Page 52 of The Devil Wears Kilts
Ranulf shrugged as he helped her into the open carriage. “Arran’s accustomed to it. According to Rowena, he’s the only brother with taste other than in his mouth.”
“I don’t know about that. You look very fine this afternoon.”
“I’ll tell bloo—black-hearted Smith the tailor ye said that. He accused me of shaming his entire profession because I wouldnae let him put padding in my shoulders.”
If there was one man in London who didn’t need the cut of his shoulders enhanced, it was Ranulf MacLawry. “I’m glad you didn’t give in.”
“As am I. Th—” He started to climb into the barouche beside her, then stopped when he noted Simms standing directly behind him. “And what doyewant?”
“I’m going with you, my lord,” the maid said, putting every ounce of affronted dignity she possessed into the sentence.
“The hell ye say.”
Charlotte stifled a laugh. “She’s our chaperone. I can’t accompany you without her or another appropriate female present.”
With a low breath that sounded like a bear growling, Ranulf moved back and handed the lady’s maid into the carriage. Simms started to sit beside Charlotte, but he shook his head. “Nae. Ye can sit there,” he said, pointing at the backward-facing seat.
“Ranulf.”
“I’ll be sitting beside ye, Charlotte. From over there she can better see if I try to ravish ye—which clearly I willnae be doing now.”
Warmth crept up Charlotte’s cheeks all over again. “I told you it wouldn’t be a simple matter,” she murmured as he leaned in to sit next to her, warm and solid and compelling.
“Ye might have warned me of the details,” he returned, settling in close enough that their thighs brushed. “She didnae come along with us before.”
“Because Jane and Winnie were along. We all guard what we and Society say is precious.”
“Bloody Puritans,” he grumbled.
Well, she wasn’t a Puritan, of course, but she understood his meaning. Evidently the Marquis of Glengask intended to be only as much of a gentleman as circumstance demanded he be. And as she rather wished Simms elsewhere, herself, she could only nod.
“Is your other brother here as well?” she asked, to distract herself from thoughts of being ravished.
“Ye want to talk aboot my family, now?”
“I think a different topic might be helpful, yes.”
He sighed. “Nae, then. Bear’s still in Scotland. For the last four hundred years there’s always been a MacLawry at Glengask. It’s even on the family crest,i gcónaí MacLawry ag Glengask—‘always a MacLawry at Glengask,’ literally. And these days, well, I’d never allow that oath to be broken.”
Charlotte nodded. “So your clan will know you mean never to abandon them.”
“Aye.”
It and the meaning behind it were quite possibly the most noble family motto she’d ever heard. And the fact that it was in Gaelic rather than Latin seemed… brave, and proud, rather than quaint. “Say it again, will you? In Gaelic, I mean.”
“With pleasure.I gcónaí MacLawry ag Glengask.”
She found herself watching his mouth as he spoke, savoring the elongated vowels and the musical roll of his words. “Do you speak Gaelic at home? At Glengask?”
“Here and there. Mostly we speak English. We all had to learn it in school, and for a while during my father’s time we werenae allowed to speak Gaelic at all.” He hesitated. “As satisfying as it might have been not to know any English, it wouldnae have served any of us well.”
“And your mother was English.”
The look in his eyes cooled again. “Aye. That she was.”
From what Winnie had said, Eleanor MacLawry, nee Wilkie, had taken her own life three years after her husband’s death. Even if he’d wished to discuss it, which he clearly didn’t, today didn’t seem the appropriate time. Instead she nodded, searching for anything to take her mind away from how very close he sat to her, and how very warm he seemed even through two sets of clothes.
“So tell me—was there something in particular you wanted to see at the British Museum?”
