Page 67 of The Devil Wears Kilts
He understood that Berling was dangerous. He’d disliked the man and his arrogant, self-serving manner even before the torching of the schools and the wounding of Bear. From that moment on, dislike had become hatred.
Given all that, tonight the earl at most felt like a nuisance. A distraction. Ranulf kept his gaze moving, identifying each guest who crossed his path as someone he’d met or someone he hadn’t. After that, he dismissed them from his thoughts. None of them was the one he was after.
Then he caught sight of her, and time simply… stopped. Close by the double row of windows Charlotte tilted her head, a smile touching her mouth as she handed her dance card to the round fellow, Henning. She looked almost like a Thomas Lawrence painting, so exquisite she was. But no portrait could capture the scent of her, the taste of her, or the way simply seeing her sent warmth searing beneath his skin.
She’d worn red and black, rich and bold and striking against her fair skin and golden hair. He tried not to read anything into the fact that she’d also garbed herself in two of the three colors of the MacLawry tartan, but in seeking every strand that connected her to him, he couldn’t help himself. His fingers curled, wanting to tangle into the soft folds of her skirt and pull her up against him.
“This way,” he said, otherwise not bothering to see if his brother and uncle followed him as he strode forward.
When he was halfway across the room she stilled, then turned to look at him. It might be witchcraft, or it might not. He didn’t care any longer. All he knew was that he wanted her. Immediately.
Before he could reach her, Rowena moved in front of him, blocking his path. “Good evening,bràthair,”she said, dipping a curtsy.
With some difficulty Ranulf forced his attention down to his sister, his reason for being in London in the first place. “Ye wore yer birthday gown,” he drawled, taking her hand.
Sometime when he’d lost sight of his sister, when he’d been distracted by tracking her down and by being annoyed that she’d left home without permission, Rowena had stopped being a wee sprite in pigtails who always asked for dresses covered with lace and frills and ribbons. She’d grown up, and in looking at her instead of seeing her, he’d nearly missed it.
“What is it?” she asked, furrowing her brow.
“Ye look very like our mother,” he murmured.
She smiled, sudden tears shining in her eyes. “Do I?”
He studied her face for a moment. “Aye. Only prettier,piuthar.”
“That you are,” Myles put in, kissing her on the cheek.
Lord Hest stepped in and offered his hand. Whatever else the earl was, whatever his character, at this moment he was simply another obstacle between Ranulf and Charlotte. “I do think that tonight I’m escorting the four loveliest ladies in London,” the older man announced.
“I’d have to agree with ye,” Ranulf said, shaking the earl’s hand. His future father-in-law, whether Hest would approve of the notion or not.
“Oh, Jonathan,” the countess said with a blush, cuffing her husband lightly on the shoulder.
There. That had to be enough in the way of pleasantries. Pausing his breath, Ranulf slipped around his sister—to find his brother chatting with Charlotte. After Arran’s comments about the Sasannach lass, Ranulf didn’t like what he saw. At all.
“Arran,” he said, moving in, “go write yer name on Rowena’s card.” What good was it being the patriarch of his clan if he couldn’t order others to leave his most precious thing—his obsession—alone?
His brother sent him an unreadable look and strolled over to join Rowena and Jane. Once Arran walked away, Ranulf ceased paying attention to him. “Hello, Charlotte,” he said, reaching out to take her hand and bring it to his lips. It wasn’t enough, and he just barely kept himself from pulling her into his arms.
“Ranulf,” she greeted him, her hazel eyes sparkling brown in the chandelier light.
“I think I may have made a mistake,” he continued, lowering his voice and moving in more closely on the pretext of taking her dance card.
“What sort of mistake?” She sent him a suspicious look, her smile dropping.
“My attraction to ye doesn’t seem to have eased at all. And in that dress ye look more delicious than the apple that tempted Adam.”
Charlotte cleared her throat. “I believe that to be a mutual difficulty, then. Despite my better judgment.”
“Aye, that’s the rub, dunnae ye think? But tonight my better judgment can go hang itself. I want ye, Charlotte.”
“I think you should write your name down beside that dance,” she said a little unsteadily, indicating the second waltz of the evening. “And I want you, too,” she continued in a whisper, her changeable eyes meeting his in that way few other people ever dared.
In that moment he vowed to himself that whatever man she wanted, he would be. It would likely cost him, but if Charlotte was the prize, he would pay the price. Pushing against the ridiculous urge to burst into song or something equally unmanly, he scrawled his name where she indicated. “Take me sightseeing again,leannan.”
Her lips parted in a soft smile, and he caught himself leaning down toward her. Propriety was a damned nuisance. But it was what she felt comfortable with, and so he would be patient. Handing her card back, he brushed his fingers against her red, elbow-length gloves.
“How are yer hands?” he asked, annoyed that he hadn’t asked her that immediately. In his defense her appearance had dazzled him, but she’d gotten those blisters on his behalf.
