Page 70 of The Devil Wears Kilts
At the same time, though, as she caught a glimpse of the redhead’s face when she smiled at him—good heavens, was that Madeline Davies?—for a brief, selfish moment she wished other ladies didn’t look at him in the same voracious way, as if they all wanted to take him on sightseeing tours of London.
Perhaps her wish wasn’t so selfish really. If ladies didn’t view him so… lustfully, then perhaps their husbands and beaux would look at him as a potential friend or an ally rather than as an uncivilized rival.
“Ye aren’t going to ask me why I gave Berling another man’s name, then?” Arran said as he circled around her. “I thought ye’d be more curious, considering ye ask aboot everything else.”
Charlotte shook herself. “I’m extremely curious,” she replied. “I have noticed, however, that you’re even worse at answering questions than your brother is.”
He gave a short laugh. “I mean to take that as a compliment. And this is likely a conversation best had at another time and in a different setting, anyway.”
Annoying as it all was, she had to agree with his assessment. In a way it was odd that shewasso interested in all the subterfuge and machinations; a few weeks ago she wouldn’t have wanted to hear that one man seemed to be baiting another into any sort of confrontation. But she knew things, now. She knew that Lord Berling had done some things for which he likely should have been arrested.
She didn’t like that he’d walked up to her and tried to use her to start a fight—twice now. The first time it had worked, though he couldn’t have been pleased with the outcome. Only arrogance could convince him to try the same approach again and expect a different outcome—and yet therehadbeen a different result. Ranulf hadn’t risen to the bait. In fact, he’d taken steps to avoid fighting. And that was a very good thing.
When the dance finally ended she half expected Ranulf to appear and suggest they go out to the balcony for some fresh air. The yearning to kiss him again, to hear his low voice saying things meant only for her, left her shaky and feeling exceedingly wicked.
She looked about for him, but before she could spot his tall, broad figure, Jane appeared. “Hello, my dear. What are—”
“This way,” her sister hissed, and half dragged her through a hallway, around a corner, and into the dark, empty library beyond.
“Janie, what—”
Jane put a hand over her mouth. “Shh. Come here,” she mouthed, and led the way to the window.
Alarmed, Charlotte followed. The room overlooked the front of the garden, and while the curtains were open, the window was not. Jane squeezed one eye closed and very slowly pushed the glass open an inch or so.
“—humiliated me twice,” Berling’s low, angry voice came. “Who the devil does he think he is, anyway?”
“The Campbell says he’s dangerous.”
“In the Highlands, yes. He’s the king of his own little army of cotters and drovers and fishermen. But we aren’t in the Highlands, are we? Where’s his army now?”
“Aye,” a third voice agreed. “You called him a dog, and he just stood there. Picked up the card you threw down, as well.”
“I tell you, he’s afraid of us,” Berling insisted, excitement raising the pitch of his voice. “And not just us. Unless that fire was accidental, Glengask has more enemies than most people have friends.”
“I thought that was you, set the fire,” a fourth voice murmured.
“Only if you can prove it, George.”
“That other big fellow he’s brought here is his brother. Arran MacLawry. I heard it from Hest.”
“You know he took in two dozen Campbell cotters when we pushed ’em off Glen Helen. Makes ’em think they don’t have to jump when we say so.”
The fourth voice gave a low laugh. “His father was the same damned way. Didnae do the Seann Monadh much good, did it?”
“That’s no laughing matter,” Berling retorted. “Both my uncles vanished after that.”
“Ye think I dunnae know that, Donald?”
“The Campbell said old MacLawry made a pact with the devil and had ’em dragged below to join him.”
That prompted the sound of spitting, followed by speculations about what had happened to the two Gerdenses. Charlotte exchanged a glance with Jane, pressed wide-eyed against the wall. They should go before someone noticed the window open and came looking to see who might be listening to their conversation. She had a dance with Francis Henning starting any moment. And yet these men were talking about Ranulf. And if she learned something that could help him…
But then it might also send him after these men. And it would be on her head. When had all this become so complicated? At eighteen, love had been simple and straightforward.
Charlotte took a sharp breath, putting a hand to her heart.Love?Was it love that twisted her insides and made her think that dropping a vase or two out the window and onto someone’s head would be a good idea? Love that made her hate the men below just for speaking their minds, because they spoke against Ranulf? Her Ranulf?
What a stupid female she was. He wanted a lover for London; he’d made that perfectly clear, and she’d agreed. A mutual physical attraction. But, oh, it was so much more than that. For her, anyway. Of course, they would never suit, and nothing would come of this… infatuation of hers, but for goodness’ sake. Her own silly fault or not, she loved him. And her heart would shatter into a hundred million pieces the day he bid her good-bye.
