Page 60 of The Devil Wears Kilts
That was something, anyway. “Good. Because Ran’s intentions don’t concern us.”
“Everything Ranulf does concerns us. All of us. The clan and the family. And while I mind yer advice, ye’d best remember what I’ve said, as well.”
He might keep his opinions to himself for the moment, but he wouldn’t do so forever. Which meant that she needed to figure out what was going on between Ranulf and Charlotte before he did. Because he would weigh whatever Ran wanted against how it benefited the clan—and with the MacLawrys, the clan always came first.
Chapter Eleven
Ranulf heaved another stack of charred lumber into the back of the wagon. As he did so a barouche full of young ladies passed by—the second time they’d done so. While he would have preferred to offer them a two-fingered salute, he was being gentlemanly today. Instead he sketched a jaunty bow.
“I feel like a damned animal in a menagerie,” Owen muttered from beside him as the footman emptied a shovel into the wagon’s bed.
“Ye think those lasses were ogling you, do ye?” Debny put in with a snort.
Clapping his heavy work gloves together, Ranulf returned to the stable ruins for another load. His white shirt was torn and filthy, but according to Ginger an aristocrat did not appear bare-chested in public in London. Hehaduntucked the thing, and decided if it fell off on its own he would bloody well call it providence and leave it that way.
“They do have men ye can hire to haul away rubbish such as this, ye know,” Owen pointed out, helping to stack another set of ruined, warped boards.
“Less gabbing, more cleaning,” Ranulf grunted, heaving the mass onto his shoulder and making his way back to the wagon.
Yes, he might have hired men to tear down the remains of his stable and haul it away. In truth, though, since he’d been in London the most exercise he’d managed had been in bed with Charlotte yesterday. At home, at Glengask, there was always some task or other that needed doing, from helping to clear a new field to cleaning out irrigation ditches to helping a cotter replace a roof or helping to shear the fat Highland sheep—the only kind he would tolerate on his land.
Here, today, the ache and flex of his muscles made him feel as if he were accomplishing something, whether he might have hired someone else to do it or not. Rolling his shoulders, he returned for a stack of roof shingles.
“Where’s Lord Arran off to, if I might ask?” Owen said, dragging a blanket covered with singed and melted tack away.
“He went to find some of his army friends,” Ranulf answered. “Fergus’ll keep an eye on him.”
He hadn’t quite believed Arran, actually, when his brother had announced that he meant to spend the morning visiting. It seemed an odd choice after he’d ridden all the way down from Glengask to perform some sort of rescue. Then again, perhaps his brother had realized that a rescue wasn’t necessary.
After all, Rowena hadn’t repeated her oath not to return to Scotland—not in his hearing, anyway. And owning a house in London made sense, if it gave him more of a presence in standing against his unhappy fellow Scots. Whether or not they would admit to being Scots at all.
With him and most of the staff working at it, they should have the old stable cleared away sometime tomorrow. And then he would hire someone to build him a new one. The Duke of Greaves had offered use of his stable for as long as necessary, but Ranulf didn’t like owing a favor to a man he didn’t know.
None of this would prevent Berling from stopping by and burning down a new stable, or even the house, of course. He did have a few thoughts on that subject, however. Charlotte had asked him not to fight Donald Gerdens at tonight’s soiree. She hadn’t said anything, however, about afterward. And he’d found on a few previous occasions that a direct confrontation together with a concise explanation and demonstration of consequences could cool many a man’s ire. After all, most men were cruel only when they thought they could get away with it.
Charlotte.The moment he conjured her in his thoughts, which he seemed to be doing almost constantly today, she refused to depart again. God knew the trail would have been easier if he’d set himself after some bonny Scottish lass who understood how troubles were dealt with in the Highlands and had no difficulty with that fact. Someone who knew how a laird was expected to lead a clan and wouldn’t even think to disagree with his methods.
But it wasn’t a Scottish lass who’d caught him up in her skirts and made him half mad with wanting her. It was Charlotte Hanover, and if he couldn’t turn away from her, she would twist more than his heart. That would certainly be simpler, to leave London immediately and go home to marry the first lass he set eyes on.
What if Charlotte didn’t wish to live at Glengask? After what he’d experienced with his own mother, he certainly wouldn’t—couldn’t—force her into that kind of life. Other clan lairds lived far from the Highlands. One or two had never even set foot there. They went about making that so-called barren land they owned as profitable as they could, setting sheep to graze it and hiring thugs to burn out the few cotters remaining on their ancestral soil.
That wasn’t him. The MacLawrys had risen to power because of the strength and loyalty of the clan. And now the clan would remain safe and prosperous because of the strength of the MacLawrys.
So he knew where he stood, but then he always had. He wasn’t the complication. Yes, Charlotte had proved herself brave, and yes, he knew her to be kind and thoughtful. And he supposed if he’d been his father he would simply marry her, drag her off to Scotland, and let the future fall where it would.
But clearly he wasn’t his father, because it wasn’t enough that Charlotte pleased his heart, made him happy, filled every other thought with a healthy lust to be with her. He wanted her to be happy in return. And that was where the difficulty lay.
“M’laird?”
Ranulf started. “Aye?”
“I thought ye’d turned to stone there, fer a moment.” Owen sent him a concerned look. “I called ye thrice.”
“And I decided to answer ye the third time,” Ranulf retorted. “Now were ye just calling me fer amusement, or did ye have a point?”
“I had a point,” the old soldier said, straightening his shoulders. “Lady Winnie’s just arriving.”
Ranulf turned around. Sure enough, a closed coach was stopped at the front of the house, and Rowena, closely followed by Una, stepped down to the drive. Peter Gilling, perched up front beside the liveried coachman, hopped down, as well. Rowena said something to the driver, and with a nod he sent the team back into the street. Only then did Ranulf notice that the vehicle bore the Hanover coat of arms on its doors.
