Page 6 of The Devil Wears Kilts
Charlotte blinked. Winnie, as Rowena had asked them to call her, had arrived less than an hour ago; taking a hack from the coaching inn. As far as she knew, no one else was aware of their visitor’s presence in London. No one but Rowena’s family, that was. They, however, remained in Scotland—so far as she knew.
“I didnae come all this way to be gaped at,” the mountain stated into the short silence. “Rowena MacLawry. Now.”
“I was not gaping at you, sir,” Charlotte retorted, though she was quite aware that she didn’t seem to be able to look away from that fierce, stunning countenance. It was if a black-haired god of war had simply… appeared on her doorstep. “Most visitors come to the door with a calling card, or at least with a word or two of polite greeting and introduction before they expect to be allowed past the foyer.”
His eyes narrowed. It wasn’t ice she saw in that deep blue, Charlotte realized, but something much more heated and angry. “I’m nae a visitor,” he said, steel beneath the soft lilt. “And if the English think a wee lass barring the door is enough to keep me from what’s mine, they’re madder than I recall.”
His?This was becoming very strange, indeed. And there was no blasted need to be insulting. “I am not a wee anyth—”
He stepped forward. Putting his large hands around her waist, he lifted her off her feet only to set her down behind him on the portico—all before she could do anything more than take a gasping breath. By then he was well inside Hanover House.
“Rowena!” he bellowed, striding down the hallway.
Charlotte settled her skirts and charged after him. “Stop that yelling at once!” she ordered.
For all the attention he paid her stalking behind him, she might as well have been an insect. “Rowena! I’ll see yer arse here before me, or I’ll knock this house down around yer blasted ears!”
Longfellow and a trio of footmen dashed out of the sitting room. The big Scot pushed them aside as if they were no more than bowling pins. He shoved into the room they’d exited, Charlotte on his booted heels. Given the physical… presence he radiated, she expected to see Lady Rowena cowering behind a chair. Instead, however, the petite young lady stood in the middle of the room, her color high and her hands on her hips.
“What the devil are ye doing here, Ranulf?” she demanded.
“The coach is outside. Ye have one minute to be inside it.”
“Ran, y—”
“Fifty-five seconds.”
Rowena seemed to deflate. As she lowered her head, a tear ran down one cheek. “My things?” she quavered.
“What… what is the meaning of this, and who the devil are you, sir?” Lord Hest demanded.
The dark-haired head swiveled to pin the earl with a glare. The devil, indeed. “Glengask.” He returned his attention to Rowena. “Go get Mitchell and yer things. If ye run in the meantime, we’ll return to Glengask by way of St. Mary’s, where I’ll leave ye off. A decade or so with nuns should cool yer heels.”
Another tear joined the first. “Ye’re a beast, Ranulf MacLawry,” Winnie whispered, and fled past him and Charlotte out of the room.
“Glengask. Lady Rowena’s brother?” her sister, Jane, said in a thready voice. “The marquis?”
“Aye,” he returned, his tone still clipped and angry.
“It was our understanding that you sent Lady Rowena to us for her Season,” Charlotte’s father stated. From his tight expression he was furious, and that didn’t surprise her at all. People—much less bellowing blue-eyed devil Scotsmen—did not barge into proper households such as theirs unannounced. Ever.
“Because ye wouldnae think twice over sending a young lass into a foreign land with no advance word. Or is it only a Scotsman ye’d believe would do such a mad thing?”
“She told us you’d sent her here,” Charlotte put in.
The Marquis of Glengask turned around to face her. “She told an idiot lie and ye believed it. Now get out of m’way, lass, and we’ll be gone from this damned place.”
Rowena had called her brother a beast, and Charlotte saw nothing to contradict that assessment. And she did not like men who thought with their fists and large muscles. Not any more than she liked being called a lass and dismissed—twice now—as something no more significant than a flea. She squared her shoulders. “I am Lady Charlotte Hanover, and you will address me properly, sir. Furthermore, until we are assured that your sister is safe in your company, she isn’t going anywhere.”
“Charlotte!” her mother hissed.
Yes, her family would more than likely simply be relieved to have this disruption gone from the house. But this was not the way anyone remotely civilized conducted business, or anything else. She refused to look away from his gaze, though he was clearly expecting her to do so.
“Well then, Lady Charlotte,” he said succinctly, exaggerating the roll of therin her name, “I don’t suppose MacLawry family business is any of yers. I ordered my sister to remain at home, and she didnae. I am therefore here to bring her back where she belongs. As I’ve clearly offended ye, I’ll be waiting outside. Happily.”
He took a step closer, lifting an artfully curved eyebrow as he did so. Obviously he was giving her the choice between stepping aside or being bodily lifted out of the way yet again. She elevated her chin to keep her gaze squarely on his. “Your sister traveled a very great distance on her own and against your wishes, then, Lord Glengask. It seems to me that she wants very badly either to be in London, or to be away from you. I do not take you for someone who is crossed lightly.”
The eyebrow dove with its twin into a scowl. “It seems to me that this is still none of yer affair.” He sent a glance at her father, who still stood in front of his chair and looked as though he’d rather be in the House of Lords discussing taxes. “Do ye allow yer women to speak for ye, then?”
