Page 58 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“I hope you’re not frightening her,” she said, gathering the disheveled sheets around her and standing.
“Nae,” the footman protested, craning his neck to see her around Ranulf’s shoulders. “We’re gentle as lambs, we are.”
Ranulf shifted, blocking Owen’s view again. “That’ll do. Go away.”
“I can’t stay much longer,” Charlotte put in.
His broad shoulders rose and fell. “Have the maid come up here in ten minutes,” he amended, “and the barouche brought round in thirty.”
“Aye, m’laird. Are ye certain y—”
Closing the door, Ranulf locked it again and faced her, the tray of sandwiches in one hand. For a moment his gaze took her in from head to toe, pausing at her breasts and her face. “Come over to the table,” he said, pulling a second chair over to his small writing table. “Ye may as well eat someaught before ye go.”
Stifling an urge to send a regretful look back at the bed, Charlotte hefted the trailing sheets and followed him. “We’ve accepted an invitation to the Duke and Duchess of Esmond’s soiree tomorrow night,” she said, sitting. “Will you be attending?”
Almost immediately she regretted asking, because he’d been forcibly removed from the last grand ball he’d attended, and for good reason. Odds were that he wouldn’t have received an invitation to the next one—or to any others this Season. She should have been thankful that he wouldn’t have another easy opportunity to brawl in public, but at this moment she mostly wished she had another chance to dance with him.
He wolfed down a sandwich and started on a second while she nibbled at hers. Yes, she felt famished, but a lady did not stuff food in her mouth as if she were worried that someone else meant to take it from her.
“Myles was invited,” he said, between bites. “I’ll go along as his guest.”
“Oh. That’s good, then.”
He eyed her. “Ye’ve nothing to worry over, Charlotte. As long as ye dunnae give Berling a dance while I’m there.”
Warmth swept through her all over again. Was he jealous? He certainly didn’t sound like a man who’d scratched an itch, so to speak, and was now continuing on his merry way. On the other hand, she well remembered what had happened the last time he and Berling had met over her dance card.
“I would hope, Ranulf, that if you and Lord Berling did meet again, you would decide not to hit him, simply because you’re an intelligent, articulate, thoughtful man who has no need to resort to the basest method of… anything.”
Ranulf chewed and swallowed. “And I say again, dunnae give Berling a dance, and ye’ll nae have anything to worry over.”
If her miniature tirade hadn’t wiped the easy amusement from his face, perhaps she had made some progress with him. Deciding this was worth risking his ire, she held out her right hand. “An agreement, then. I won’t dance with him, and you won’t punch him.”
Wiping his hand off on the blanket girding his waist, Ranulf reached across the table and with obvious care gripped her fingers. “Aye. An agreement.”
Charlotte smiled at that; she couldn’t help herself. Because if he could decide on some restraint, of serving his mind rather than his pride, then perhaps they weren’t as entirely incompatible as she’d thought. And perhaps they could arrange to see more sights in London they would never actually visit before he went back to Scotland to marry a lady who wasn’t a Sasannach.
She shook off that thought. He wasn’t with some Highlands lass at the moment, and she’d never spent as enjoyable a day as this. “You still have my hand, sir,” she pointed out, her grin deepening.
“Do I, now?” Without warning he tugged her over the top of the table and kissed her. The remaining sandwiches and the tray bounced to the floor.
She settled onto his lap, wriggling her hips as she felt him hardening beneath her thighs. Male anatomy truly was a wondrous thing. No wonder young ladies were supposed to remain ignorant of it until marriage; knowing the delights of sex would, in her opinion anyway, alter the way a woman looked at every potential beau. She, at least, would certainly insist on first seeing a prospective husband naked.
A polite knock sounded at the door. “I’ll send yer Simms away, shall I?” he murmured, slipping his hand into the folds of the sheets she wore and flicking a fingernail across her nipple.
She jumped, desire spearing through her all over again. Oh, she wanted to send everyone away, to spend every remaining moment in the ecstasy of his embrace. But her maid waited just outside, along with her reputation and her family and Society. With a last, lingering kiss she pushed away from him and stood. “You should put your clothes back on, too, so you can see me home.”
Narrowing one eye, Ranulf climbed to his feet. “As ye will, then, Charlotte.”
While she walked to the door, he collected his boots and trousers, along with his shirt, coat, cravat, and waistcoat. When he stopped in front of her, Charlotte looked up into his deep blue gaze.
“Sròin,”he murmured.
“Beg pardon?”
With a faint smile he leaned down and kissed the tip of her nose.“Sròin,”he repeated, and pulled open the door with his free hand. “I’ll be in the room across the hallway if ye should have need of me.” Ignoring the stiff, wide-eyed Simms, he left his bedchamber.
Charlotte took a deep breath. “Simms, come help me dress.”
