Page 53 of The Devil Wears Kilts
Silence.
When she glanced sideways at him, he sat with his jaw set, his gaze squarely on Simms. And her maid didn’t look terribly comfortable with the scrutiny. No, he hadn’t expected or wanted a chaperone, but that was hardly the servant’s fault.
“Ranulf.”
“Ye know I wasnae going to take ye to the damned museum.”
“Well, we’re going there now, so what would you like to see?”
His gaze slid over her, slow and lingering. “What would I like to see, Charlotte?” he repeated. “Shall I begin at the top, or the bottom?”
Good heavens.“Even if you don’t wish to review the history of England because of the fighting with Scotland,” she said hurriedly, heating from the inside out, “there are some lovely Greek and Egyptian items on display.” The breeze blew a lock of his long, curling black hair across one of his sapphire eyes, and she nearly brushed it off his face before she caught herself and stilled her hand again.
“Aye. I’m certain there are.” He sat back for a moment, the restless tap of his fingers against his thigh hypnotic. Then he muttered several words in Gaelic that she was certain, if translated, would sound much worse in English. “I cannae,” he muttered.
“You can’t what?”
“Do this all day without touching ye.” He abruptly sat forward to pin the lady’s maid with his fierce gaze. “Simms, aye?”
“Yes, my lord,” the servant responded, her cheeks becoming a blotchy red.
Charlotte tensed. If he meant to order Simms out of the barouche, she would have to step in—both for the maid’s sake and for her own. Whatever she might want privately, they were on the street in the middle of London. Some measure of propriety would be observed.
“If ye knew yer mistress was misbehaving, but that no harm would come of it, what would ye do?”
Simms looked from him to Charlotte. “My lady’s reputation will always be safe with me,” she said after a moment, a fierce pride in her voice that Charlotte couldn’t recall ever hearing before. “I would never speak of her private affairs unless the silence endangered her safety.”
“Hm,” he mused, settling back again. “Debny. Take us to Gilden House. I want to show Lady Charlotte the stable damage by daylight.”
“Aye, m’laird.”
“And this is your idea of discreet?” Charlotte whispered, fleetingly wondering if she’d stepped out of Mayfair and into some wild Gypsy romance.
“It is precisely my idea of discreet,” he returned in that rumbling, low-pitched whisper that started heat between her thighs. “If I had t’stand beside ye all afternoon looking at damned statues, everyone would know how much I want ye,leannan. And that wouldnae be discreet.”
“But driving directly to your house and walking inside?”
“With Simms to chaperone ye.” He cocked his head. “Ye drive me to madness, lass. If ye dunnae want me, ye’d best say so now. I’m nae a man ye tease, Charlotte Hanover.”
Her heart skittered. The idea of parting from him today without… touching him, made her ache. He’d made it clear from the beginning that his pursuit was solely about satisfying a physical desire, but he wasn’t the only one who wanted something. “Whether this is a mistake or not, I can’t think of a better moment to make one,” she finally said.
Ranulf grimaced. “I’ve heard better praise, but that’ll do.”
For the next fifteen minutes she tried not to let the bouncing of the carriage press her against his side. She attempted a bit more casual conversation, something at which she generally excelled, but nothing worked. London had never seemed so big, or the distances so great.
By the time they turned up Market Street and the barouche stopped before the main steps of Gilden House, her jaw hurt from being clenched so tightly. Before Owen could even emerge from the house Ranulf had the carriage door open and cupped her elbow to help her to the ground.
“M’laird,” the footman said, “we didnae expect ye to re—”
“Take Simms here down to the kitchen for someaught to eat,” he interrupted, keeping Charlotte close by his side. “I want everyone else on the ground floor till I say otherwise.”
“Aye, m’laird.”
“Ye and Fergus included.”
“I’ll fetch him at once, m’laird.”
Charlotte walked through the front door, though she had the feeling that if she’d hesitated he would have picked her up and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of beets.
