwing herself into the arms of a dark-haired man who looked like a leaner, less chiseled version of his older brother.
“There ye are, my sweet Winnie,” he drawled, and kissed his sister on both cheeks.
