Page 62 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“What?” Ranulf didn’t know what the devil was afoot, but he didn’t like it. “Berling and I will ne’er be friends, Rowena. He nearly killed Bear, in case ye’ve forgotten, and I’ll wager he set this fire, too.”
“No, no, no. I didn’t mean Lord Berling. I meant Charlotte. You’re friends with Charlotte, aren’t you?”
Well, that made more sense. “I suppose so,” he agreed, trying not to put too much emotion into the words.
“I think she likes talking to you. Several times she’s said that you have a unique way of looking at things.”
Abruptly it dawned on Ranulf what his sister was about. “Are ye matchmaking, Rowena?” he asked.
Finally she abandoned Una and scooted over to take his hands in her slender ones. “I think you already like her. Otherwise you wouldn’t bother even talking to her.”
“Wouldnae that make me rude?”
She tilted her head. “There’s polite, and there’s nice, Ran. You’re being nice to her.”
“She called me a devil,” he reminded his sister, wondering whether it was amusement or terror he was feeling. If Rowena, so concerned with her Season and with whether Lachlan MacTier would come to his senses that she could barely see straight, had noticed a connection between him and Charlotte, others must have noticed, as well.Damnation. This business with Charlotte was complicated enough without everyone else putting in their pennies.
“Only because you were throwing punches willy-nilly. She’s accustomed to gentle gentlemen. She told me that ‘civilization’ has the word ‘civil’ in it for a reason, and that we’d all be better people for learning that calling someone a name doesn’t deserve a bloodying as a response, or we’re all no better than animals.”
Well, wasn’t that interesting?“So she called me an animal?”
Rowena flushed. “Nae! No, I mean. We had that conversation directly after the ball, when we were all angry with you.” She squeezed his hands. “Just this morning she told me that you seemed to be a very fine, honorable gentleman.”
That answered that. “Yearematchmaking, Rowena MacLawry.” He twisted his hands so that he gripped her palms in turn. “What makes ye think that a man who’s willing to throw punches—and worse—to protect his own is in any way compatible with a lass who thinks no blow ever struck is justified?”
He hoped she would have an answer. If she’d arrived there with miraculous answers to all of his concerns, he would have been willing to believe her. Because so far, he wasn’t having much luck seeking them on his own.
“It’s simple, Ran,” she returned. “If ye love her, ye need to learn to be more…”
“Civilized?” he supplied.
“English,” she countered, then swallowed. “But don’t—”
“‘English.’” He repeated slowly, the taste of the word uncomfortable on his tongue, mostly because he was saying it without the usual wash of contempt. “How so?”
“I…”
She trailed off, then retrieved her hands and stood. Clearly she was as surprised by his response as he was. But if he couldn’t figure out precisely what it was that Charlotte wanted, and more importantly, how to go about achieving it, he’d already lost.
“First of all, then, no more kilts.”
“My kilts dunnae punch people.”
Rowena’s mouth twitched. “No, but it makes you seem more antagonistic. It’s as though you’ve called everyone out, and you’re only waiting to see who steps forward first.”
There were occasions when hehadto wear a kilt—when he stood at weddings, at formal clan meetings, funerals, all the sundry duties the chief of the clan had to his name. But none of those took place in London. “At homenotwearing a kilt is antagonistic. But I think I can manage to wear naught but trousers in London.”
His sister nodded, then furrowed her brow. “I didn’t think ye’d even agree to that,” she confessed, her surprise showing in the return of her Highlands accent. He’d missed hearing it, but now didn’t seem to be the time to comment. “Give me a minute to think of the rest,” she continued.
“Why don’t ye come in and have luncheon with me?” he suggested. “Arran’s off seeing friends, and I’ve missed chatting with ye.”
“If you weren’t so dirty, I would hug you, Ran.”
He grinned, feeling lighter than he had since he’d parted with Charlotte yesterday. In all his imaginings he would never have considered that the person who could best help him win Charlotte Hanover would be his bairn of a sister. “Well, I’ll go change my shirt and we’ll see to that, then.”
***
The tall man with the thin scar across the bridge of his nose sent a sideways glance at Arran MacLawry. “I imagine I can get us into Boodles this close to luncheon,” he said, directing his chestnut gelding around a slow-moving rag and bone man. “But White’s won’t have a table for an hour.”
